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Татьяна Толстая

Дата рождения: 3. Май 1951

Татья́на Ники́тична Толста́я — российская писательница, публицист, литературный критик и телеведущая. Лауреат литературной премии «Триумф» и телевизионной премии «ТЭФИ» .

Произведения Татьяны Толстой, в том числе сборники рассказов «Любишь — не любишь», «Река Оккервиль», «День», «Ночь», «Изюм», «Круг», «Белые стены», переведены на многие языки мира. В 2011 году вошла в рейтинг «Сто самых влиятельных женщин России», составленный радиостанцией «Эхо Москвы», информационными агентствами РИА Новости, «Интерфакс» и журналом «Огонёк».


„Ничего не хочу. Отвалите все и дайте мне спокойно сидеть и думать свою думу и работать свою работу.“

„... Потому что фыркать — это гораздо более защищенная позиция.“


„А вообще в этом «старинном споре славян между собой» я — на стороне интеллигента, а не народа, по одной простой причине: интеллигент, по определению, — это тот, кто хоть что-то осознал, а народ — это тот, кто не осознал. Интеллигент — это тот, кто хочет блага не только для себя, а народ — только для себя лично. Интеллигент борется за чужие права, а народ — за свои собственные и так далее. Вот почему интеллигент иногда, и часто, ошибается (и тут же раздается улюлюканье), а народ всегда, будто бы, прав. И заметьте, ему, народу, НИКОГДА стыдно не бывает. И он НИКОГДА не испытывает потребности извиниться. А интеллигент постоянно извиняется, и никто его еще ни разу не простил. Если я не права, приведите мне обратный пример.“

„... a book is a delicate friend, a white bird, an exquisite being, afraid of water.

Darling things! Afraid of water, of fire, They shiver in the wind. Clumsy, crude human fingers leave bruises on them that'll never fade! Never!

Some people touch books without washing their hands!

Some underline things in ink!

Some even tear pages out!“
The Slynx

„That's what poems are for, so you don't understand a thing.“ The Slynx

„You, Book! You are the only one who won't deceive, won't attack, won't insult, won't abandon! You're quiet - but you laugh, shout, and sing: you're obedient - but you amaze, tease, and entice; you're small, but you contain countless peoples. Nothing but a handful of letters, that's all, but if you feel like it, you can turn heads, confuse, spin, cloud, make tears spring to the eyes, take away the breath, the entire soul will stir in the wind like a canvas, will rise in waves and flap its wings!“ The Slynx

„And wanting nothing, regretting nothing, Peters smiled gratefully at life—running past, indifferent, ungrateful, treacherous, mocking, meaningless, alien—marvelous, marvelous, marvelous.“ White Walls: Collected Stories

„You read, move your lips, figure out the words, and it's like you're in two places at the same time: you're sitting or lying with your legs curled up, your hand groping in the bowl, but you can see different worlds, far-off worlds that maybe never existed but still seem real. You run or sail or race in a sleigh--you're running away from someone, or you yourself have decided to attack--your heart thumps, life flies by, and it's wondrous: you can live as many different lives as there are books to read.“ The Slynx


„The world may perish, but the meat grinder is indestructible.“ The Slynx

„A depressão atormentava Ignatiev todas as noites. Pesada, desconcertante, de cabeça baixa, sentava-se na beira da cama e pegava-lhe na mão - uma enfermeira triste para um doente incurável. E passavam horas em silêncio, de mão dada.“ O Alpendre Dourado e outras histórias

„I only wanted books—nothing more—only books, only words, it was never anything but words—give them to me, I don’t have any! Look, see, I don’t have any! Look, I’m naked, barefoot, I’m standing before you—nothing in my pants pockets, nothing under my shirt or under my arm! They’re not stuck in my beard! Inside—look—there aren’t any inside either—everything’s been turned inside out, there’s nothing there! Only guts! I’m hungry! I’m tormented!...
What do you mean there’s nothing? Then how can you talk and cry, what words are you frightened with, which ones do you call out in your sleep? Don’t nighttime cries roam inside you, a thudding twilight murmur, a fresh morning shriek? There they are words—don’t you recognize them? They’re writhing inside you, trying to get out! There they are! They’re yours! From wood, stone, roots, growing in strength, a dull mooing and whining in the gut is trying to get out; a piece of tongue curls, the torn nostrils swell in torment. That’s how the bewitched, beaten, and twisted snuffle with a mangy wail, their boiled white eyes locked up in closets, their vein torn out, backbone gnawed; that’s right, that’s how your pushkin writhe, or mushkin—what is in my name for you?—pushkin-mushkin, flung upon the hillock like a shaggy black idol, forever flattened by fences, up to his ears in di, the pushkin-stump, legless, six-fingered, biting his tongue, nose in his chest—and his head can’t be raised!—pushkin, tearing off the poisoned shirt, ropes, chains, caftan, noose, that wooden heaviness: let me out, let me out! What is in my name for you? Why does the wind spin in the gully? How many roads must a man walk down? What do you want, old man? Why do you trouble me? My Lord, what is the matter? Ennui, oh, Nin! Grab the inks and cry! Open the dungeon wide! I’m here! I’m innocent! I’m with you! I’m with you!“
The Slynx

„Golbuchiks? Golbuchiks are ashes, entrails, dung, stove smoke, clay, and they’ll all return to clay. They’re full of dirt, candle oil, droppings, dust.
You, O Book, my pure, shining precious, my golden singing promise, my dream, a distant call—
O tender specter, happy chance,
Again I heed the ancient lore,
Again with beauty rare in stance,
You beckon from the distant shore!“
The Slynx


„Dostoyevsky's indignation at Afanasy Fet's innocent lyrics, "Whispers, timid breath, the nightingales trilled," is well known. This is simply disgraceful, wrote Dostoyevsky indignantly, and he speculated what an insulting impression such empty verses would have made if they'd been given to someone to read during the Lisbon earthquake! Some people protested: Yes, of course, Dostoyevsky is right, but we aren't having an earthquake, and we aren't in Lisbon, and after all, are we not allowed to love, to listen to nightingales, to admire the beauty of a beloved woman? But Dostoyevsky's argument held sway for a long time. It did so because of the way Russians perceive Russian life: as a constant, unending Lisbon earthquake.“ Pushkin's Children: Writing on Russia and Russians

„... Let's keep going. Decree Number Two."
"Holidays, more holidays."
"There you go again with an ungovernmental approach! First and foremost are civil liberties, not holidays."
"Why? What does it matter?"
"Because! That's how revolution is always done: first the tyrant is overthrown, then the new Boss of everything is named, and then come civil liberties.“
The Slynx

„No, not ten, not seconds, everything's different there, space slips away, and time collapses sideways like a ragged wave, and everything spins, spins like a top: there, one second is huge, slow, and resonant, like an abandoned cathedral, another is tiny, sharp, fast--you strike a match and burn up a thousand millennia; a step to the side--and you're in another universe....“

„[comrades] are ashes, entrails, dung, stove smoke, clay, and they’ll all return to clay. They’re full of dirt, candle oil, droppings, dust.

You, O Book, my pure, shining precious, my golden singing promise, my dream, a distant call—

O tender specter, happy chance,
Again I heed the ancient lore,
Again with beauty rare in stance,
You beckon from the distant shore!”

You, Book! You are the only one who won't deceive, won't attack, won't insult, won't abandon! You're quiet--but you laugh, shout, and sing; you're obedient--but you amaze, tease and entice; you're small but you contain countless peoples. Nothing but a handful of letters, that's all, but if you feel like it, you can turn heads, confuse, spin, cloud, make tears spring to the eye, take away the breath, the entire soul will stir in the wind like a canvas, will rise in the waves and flap its wings! Sometimes a kind of wordless feeling tosses and turns in the chest, pounds its fists on the door, the walls: I'm suffocating! Let me out! How can you let that feeling out, all fuzzy and naked? What words ca you dress it in? We don't have any words, we don't know! Just like wild animals, or a blindlie bird, or a mermaid--no words, just a bellowing. But you open a book--and there they are, fabulous, flying words:

O city! O wind! O snowstorms and blizzards!
O azure abyss all raveled and tattered!
Here am I! I'm blameless! I'm with you forever...

... Or there's bile and sadness and bitterness. The emptiness dries your eyes out and you search for the words, and here they are:

But is the world not all alike?
From the Cabbala of Chaldaic signs
Throughout the ages, now and ever more,
To the sky where the even star shines.

The same old wisdom--born of ashes,
And in that wisdom, like our twin,
The face of longing, frailty, fear, and sin,
Stares straight across the ages at us.“
The Slynx

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