Table of contents
Translations
Russian to English
10 short stories by Arkadiy Averchenko (prose)
18 songs by Vladimir Vysotsky (verse)
A poem by Vladimir Mayakovsky (verse)
An epigram by Sasha Chorny (verse)
English to Russian
The Zeta song (verse)
Italian to English AND Russian
A Verdi aria (verse)
Other
Russian: a few poems
French: a fragment of one poem
English: a few poems, two songs, a musical, some jokes, some puzzles
Translations
Russian to English
10 short stories by Arkadiy Averchenko
(From "A Dozen Knives Into the Revolution's Back" ["Дюжина ножей в спину революции"])
Foreword [Предисловие]
Perhaps, upon reading this book's title, some tender-hearted reader -- without bothering to understand what's going on -- might immediately start squawking like a hen:
"Ah, ah! What a heartless, cruel young man, this Arkadiy Averchenko! Now why would he stick a knife into the poor revolution's back -- and not one, but a whole dozen?"
It is, indeed, a harsh action to take; but let's thoughtfully examine it.
First of all, let's honestly ask ourselves: do we even have a revolution, today? All this rot, stupidity, garbage, and darkness that surrounds us -- is this what a revolution should be like?
A revolution is a sparkling lightning-bolt, a revolution is a divinely beautiful face lit up by righteous anger, a revolution is a blindingly bright rocket that rises like a rainbow amidst the damp fog!
Do these shining images resemble what we have today?
I will further say this in defense of a revolution: its birth is as beautiful as that of a child, his first silly smile, his first inarticulate words, which are so touching when uttered by a little pink tongue that is still unsure of itself...
But when the child is in his fourth year, but he is stuck in the same cradle; when it's his fourth year of sucking on his (by now, fairly large) foot; when it's his fourth year of babbling the same unintelligible words like "SovNarKhoz," "UyeZemelKom," "SovBur," and "RevVoyenKom" -- then this is no longer a cute little baby, but a strapping lad that has (forgive me for saying it) fallen into quiet idiocy.
Very often, however, this quiet idiocy turns violent, and then the lad is out of control.
It's not funny but touching when a baby reaches towards the fire with his tiny fingers, and mumbles with his unsure tongue, "Daddy, daddy, gimme, gimme..."
But when, in a dark alley, an ill-groomed fellow with murder written on his face stretches his crooked paw towards you and grumbles, "OK, daddy-o, gimme a light, and your coat" -- excuse me, but I simply cannot find this adorable.
Let's not fool ourselves, or others: the revolution has ended, and it ended long ago.
Its beginning was a clear, cleansing flame; its middle, foul smoke and soot; its end, cold burnt-out embers.
Are we not, now, wandering around amid the ashes, without food or shelter, with dull disappointment and emptiness in our hearts?
Did Russia need a revolution? Of course it did.
What is a revolution? It is a turnaround and a deliverance.
But when the savior, after turning things around and delivering you, has himself so firmly latched onto your back that you are, once again (and even worse than before), suffocating in deathly anguish, tormented by cold and hunger, and when there is no end in sight to his sitting on you -- then to hell with him, this savior! I, and you too, I suspect -- if you are not fools -- will be happy to stick not just a dozen, but a whole gross of knives into him.
There are still many people who, like poorly-trained parrots, keep repeating the same phrase: "Comrades, defend the revolution!"
I'm sorry, but you yourself used to say that a revolution is a bolt of lightning, that it is the thunder of primordial divine ire... How is it possible to defend lightning?
Imagine a man who, standing in a thundercloud-darkened field, spreads his arms out, yelling: "Comrades! Defend the lightning! Do not let the lightning be extinguished by the bourgeois counter-revolutionaries!"
Here are the words of my fellow writer, the famous Russian poet and citizen Konstantin Balmont, who, like myself, had struggled against the ugliness of the former tsarist regime:
"A revolution is good when it tosses off a yoke. But it is not revolution but evolution that makes the world go forward. Harmony and order are what we now need, as badly as air or food. Internal and external discipline, and the knowledge that the only notion that we must now defend with full force is that of Russia -- a notion above any individuals, or classes, or any specific tasks, a notion so important and all-encompassing that everything melts inside it, and there are no enemies within it, only people who understand each other and work together: merchant and peasant, worker and poet, soldier and general.
When a revolution becomes a satanic whirlwind of destruction, then truth falls silent or turns into lies. Wild folly transforms crowds into mobs, and all words lose their meaning and persuasiveness. When such a misfortune befalls a people, it inevitably comes to resemble the proverbial demon-possessed herd of pigs.
A revolution is a thunderstorm. A thunderstorm ends quickly and refreshes the air, and this makes life brighter and the flowers more beautiful. But nothing can survive if thunderstorms occur continuously; so anyone who wants to prolong the thunderstorm is clearly dead set against us building ourselves a better life. And the expression 'defend the revolution,' I must say, seems to me both meaningless and pathetic. What kind of thunderstorm is it, if it needs to be wrapped in a comforter, like a little old lady?"
This is what Balmont says. And he is only wrong about one thing -- his comparison of our overgrown revolution to a helpless little old lady who needs to be wrapped in a comforter.
It is not a little old lady -- would that it were! -- but a drunken brigand; and it is not you who will wrap him, but he who will wrap himself in the coat he has pulled off your shoulders.
And maybe he'll then poke you in the side with a knife, for good measure.
And we are supposed to defend this bandit? To protect him?
He doesn't need a dozen knives into his back: he needs a hundred, he needs to be turned into a porcupine, this drunken, lazy thug who is clinging to us -- so that he can't stop us from building a new, free, great Russia.
Am I right, friends and readers? Eh?
So those of you who are neither senseless idiots, nor crooks who benefit from all this disorder and all this "defense of the revolution," must -- one and all -- yell out the answer:
"Right!!!"
-- Arkadiy Averchenko
A Poem About a Hungry Man [Поэма о голодном человеке]
Today, for the first time, I felt a bitter pang of regret that my mother didn't send me to music school.
What I want to write about is very hard to express verbally. I am so tempted to sit down at a piano, plunge my hands onto the keys, and pour it all out into a whimsical sequence of sounds -- ominous, anxious, plaintive, softly groaning and tumultuously cursing.
But, alas, mute and powerless are my stiff fingers; and the cold, distant piano will long remain silent; and the magnificent entrance into the colorful world of sounds is closed to me forever.
So I am forced to write my elegies and nocturnes in the usual way -- not on five lines but on one, quickly drawing out paragraph after paragraph, page after page. Many are the rich possibilities, the splendid achievements that language can offer -- but not when one's soul is repulsed by sober, realistic prose, when it wants sound, when it demands stormy, frantic movements of an insane hand on the keyboard.
Here is my symphony -- weak and pale, when put in words...
* * *
When the dull, greyish-pink twilight descends onto the city of St. Petersburg, as if, exhausted by hunger, it were wearily closing its once-sparkling eyes; when its formerly-civilized inhabitants crawl back into their gloomy lairs to wait out yet another of the one thousand and one hungry nights; when everything grows quiet except the commissars' automobiles that cheerfully whizz about, piercing, like sharp awls, the dark, blind thoroughfares -- then several drab, silent figures assemble in an apartment on Liteinyi Avenue, and, after exchanging trembling handshakes, sit down around an empty table, illuminated only by the vile, furtive light of a tallow candle-end.
For a while, they say nothing; they are out of breath from making several gigantic efforts in a row: they had to walk up the stairs to the second floor, shake each other's hands, and move their chairs closer to the table -- this is such unbearable work!
Cold air is blowing in through a broken window... But nobody is capable of blocking off the hole with a pillow -- the preceding physical labor has exhausted their bodies for at least an hour.
They can only sit around the table and the guttering candle, and speak in a quiet, quiet murmur...
A few looks are exchanged.
"Shall we start? Whose turn is it today?"
"Mine."
"Not at all. Yours was the day before yesterday. You talked about macaroni with minced beef."
"That was Ilya Petrovich who talked about macaroni. My report was on veal cutlets with cauliflower. On Friday."
"Then it is your turn. Please begin. Attention, gentlemen!"
The gray figure bent over the table even more, making the huge black shadow on the wall quiver and shake. A tongue ran rapidly over parched lips, and a quiet, hoarse voice broke the deathly silence of the room.
"Five years ago -- I remember it as if it were yesterday -- I ordered fried navaga and a Hamburg-style steak, at Albert's. There were four pieces of navaga -- large pieces, fried in bread crumbs and butter, gentlemen! You understand, real butter, gentlemen. Butter! On one side lay a large clump of fried parsley; on the other, half a lemon. You know, a nice bright yellow lemon which is lighter on the side where it's been cut... You could just take it in your hand and squeeze it over the fish. But I did it like this: I would take the fork and a piece of bread (they served both dark and white bread, I swear) and deftly separate the thick sides of the navaga from the bone..."
"Navaga has only one bone, in the middle, shaped like a triangle," interjected a neighbor, panting.
"Shhh! Don't interrupt. Well?"
"After cutting up the navaga -- and, you know, the skin was nicely toasted, very brittle, and completely covered with the bread crumbs -- I would pour myself a shot of vodka, and only then squirt some lemon juice onto a piece of fish... I would put a little bit of parsley on top -- just for the aroma, exclusively for the aroma -- drink the vodka, and immediately swallow some fish -- yum! And there was a French bun, you know, the really plump, soft kind, -- so I ate it too, along with the fish. And the fourth piece of fish -- I didn't even finish it, heh heh!"
"You didn't finish it?!"
"Don't look at me like that, gentlemen. The Hamburg-style steak still lay ahead, don't forget. Do you know what that means, 'Hamburg-style'?"
"Is that with an omelet on top?"
"Exactly! It's made with only one egg; just for flavor. The steak was soft and juicy, yet resilient, slightly more well-done on one side, slightly rawer on the other. You remember what roasted meat smelled like, don't you? And there was lots and lots of gravy, really thick, too, and I loved taking a slice of white bread, dipping it into the gravy and, together with a tender piece of meat -- down the hatch!"
"Were there no fried potatoes?" moaned someone at the far end of the table, grabbing his head with both hands.
"That's the whole point -- there were! But, of course, we haven't gotten to that yet. There were also some horse-radish spears, and some capers; and on the other side, almost half the dish was filled with diced fried potatoes. Damned if I know why they soak up that beef gravy so well. So the pieces were each drenched in gravy on one end, and on the other, they were quite dry and even crunchy. I would cut myself some meat, dip some bread into the gravy, grab all of this with my fork, along with a bit of omelet, potatoes, and a pickle slice..."
The neighbor emitted a muffled roar, sprang to his feet, grabbed the speaker by the collar and, shaking him with his feeble hands, cried out:
"Beer! How could you not have washed this steak down with some strong, foamy beer?"
The speaker, in ecstasy, jumped up as well.
"Of course! A large, heavy mug of beer, with white foam on top, so thick that it stayed on your moustache. I would swallow some steak and potatoes, and then dive into the mug..."
Someone in the corner started softly sobbing:
"You shouldn't have had beer... Not beer, but red wine, slightly warmed! They had such a great Burgundy for 3.50 a bottle... You'd pour some into a glass and look at it against the light -- it would sparkle like a ruby, a real ruby..."
A fist, fiercely striking the table, rudely interrupted the flow of excited whispering.
"Gentlemen! What have we become? Shame on us! How low have we fallen! You! Are you men? You are a bunch of lustful Old Man Karamazovs! All night long, you salivate over what a handful of thieves and murderers has taken away from you! You have been deprived of something that every man has the right to -- the right to eat, the right to stuff his stomach with food according to his simple tastes -- why do you tolerate this? You get a half-rotten herring tail and an ounce of bread that tastes like dirt, every day -- and there are many of you, hundreds of thousands! So go, all of you, go out into the street in hungry, desperate mobs, crawl like a million locusts that can stop a train by their sheer multitude, go and attack this gang that has created hunger and death, tear out their throats, trample them into the ground, and you will have bread, meat, and potatoes!"
"Yes! Fried in butter! Full of aroma! Hurray! Let's go! Let's trample them! Let's tear out their throats! We are many! Ha ha ha! I will catch Trotsky, push him to the ground, and poke his eye out with my finger! I will walk on his face! I will cut off his ear with my pen-knife and stuff it into his mouth -- let him eat that!"
"So let's run, gentlemen. All out into the street, all who are hungry!"
So they ran... They ran for a very long time, and covered a very long distance; the strongest and fastest reached the front door, others fell earlier -- some on the threshold of the living room, some by the table in the kitchen.
Their numb, unbending legs had covered dozens of miles... They lay, exhausted, their eyes half-closed, some in the hallway, some in the dining room -- they had done all they could, they had really tried.
But the titanic effort had sapped their strength, and they all collapsed, like a fire dragged apart log by log.
The speaker crawled over to his neighbor, who was lying on the floor next to him, and whispered:
"But you know, if Trotsky gave me a piece of roasted pork with gruel -- just a tiny piece -- I wouldn't cut his ear off, I wouldn't trample him! I would forgive him..."
"No," the neighbor whispered back, "Not pork. How about some chicken, so tender that the white meat easily peels away from the bone... And some cooked rice with a slightly-tangy sauce..."
The rest, hearing this, lifted their eager heads, one by one, and gradually crawled together into a pile, like snakes at the sound of a reed flute...
They avidly listened.
* * *
The one thousand and first hungry night was ending. The one thousand and first hungry morning hobbled along to take its place.
The Devil's Wheel [Чертово колесо]
I.
"Sit down, don't be afraid. You'll have a great time."
"What's so great about it?"
"It's a lot of fun."
"How so?"
"Well, you just wait till the wheel starts spinning -- it'll toss you off, smack right into the wall! It's very funny."
That was a typical conversation on the "Devil's Wheel."
A few years ago, some clever entrepreneurs built an amusement park in St. Petersburg. I used to go there for a somewhat unusual reason: I like observing fools. At the amusement park, I would find better, more colorful specimens for my collection -- and in more abundant numbers -- than anywhere else.
An amusement park is, quite simply, a fool's paradise. Everything is set up so that a fool will enjoy himself.
The fool would enter the "Hall Of Mirrors," take a look at his seven-foot-long legs growing right out of his chest, at his two-foot face -- and he'd laugh like a child. He'd sit down into the "Crazy Barrel," get pushed down the ramp, and the barrel would start bumping against posts on both sides, shaking the fool like a pellet inside a rattle, bruising his ribs and shins -- that's when the fool would realize that there is still some care-free happiness left in the world. And then he would walk over to the "Merry Kitchen," and he'd see that it was made just for him, too. A few yards behind a barrier, there were shelves filled with defective plates, bowls, bottles, and glasses; the fool could throw wooden balls at them, after purchasing this enviable right for a rouble. The fool stood to gain nothing from this -- he wasn't awarded any prizes for his performance; nor did he receive any applause from the crowd, since hitting a plate at such a small distance was easy as pie -- and yet, believe it or not, smashing up dozens of plates and bottles was every fool's favorite pastime. And after the "Merry Kitchen," all worked up from the exercise, the fool would go cool down in the "Haunted House." This was a place where you had to be ready for anything, from the moment you entered it. You would grope your way along pitch-black, narrow corridors, while glow-in-the-dark ghosts would appear on all sides, and some invisible hands would try to strangle you; then you would tumble down some tube onto some padded mat; and when, finally, you triumphantly emerged onto a brightly-lit walkway high above the crowd -- then, all of a sudden, a strong stream of air would suddenly start blowing right from underneath you; if you were a man, your coat would rise above your head like a pair of wings, whereas if you were a woman, the salacious public would instantly become acquainted not only with the color of your garters, but with some other things that belong on the best, rawest, most titillating page of an erotic novel, rather than in an article about politics.
So that's what the amusement park was like: heaven, to a fool; hell, to an average person who happened to wander in by accident; and a boundless opportunity for scientific investigation, to a thoughtful observer wishing to study the Russian fool in his natural habitat.
II.
As I look at the Russian revolution, I can't help but notice how much it has in common with that amusement park. The parallels are so exact, it's simply scary.
The radical transformation of society, the destruction of the old, supposedly outdated, institutions -- hey, isn't that the "Merry Kitchen"? Laid out on the shelves are the old justice system, the old finance system, the church, the arts, the press, the theater, the schools -- such a sumptuous display!
The fool walks up to the barrier, grabs as many wooden balls from the basket as he can with his left hand, takes one into his right, aims, and -- wham! -- the justice system falls to pieces. Wham! -- there go the finances. Crash! -- there go the arts, and all that's left instead is some miserable ProletKult stump.
The fool is getting fired up, he's getting the hang of it -- and he's got plenty of wooden balls left. Wham! -- now, the church is smashed to bits, the schools are in ruins, trade is in tatters. The fool is having the time of his life; the spectators -- French, English, German -- are laughing themselves silly, and the German even eggs him on:
"Wow, how clever you are! Come on, hit the universities once again. Come on, show us what you can do to the industry!"
He's so hot-headed, the Russian fool -- oh, so hot-headed... What good is it that later, once the happy thrill is gone, he will cry bitter tears over the smashed-up church, the broken finance system, the already-dead sciences -- but, right now, everyone's watching him! Right now, he is the center of attention, this fool whom nobody even used to notice before.
III.
And who's that riding in the "Crazy Barrel," bumping his sides, losing his hat, cracking his ribs, and breaking his kneecaps? Oh, that's an ordinary Russian traveling with his family from Chernigov to Voronezh, in our merry revolutionary times. Bang against a post -- the baby goes out the railcar window; bang against another -- Petlyura's men toss him out himself; bang against yet another -- Makhno's men rob him of his suitcase.
And who's that, standing in front of a distorting mirror, and not knowing whether to laugh or to cry? That's simply a naive man, trying to recognize himself in how a different political party's newspaper depicted him.
And that "Haunted House," where they lead you down dark, narrow, winding corridors, where they scare you, where they push you around, where they maim you -- is that not the Cheka, that most striking creation of the Third International? It is indeed a blend of many nations: Latvians, Russians, Jews, Chinese -- hangmen of all countries, unite!
IV.
But the most amazingly, the most shockingly similar part is the "Devil's Wheel."
Here's the February Revolution -- its very beginning, before the wheel had started spinning yet. In the middle of the polished surface stands the most notorious fool of our times, Aleksandr Kerensky, yelling as loudly as if he were addressing a rally:
"Come on, comrades! Join the game, we're about to start. Milyukov! Sit down, don't be afraid. You'll have a great time."
"What's so great about it?"
"It's a lot of fun. You just wait till the wheel starts spinning -- it'll be tossing everyone off, and into the wall... However, you can sit in the very center, next to me, and we should manage to hang on. You too, Guchkov -- sit down, have no fear... We'll spin this thing beautifully... OK, is everyone ready? Off we go!"
And off they went.
A few turns of the "Devil's Wheel" -- and already we see Pavel Milyukov start to slide, trying in vain to hold on to his neighbor.
Wwwwhhhzzzzzzzz! -- the wheel whistles as it gains speed, and Milyukov crashes into the wall, thrown out by the irresistible centrifugal force.
And now, Guchkov starts sliding after him, grabbing Skobelev by the sleeve... Skobelev tries to push him away, but it's too late. He loses his balance, and they both go flying like feathers in a hurricane.
"Aha!" -- Tsereteli gleefully shouts, latching onto Kerensky's leg. "Hold on tight! The left-wingers and the right-wingers will fall off, but we, the center, can hang on."
As if! Tsereteli loses his grip, and he -- along with Chkheidze -- is tossed all the way to the wall of the Caucasus.
Kerensky laughs happily, as he rapidly twirls in the very center; he feels as if this sweet sensation will last forever. But now, next to him, suddenly appears a shapeless tangle of three heads and six legs, known commonly as "Gotzliberdan." It wraps itself against Kerensky's foot; the general commander emits a plaintive cry, moving an inch to the left... But that's all the "Devil's Wheel" needs!
And Kerensky is propelled into the air -- head over heels, not just to the wall but over it -- landing somewhere far away, either in London or in Paris.
The "Devil's Wheel" has thrown everyone off -- so, now, it slows down almost to a complete stop, to allow a new merry bunch to climb aboard: Trotsky, Lenin, Nakhamkis, Lunacharsky...
"Come join us, comrades! Sit tighter! Those fools couldn't hold on, but we will! OK, here we go!"
Wwwwwwhhhhhhzzzzzzz!
And all we can do now is wait and watch: let's see who will be the first to slide off, and who ends up crashing against which wall.
If only I could get my hands on them, when they do...
From the Life Of Panteley Grymzin, Worker [Черты из жизни рабочего Пантелея Грымзина]
Exactly ten years ago, the worker Panteley Grymzin received from his vile, mean, blood-sucking boss his daily pay for 9 hours of work -- a mere two-fifty!
"Well, what can I do with this crap?" Panteley bitterly thought, staring at the two silver roubles and fifty kopecks in change in the palm of his hand. "I'm hungry, I'm thirsty, and I need new soles for my boots -- the old ones are just one big hole... Oh, what a hellish life we lead!"
He dropped by a shoemaker of his acquaintance; the bastard charged him a rouble and a half for a pair of soles.
"Do you even bother to wear a cross?" Panteley sarcastically inquired.
The cross, to the robbed Panteley's surprise, was in place -- on the shoemaker's hairy chest, right under his shirt.
"Now, all I've got left is one rouble," thought Panteley with a sigh. "And what good will that do me? Hah!"
So he went and bought half a pound of ham, a can of anchovies, a loaf of French bread, half a bottle of vodka, a bottle of beer, and a dozen cigarettes -- and by the time he was done, his entire capital was down to four kopecks.
And when poor Panteley sat down to his frugal supper, he felt so bad that he almost started weeping.
"Why, why?" whispered his trembling lips.
"Why do the rich and the exploiters drink champagne and liqueurs, eat grouse and pineapples -- and all I ever get is plain vodka, canned fish, and ham? Why is life so unfair? Oh, if only we, the working class, gained our freedom! Then we would really live like human beings!"
* * *
One day in the spring of 1920, the worker Panteley Grymzin received his daily pay for Tuesday -- a mere 2,700 roubles.
"Well, what can I do with this?" Panteley bitterly thought, shuffling the multicolored pieces of paper in his hand. "I need new soles for my boots, and I'm dying for some food and drink!"
He went to the shoemaker, haggled him down to 2,300, and came back out into the street with four pitiful 100-rouble bills.
He bought a pound of semi-white bread, a bottle of soda pop, and was left with 14 roubles. He checked out the price of a dozen cigarettes, spat, and walked away.
At home, he sliced up the bread, opened the soda, and sat down for supper... And he felt so bad that he almost started weeping.
"But why," whispered his trembling lips, "Why do the rich get everything, while we get nothing? Why does the rich man eat tender pink ham, stuff himself with anchovies and real white bread, guzzle genuine vodka and foamy beer, smoke cigarettes -- while I, like some kind of dog, must chew this stale bread and drink this nauseating saccharin-based swill? Why is life so unfair?"
* * *
Ah, Panteley, Panteley... Can you say, "oops"?
The Evolution Of Russian Books [Эволюция русской книги]
Stage One (1916)
"Well, you don't seem to have a lot of new stuff this week, do you? Only three new books. Please renew my subscriptions to The Eglantine and The Land. By the way, do you have Belshe's Love In Nature? Which edition? Sytin's? No, I would prefer Sablin's. Oh, and what about The Children Of Sin by Catulle Mendès? But, please, not the Sphinx edition -- their translation is pretty sloppy. And what's this? Not a bad volume. Printed by Golike and Vilborg, of course? Great choice of what to publish -- Eugene Onegin, something everyone knows by heart anyway. And who did the illustrations? Samokish-Sudkovskaya? A bit too kitschy. And the format is too wide -- makes it hard to read, lying down!"
Stage Two (1920)
"Miss! I requested 72 titles from your library's catalog, and you don't seem to have a single one. What am I to do?"
"Pick something from that stack on the desk. That's all that's left."
"Hmmm! Here are three or four more or less acceptable ones: A Description Of the Ancient Monuments Of the Olonets Province; The Reborn String Can Once Again Sing; Makar the Murderer; and The Collected Speeches Of Disraeli (First Earl of Beaconsfield)..."
"Well, so just take any one."
"Listen... Is The Monuments Of the Olonets Province interesting?"
"Yes, yes, it's interesting. Don't hold up the line."
Stage Three
"Did you hear the news?!"
"What, what?"
"The Ivikovs found an old book under their dresser! It'd been there since 1917! What luck. They're having a party to celebrate."
"And what's the title of the book?"
"Who cares what the title is -- it's a book! 480 pages! The Pustoshkins, the Bildyayevs, the Rossomakhins and the Partachevs have already signed up to read it."
"I guess I'll run over there and sign up, too."
"Don't be late. I hear the Ivikovs are planning to tear the book into 10 small ones, 48 pages each, and sell them."
"What -- each with no beginning, and no end?"
"Oh, pshaw. As if that mattered."
Stage Four
Advertisement:
"Well-known reciter of Pushkin's poetry attends family soirées, by invitation. Can read all of Poltava and all of Eugene Onegin. Price by agreement. Also directs dances and rents out ice-cream machine."
Conversation at the soirée:
"How do you know Pushkin's poetry so well?"
"I learned it by heart."
"Who taught you? Pushkin himself?"
"No, not Pushkin. He's dead. I learned it from a book, back when there were books."
"Did he have good handwriting?"
"What does handwriting have to do with it? The book was printed."
"I'm sorry... What do you mean?"
"Well, here's what they used to do: they would cast letters out of lead, stick one next to the other, put some black paint over them, place a sheet of paper against them and press really hard -- and the words would get printed onto the paper."
"Wow, that's so far out! Please sit down! Have a cigarette! Olya, Petya, Gulya -- come here and listen, Mr. Gortannikov is telling us about the kind of tricks that Pushkin used to pull! Did you get the ice-cream machine from him, too?"
Stage Five
"Listen to me! I know you're just a corner-shop owner, but maybe you'll understand a cry for help from an old Russian intellectual, and do me this favor."
"What's the matter?"
"Look... When you lock up your shop for the night, you don't need your sign, do you? Let me take it and read it before I go to bed -- I just can't fall asleep without reading. And the text is so instructive -- soap, and candles, and sour cream -- all kinds of things. I'll read it and give it back."
"Oh yeah, sure... You all say that. The other day, some guy asked to borrow the cover from a box of Georges Bormann biscuits, and never returned it. And it had a picture on it, and all kinds of letters... I have a growing son, too, you know."
Stage Six
"Where are you coming from, Ivan Nikolayevich?"
"I was taking a walk outside of town. Admiring the gallows out by the highway."
"Some entertainment -- looking at gallows!"
"Oh, don't say that. Actually, I mostly do it for reading's sake: one gallows looks like an 'H,' another, like a 'T' -- I just read them and move on... After all, reading is food for the mind."
(From "A Salad of Needles" ["Салат из булавок"])
Proletarian Art [Пролетарское искусство]
(A lecture delivered by Nikandr Khlapov at a Party activists' meeting in Kolpino)
Dear comrades, and those of you in the back chewing sunflower seeds!
I will say a few words for proletarian music.
I spent four years as washroom attendant at the conservatory, in my capacity as a specialist.
And let me tell you: nowhere is there such a bourgeois domination as in music.
Comrades! Why is it that they've stuck us, the proletariat, with a three-stringed balalaika, and grabbed those grand pianos -- with more strings on them than that guy over there's got hairs on his noggin -- all for themselves?
Why?
And I'll tell you too, comrades, that those grand pianos are nothing but a swindle. We all know that music has seven notes, the so-called gambit. But those bastards have crammed so many notes in there that I've seen guys barely manage to keep up with both hands! And they always have to keep pushing on something underneath, too. What kind of fairness is this? If you cut one of those grand pianos up, you could make eight little ones out of it, for the people.
Comrades, we don't need those Schuberts and Muberts -- we want our own, real, proletarian stuff!
And those little black keys that they've got sprinkled all over the place? We get three strings -- or maybe seven, like on a guitar -- and they get both white keys and black ones?
"Half-tones," they say. Yeah, yeah -- what good does that do us? No good at all. The other day, I tried to play Don't Cry, Marusya, You'll Be Mine Yet, using only the white ones -- and it worked just fine! So what are the black ones for? Just to lull the class consciousness of the proletariat?
So they give us those crappy balalaikas, and in the meantime, they make almost a hundred keys for themselves -- out of ivory! It's true, I swear. They kill an elephant and make piano keys out of him. Why? What if the elephant's just as much a human being as you and me? Nothing but brutality and oppression.
Take their scores. They're so messed up, on purpose, so you'll go nuts trying to make head or tail of them. Why do they write their squiggles on five lines? Why not on one? It must be the vodka talking. Just like it's easier for a guy who's plastered to walk on five floorboards than on one -- so, same here, they scatter their chicken-scratch up and down, up and down. It's embarrassing. Show it to me all on one line, if you're a real musician!
And those sharps and flats... Some idiot sticks a bunch of them on the left-hand side, and I'm supposed to remember that? What if I don't want to?!
And even that's not enough for them: they've come up with these "naturals," too. What the hell's natural about them? The working proletariat doesn't find them natural!
That's all those running dogs are trying to do -- make it harder to understand.
Have you seen that thing they call a treble clef? It looks like a tapeworm. How does that help with anything?
And those pauses! If you're gonna play, then keep playing honestly all the way through -- don't stop and just knock your paw against the floor. Or else we could do some knocking, too, if you catch my drift.
To conclude my lecture, I can only say this: the Russian proletariat is already awakening, and once it wakes up fully and completely -- it'll show you such music that all these Tchaikovskys, Mayakovskys, Mechnikovs and Bechnikovs will spin in their graves!
(Loud applause from the party members.)
(From "Twelve Portraits Of Famous Russians" ["Двенадцать портретов знаменитых людей в России"])
Peters [Петерс]
A man who killed.
There are some classic phrases that will be alive and fresh even 200, or 500, or 800 years from now.
For instance:
"Vanquished peoples should be spared only their eyes, so that they may cry," said Bismarck.
"The State, that's me!" exclaimed Louis XIV.
"Paris is well worth a Mass," decided Henry IV, exchanging one faith for another.
However, that king also showed his good side with a more altruistic statement:
"I would like to see a chicken in every pot."
We do not know what Lenin and Trotsky would like to see in each of their subjects' pots; but the famous Cheka bigwig, Peters, expressed himself on the subject pretty clearly, and we consider his utterance to be no less remarkable than Henry's.
Namely: according to newspaper reports, when representatives of the Rostov-on-Don workers came to see him -- as the official in charge of the city -- and told him that the workers were hungry, Peters replied:
"Do you call this hunger? How can this be hunger, when your rubbish-bins are full of various scraps and refuse? Now in Moscow, where the rubbish-bins are totally empty -- as if they'd been licked clean -- that's hunger!"
Thus, the Rostov workers can exclaim, like the old Cossacks:
"Lo, there is still powder in our powder-kegs! We still have the rubbish-bins, those breadbaskets of the Soviet government!"
For some strange reason, Peters' phrase went fairly unnoticed; nobody paid any close attention to it.
This is unjust! Such statements should not be forgotten...
Were it up to me -- I would print it on huge billboards everywhere, carve it in marble, paste it in as a separate page into all children's textbooks; I would have town criers loudly proclaim it on all squares and street corners:
"As long as the rubbish-bins are full, how can the workers complain of hunger?"
* * *
I wonder whether H.G. Wells, during his stay in Moscow, examined -- along with the Soviet government's other miraculous achievements -- the local rubbish-bins?
If he did, he was probably highly impressed:
"Now there are sanitary conditions! Now there is real cleanliness! You could dance the fox-trot on the bottom of this rubbish-bin, just like on a parquet floor. In England, our rubbish-bins are filled with all kinds of nonsense: bread crusts, bits of fish, cigar stubs, chicken entrails, dried-out sandwiches, cheese rinds... Truly, the Soviet government has a great future, if even in dirty, messy Moscow it has managed to produce such neatness!"
* * *
I would also like to know -- exactly how is Comrade Peters planning to organize food aid drawn from rubbish-bins? Will it be rationed? But rations usually come in three or four categories.
Obviously, the first admitted to the magnificent banquet will be the Communist workers, category number one. After they have reaped the cream of the crop -- fish heads and sausage casings -- category number two, the ordinary workers, will timidly approach. They will pick out the potato peels and horse bones; the rest can be left for category number three, the bourgeois saboteurs.
* * *
Were I not a writer but a warden, and if Peters happened to land in my jail, I would arrange a great life for him. I would serve him all he could eat. Every day, I would treat him to a seven-course meal, dessert included.
He would never go hungry -- since, as he himself so wonderfully put it, "As long as rubbish-bins exist, there can be no hunger."
Here's what his menu would look like:
Appetizers: shoe polish, empty sardine cans, and egg shells stuffed with toothpicks.
Soup: bathwater à la Savon, with cigarette butts for croutons.
Fish: herring spines, with fungus on the side.
Meat: fricassée Rat Mort, grilled right in the mousetrap.
Greens: anything that has turned green.
Poultry: a feather from an old lady's hat, with Sauce Suprème.
Dessert: chocolate wrappers, apple peels, and coffee grinds.
* * *
I don't think Peters would have the moral right to refuse such a feast.
Because if even such outstanding men as Napoleon, Suvorov, and Peter the Great honestly ate from the same common pot as their soldiers did, then surely our Zimmerwald Napoleons have no right to behave any differently, considering the kind of common pot they've turned Russia into:
A rubbish-bin.
Shalyapin [Шаляпин]
The chameleon.
The Odessa papers reported:
"During a Mariinsky Theater performance of the opera Eugene Onegin, Fyodor Shalyapin, in the role of Gremin, tore the epaulets off his uniform and threw them into the orchestra -- as a sign of protest against the White Army's advance on St. Petersburg."
* * *
That little story made me stop and think.
Because, in Shakespeare's words -- "Though this be madness, yet there is a method in't."
Until now, people have always explained all such zig-zags on Shalyapin's part by his heightened, artistic nervousness; the impulse of the moment; extreme emotional exhuberance in times of great stress. He did it, they say, as if in a state of delirium, not knowing five minutes beforehand what he was going to do.
That was how they explained it when Shalyapin unexpectedly sang the revolutionary song Dubinushka in 1905.
That was how they explained it when he suddenly knelt in front of the Tsar, on the Mariinsky stage, in 1909.
That is, most likely, how they will explain his tearing-off of the epaulets.
But wait a minute! It is precisely the case of the epaulets that arouses a most categorical suspicion: might not all three of these actions, by any chance, have been carefully thought out and prepared in advance?
Here is my reasoning:
Many of you probably know that when the sad ceremony of an officer's demotion must take place, its most showy, done-for-effect aspects are taken care of ahead of time -- the epaulets are partly unstitched, the sword is filed down somewhere near the middle.
The reason why this is done is obvious: the commanding officer, upon announcing the verdict, must, with a quick flourish, tear off the guilty man's epaulets and throw them to the ground; he must take the man's sword out of its scabbard and, bumping it lightly against his knee, break it in two and toss the pieces in different directions.
The preliminary preparations are needed to avoid the laughable, farcical scene of a man grabbing another by his epaulets, and pulling as hard as he can -- yet not being able to tear them off. You cannot keep dragging someone by the shoulder for five minutes, grunting and straining; you cannot spend ten sweat-drenched minutes trying to break the sword, banging it repeatedly against your swollen knee, stepping on it with your foot, and finally having to ask a couple of spectators to help you complete the job.
Shalyapin is too good an actor; he is aware of all theatrical conventions, and has an excellent feel for effect. And he knows all too well that the theater's tailor, when making a costume, intends it to last for decades -- so all the parts are sewn together very tightly and thoroughly. After all, the tailor does not imagine that Prince Gremin's uniform might ever need to undergo an epaulet removal!
Therefore I claim that Shalyapin's showy tearing-off of his epaulets was not an impromptu gesture, was not caused by a sudden surge of emotion.
Shalyapin would never have permitted himself, on stage, any risk of an unseemly, grunt-filled struggle with a stubborn pair of epaulets that wouldn't come off.
No! There was indeed a method in this madness.
"Gavrila!" the famous bass must have said to the tailor, the day before the show. "Gavrila! Unstitch the epaulets on the Gremin uniform for me."
"But why do you need that, Fyodor Ivanovich?"
"None of your business, pal. This is high politics, and you're a mere louse. Just make it so they're hanging by a thread."
* * *
But then -- wait! Then the Dubinushka story is undermined, too; then the kneeling also seems very suspicious to me; were these really sudden, unexpected, momentary outbursts?
Might it not, rather, have been like this:
Police chief's office, 1905.
"Mr. Shalyapin would like to see you."
"Ah... Ask him in, ask him in! To what do I owe the pleasure, Fyodor Ivanovich?"
"Oh, I'm just here for a little chat," replied the celebrated singer in his deep voice. "So, what do you guys do around here? Hunt down revolutionaries?"
"Yes, heh heh heh. That's our job."
"Keep up the good work. Is it mostly young hotheads?"
"Yes, for the most part."
"Do they all sing Dubinushka?"
"Once in a while."
"And what do you do to those who sing it? I bet you throw them in the slammer, eh?"
"No, not at all. Just singing Dubinushka -- that's pretty tame stuff. Sometimes, we give them a stern lecture; that's about it."
"Oh, really? Well, I'll be off, then. I don't want to distract you from your work."
Later that same day, Shalyapin gave a stunningly formidable performance of Dubinushka. And people explained: there comes a time when even stones cry out.
* * *
And one day in the summer of 1909, Shalyapin called his tailor (probably the same Gavrila), and said:
"For tomorrow's show, sew some foam pads on the inside of my trousers, right at the knees."
"But, Fyodor Ivanovich... It'll make them swell out."
"Don't argue with me! Politics is a complicated business, and you're just a hick. Do as I tell you."
* * *
It is my guess that when Yudenich enters St. Petersburg, first and foremost among the rejoicing population will be Shalyapin -- and, his wonderful eyes sparkling, he will start singing Miron Yakobson's The Three-Colored Banner in his succulent bass.
"That's Shalyapin for you," the crowd will reverently say. "His Russian heart simply couldn't contain itself -- he just couldn't help but break into an impromptu song!"
But this impromptu was planned the same day as Gavrila unstitched the epaulets: while Gavrila was doing that, Isayka was, on his boss' orders, sneaking across the front line and into the White Army's camp -- to get a fresh copy of The Three-Colored Banner.
* * *
So wide, so unbelievably wide and diverse is the Russian soul! There is so much that can fit inside it.
It reminds me of Gogol's famous "Plyushkin's pile."
Do you remember? "Exactly what the pile consisted of was hard to determine, since it was covered in so much dust that the hands of anyone touching it would instantly resemble gloves. Most conspicuously protruding were a broken-off piece of a wooden shovel, and part of an old boot."
Same here -- everything is piled together in a most curious combination. A monogrammed snuff-box, a gift from the Tsar himself; a blood-stained, torn-up red flag; a "His Majesty's Soloist" certificate; the score of The Internationale; and, right there, you can see the corner of Yakobson's The Three-Colored Banner sticking out.
Pile it on, brother.
Martov and Abramovich [Мартов и Абрамович]
A never-ending story.
There exist, in this world, two young men -- as beautiful as a morning in May, and as charming as fairy-tale princes.
They are Martov and Abramovich.
They are SDs. They publish a newspaper called The Socialist Herald. And it is even rumored that somebody, somewhere, actually reads this newspaper.
Its circulation is higher in the summer than in the winter. In the summer, it can be very useful for fly-swatting purposes.
But if one approaches this newspaper as reading material, the reader achieves a sensation similar to that felt by a hungry dog when a mischievous boy, after feeding it a piece of meat tied to one end of a string, starts pulling on the other end.
I imagine that under those circumstances, the dog has a strong desire to turn itself inside out, just to get rid of this sensation that has been forced on it.
The same emotions are experienced by a reader who decides to swallow Martov and Abramovich's appetizing publication.
One day, I read in their newspaper a vigorous and touching protest against executions performed by the Soviet government.
Martov and Abramovich categorically stated that shooting SDs is an outrageous abuse of power, and that the Bolsheviks do not have the right to shoot SDs.
Non-Socialists were not mentioned: apparently, it's OK to shoot them.
Similarly, right-wing SRs protested against executions of right-wing SRs; and left-wing SRs protested as well -- against executions of left-wing SRs.
It somehow turns out that -- since I'm neither an SR nor an SD -- any bastard can decide to shoot me, and neither the SRs nor the SDs will let out as much as a peep.
Well, not being a member of any party, I intend to narrow this principle even further: since my name is Arkadiy, I will issue a proclamation to the entire world, protesting against executions of any Arkadiys. If a man bears the poetic name Arkadiy -- don't touch him, you swine! Shoot Gennadiys and Appolinariys instead, if you absolutely must.
Other people can also organize themselves according to their distinguishing characteristics: the dark-haired will denounce executions of the dark-haired, redheads will defend redheads, the cross-eyed will support the cross-eyed, and the usual cretins... Actually, never mind that last part -- it's already done.
* * *
However, as the French say, let us return to our sheep -- to Martov and Abramovich.
So, they vigorously protest against executions of SDs, against the stifling of the SD press, and against the exclusion of the SDs from the ruling class.
Now, imagine the following scenario: Martov and Abramovich are at their editorial office, quietly, peacefully putting out The Socialist Herald -- and suddenly, in comes a delegation of Russian peasants, falls to their knees before them, and begs:
"Our land is large and plentiful, the Bolsheviks have been exterminated -- come rule and govern us!"
The SRs in Prague will turn green with envy that they weren't the ones invited, but Martov and Abramovich have better things to worry about: who cares about poor relatives?
"We win!" Martov will gleefully yell out, while glancing at Abramovich and thinking, "Gee, I wish you'd drop dead -- I don't need any partners anymore, do I?"
Whereas Abramovich will offer Martov a hearty handshake, and the thought will cross his bright mind, "If only I could be squeezing not your hand, but your throat! I know -- the moment I go to Moscow, you'll drag yourself along after me!"
But, outwardly, they will both be beaming; and, as they stuff their plump suitcases, they will promise the delegation:
"Since you are transferring power to our SD hands -- all abuses and violence will stop! Down with press restrictions, down with executions and the Cheka!"
* * *
And so, Moscow unfurls its beauty before the new Rurik and Sineus.
"Where shall we start?" asks the energetic Abramovich. "We must form a coalition government."
Martov frowns. "You mean, with the SRs and the Cadets?"
"Why on earth would we do that? Don't we have enough Mensheviks available? Let's stock our cabinet with left-wing Mensheviks, right-wing Mensheviks, and Mensheviks kinda sorta."
* * *
Abramovich comes to see Martov, looking as if he'd seen a ghost:
"Listen to this insolence! The SRs criticized us in their paper for not including them in the cabinet. Can you believe this -- they called me a talentless slug! I think this filthy rag of theirs should be shut down once and for all."
"Well," smirks Martov, "that's not exactly a sufficient reason."
"They also called you a fat Caligula with the temperament of a castrated money-changer."
"Hmmmm... I see. In that case, I suppose that's reason enough. Please prepare the court order."
* * *
Again, Abramovich runs in to see Martov. His face is a tragic mask.
"Listen! After we closed the SR and Cadet papers, those thugs have really gone off the deep end: I have received information that they are organizing a plot to overthrow us."
"Never!" Martov exclaims, with a regal gesture. "We must create a special agency that will guard public safety and uncover such plots."
"An Extraordinary Commission?"
"You dolt! How can we revive the Cheka, and bring back to life the dark legacy of Bolshevism? No, we need to create an Ordinary Commission."
"So, the Obka?"
"Yes, Obka. That sounds perfectly harmless."
* * *
A year later, two Russians meet abroad.
"Why did you leave Russia?"
"I fled from the horrors of the Obka."
* * *
I am not a moralist; I merely wanted to show the readers what one-party rule means. He who takes the first step must inevitably take the next steps, as well.
When all of Russia is being shot, but Blockhead Ivanovich protests only against executions of Blockhead Ivanoviches -- then such a person in power would be the worst kind of Nero, minus the fiddling skills.
Party activists resemble mediocre, yet painfully vain, actors. And it has been said:
"Not every emperor, in Nero's position, would have become an actor; but any actor, in an emperor's position, will become a Nero."
Kerensky [Керенский]
A man with a clear conscience.
There is a wonderful Russian expression:
"I'm so ashamed, I'd like to fall right through the Earth."
Well: I know a gentleman who should be constantly, continuously falling through the Earth -- that's how ashamed he should be.
Let's say this gentleman runs into an acquaintance, the acquaintance looks him in the eye -- and my gentleman should instantly fall through the Earth. He should pierce the entire terrestrial globe with his body, emerging somewhere in the Antipodes; and, the minute some Antipodean looks him in the eye -- he should fall through, once again. So, had my gentleman any shame at all, he would be forever falling through, traversing the Earth's core in all directions.
But my gentleman has no shame, and he's never fallen through anything. Instead, he writes flowery essays, sometimes gives flowery speeches, living on the Earth's surface as if nothing were wrong; and he looks people straight in the eye, as if he had nothing at all to answer for.
Although, if you think about it -- it's frightening how much of a burden life has been piling onto this man's shoulders:
The poet Blok died -- and it's his fault.
The Cheka shot 61 scientists and writers -- it's his fault, too.
Two million Russian adults and one million children have starved to death -- it's his fault, just as if he had personally strangled each and every one of them with his own hands.
Millions of Russian refugees suffer hunger, privations, humiliations -- it's all his, his, his fault.
My God! If I ever happened to be saddled with such an extraordinary, terrible, superhuman guilt -- I would go straight to the famous Yellowstone Park, pick out the tallest tree in the world, take the longest rope in the world, and hang myself from the very top, so all could see how much my conscience was torturing me.
But my gentleman doesn't seem bothered in the least.
As I'm writing this, he is probably sitting in some restaurant in Prague, eating a garnished chicken cutlet, and washing it down with foamy Pilsner -- all the while, without batting an eyelash, reading the latest news from Russia:
"So far, hunger has killed up to three million Russians. By December, the total might reach ten million, and by March -- absent any foreign aid -- all of Russia will be dying." (The Common Cause, letter from St. Petersburg.)
And you're still eating your cutlet? Bon appétit, Aleksandr Fyodorovich! Won't you have the decency to choke on it?
They are a happy breed, these people with neither shame nor conscience. The open face exudes innocence, the clear eyes stare unblinkingly, and the whole expression seems to say:
"So what? Don't blame me. I conducted myself perfectly, I was both general commander and metropolitan, and the only reason there are still no statues of me in Russia is that no man is a prophet in his own land..."
While you're serenely eating your cutlet, Aleksandr Fyodorovich -- let me acquaint you with your résumé. And if it makes even one mouthful stick in your throat, then, perhaps, there is still a God in Heaven, and justice on Earth...
* * *
Do you know exactly at what moment Russia started heading towards ruin? It was when you, the head of the Russian government, arrived at the ministry and shook hands with a gofer.
Oh, that was so stupid of you. And, were you a different person, you would now be so ashamed of it! You surely thought that the gofer was a man just like you. Absolutely correct: he had the right number of eyes, and proper blood circulation. But shaking his hand was nonetheless not a good idea, because here's what followed: the next day, he said hello to you first (what the heck, no strangers here, why be shy?), and on the third day, as you were in your office, he walked in without knocking, sat down on the edge of your desk, lit up a cigarette, and patted you on the shoulder:
"Hey, Al! What's up, dude?"
Not all was lost: you could've still -- even then -- slapped him away, tossed him off the desk, yelled at him: "You're forgetting yourself, you low-life! Get the hell out of here!"
But that's not what you did. You probably giggled, lit your cigarette from his, and replied:
"Oh, heh heh, I'm just doing my little bit to save Russia."
How embarrassing! Why on earth did you go out of your way to shake the gofer's hand? Do you think he appreciated it the way he should have? No: instead, he climbed onto your back, yelled "giddyap!", and rode you at full gallop -- not in the direction where you wanted to go, but where he did.
Of course, for all I know, maybe this gofer just happened to be a very charming fellow. The problem is, you weren't extending your hand to him alone -- but to the entire loutish, caddish substratum of Russia.
The cad jumped on you, saddled you like a good steed, and raced you straight to the border -- to greet Lenin and Trotsky.
Perhaps, you will argue that Lenin and Trotsky's arrival should be blamed on the Germans? My dear man! They were at war with us; this was just one of the ways of waging war. They could've just as easily sent us a train full of dynamite, or poison gas, or a hundred mad dogs.
But you gave those mad dogs a hero's welcome, and guarded them as the apple of your eye, like a loving nanny watching over some playful kids that have been entrusted to her.
What can I say to the Germans? Ask them why they sent us such terrible crap?
They'll ask me back:
"Well, why were you guys stupid enough to accept it? Had that been us, we would've strung them up right at the border -- the way we'd answer an attack with a counterattack."
And you? You were happy! Your comrades had arrived! "Hi! Welcome! Say and do what you want, it's a free country!"
You had one more chance, remember -- that time at Kshesinsky Hall? One battalion of loyal troops, and all this scum would've been taken care of for good. And nobody would've complained.
But instead, you sent your minister Pereverzev to find Lenin and Trotsky another headquarters.
Aleksandr Fyodorovich! You have such enviable self-control... This incident alone is as embarrassing as if you had been whipped in a public square. But now, instead of heading for Yellowstone Park, you just sit there and eat your cutlet.
There are many people with horrible pasts, but I know of none that have a more shameful one than yours. I could even understand it if you had been paid off -- but you did it for free!
You had in your hand the best kind of trump card -- the riots, when the insensed crowd (I witnessed this myself) was tearing the Bolsheviks to pieces. And what did you do about that? You, the head of state, banned the publication of documents showing that Lenin and Trotsky had received German money! Trotsky was in prison -- and you let him out; Kornilov wanted to save the country -- and you destroyed him. You swore to die for democracy -- and ended up fleeing in your limo.
So, now, you're publishing The Will Of Russia? And eating chicken cutlets?
With a past like that?
There are only two honorable ways out for you: either go find that tree in Yellowstone Park, or else put on a monk's hood and chains, and hide in some tiny monastery under a different name, forever, so that we would never again hear about the man who so carefully and methodically ruined one-sixth of the Earth's surface, along with one hundred and fifty million good people -- those same people who, in March of 1917, put their complete trust in you.
You certainly proved yourself worthy of that trust.
Well, good-bye. And bon appétit.
18 songs by Vladimir Vysotsky
Mountain-climbing girl [Скалолазка]
I asked, "Why would you bother to climb up there?"
As you headed off, singing happy songs,
"Mountains look just as beautiful from the air!"
But you simply laughed, so I tagged along.
Oh, how gentle and how sweet you were,
My incredible mountain-climbing girl.
How you smiled as you pulled me from that crevasse,
My remarkable mountain-climbing lass.
Then, for acting like such a clumsy oaf,
I received two slaps right upside the head.
But I knew that I had deserved them both --
So took no offense, but demurely said,
"Oh, how gentle and how sweet you were,
My dependable mountain-climbing girl.
How you smiled as you rescued my sorry ass,
My magnificent mountain-climbing lass."
After that, every time we prepared to climb,
You'd inspect my boots, you'd inspect my pick,
You'd inspect my grapples and check the line,
My distrustful mountain-climbing chick.
Oh, how scornful and how harsh you were,
My irascible mountain-climbing girl.
How you frowned as you dragged me from the abyss,
My implacable mountain-climbing miss.
I kept up with you, though my body ached,
You were straight ahead, just a step away;
Thought I'd catch up and ask for a little break,
Then I tripped and fell -- but had time to say,
"Oh, you've taken me right atop the world,
My invincible mountain-climbing girl.
Now, we're roped together in perfect joy:
Mountain-climbing girl, mountain-climbing boy."
Moscow to Odessa [Москва-Одесса]
I'm set to fly from Moscow to Odessa;
As usual, the plane is running late.
And all I see are blue-clad stewardesses, like princesses,
Who tell me to sit down, shut up, and wait.
In Ashkhabad, the weather is just fine,
In contrast with Odessa, where it's snowing;
In Kishinev, the sun benignly shines,
It's great out there -- but that's not where I'm going.
I'm told: don't overestimate your chances,
The heavens aren't being very nice.
And now, they say again: the next Odessa flight's been canceled --
Apparently, the runway's turned to ice.
In Murmansk, there is neither rain nor storm,
In Kiev and in Lvov, green grass is growing.
Tbilisi is enjoyable and warm,
It's great down there -- but that's not where I'm going.
Announcement: flight to Leningrad, now boarding!
I need to reach Odessa by tonight --
But over there, they're issuing inclement-weather warnings,
And are accepting no incoming flights!
I need to go where snow-drifts are waist-high,
Where thunder rolls and chilly winds are blowing;
While somewhere else there might be sunny skies,
And life is good -- but that's not where I'm going.
They say the flight is ready -- stop the presses! --
And now I'm being ushered to my seat
By beautiful and blue-clad stewardesses, like princesses,
As cool as our entire civil fleet.
They've opened every city known to man,
Accessible by Tupolev or Boeing --
All clear are Paris, London, and Milan;
New York's all clear, but that's not where I'm going.
The pilot's voice immediately distresses:
The flight's held up. I knew this couldn't last!
The blue-clad stewardesses, like so many Miss Odessas,
Now lead us calmly back into the past.
One more announcement comes: delayed till eight!
And passengers obediently say, "wake me"...
But, damn, I can no longer bear to wait;
So I fly off to any place that'll take me.
07 [07]
It's as if I am running a fever;
My heart's racing, a minute a mile --
As I anxiously grab the receiver,
And the same old Oh-Seven I dial.
Hello, operator. What's your name? Lizzie.
Here's the area code, I hope the line is free.
No, please do try again, I'm sure it won't stay busy,
Ah, now someone's picking up... Honey, hi! It's me.
Both impatient and angry I'm feeling,
I don't care whether push comes to shove --
Why can't I, without onerous billing,
Ever speak to the people I love?
Operator, listen! We should be more thorough!
Here's another number... Where, dammit, could she be?
To hell with all the phone lines, I'm flying out tomorrow!
Ah, now someone's picking up... Honey, hi! It's me.
Like an icon to me is the phone, now,
The directory's now my Koran.
Operator, you're now my Madonna,
Turning far into near, on demand.
Operator, please! Tonight you cannot falter,
Getting through tonight is crucial, can't you see?
You're my angel now, so don't step off the altar --
Ah, now someone's picking up... Honey, hi! It's me.
What, a problem again with the cable?
A repair crew has just been dispatched?
That's OK -- I am willing and able
To begin every evening from scratch!
Operator, yes, I know at night it's hardest,
I've lost track of time here, I've been up since three;
Yes, of course, yes, yes, I will accept the charges!
-- Now connecting... Please stand by... -- Honey, hi! It's me.
The sentimental boxer's song [Песня сентиментального боксера]
Left hook, right hook, an uppercut,
A jab to start round nine;
Vadim Budkeyev's kicking butt --
Alas, that butt is mine.
I'm hoping I survive this round,
I'm praying for the bell.
Another jab, I'm on the ground,
And I'm not feeling well.
Budkeyev was thinking, while punching my nose,
That life is as pretty and sweet as a rose.
"Four, five, six, seven..." goes the count,
I stagger to my feet;
My fans don't think I can surmount
His lead, and fear defeat;
I'm not conserving strength, by plan,
For later in the fight --
I just can't hit my fellow man,
I just don't think it's right.
Budkeyev was thinking, while stomping my toes,
That life is as pretty and sweet as a rose.
The fans have filled the air with boos,
I'm letting down their hopes.
Budkeyev's sure he cannot lose,
And I am on the ropes.
He's a Siberian, I bet,
They're really hard to shake.
I asked him, "Aren't you tired yet?
Sit down and take a break!"
But he would not listen, for he's one of those
Who think life's as pretty and sweet as a rose.
He keeps on landing jabs and hooks,
He's prancing all around;
I bob and weave, but now it looks
Like someone's going down.
He's reached complete exhaustion, and
Collapses with a sigh;
The referee lifts up my hand,
Which hadn't hurt a fly.
He thought, as he lay there, that life's like a rose...
For some, like a rose -- and for some, it just blows.
The weightlifter [Штангист]
to Vasiliy Alexeyev
Weightlifting's not a recent innovation.
Recall how, once, a Greek of some renown
Picked his opponent up, in desperation,
And held him for a while, then tossed him down.
Applause will come -- for me, or for another?
As if a victim's neck, I grip the bar.
I want to tear Antaeus from his mother,
Just like that first athletic superstar.
No graceful mustang, I! I'm hard as marble;
And all my movements are constrained and slow.
The barbell, the overloaded barbell,
Forever's both my partner and my foe.
I wouldn't wish a task this uninviting
On anybody else. There's not much hope!
As I approach the heavy weight, I'm fighting
A heavy feeling: what if I can't cope?
Both it and I look like we're made of metal,
Though only it is metal to the core.
Once I walked up, and once the dust had settled,
I saw the dents my steps left in the floor.
I don't have time to stand around and marvel.
Will I earn shame or glory? I don't know.
Ultimately, that's up to the barbell,
My only partner and my only foe.
It looks impressive when you knock your foe down.
But in my sport, it's not so cut and dried.
Here's what's unfair about this final showdown:
I'm down below; the barbell is up high.
That sort of win's much like a loss, I reckon.
Yet victory is very simply found:
I must hold on for three more painful seconds,
Then slam the barbell down onto the ground.
My ears are ringing, and my thoughts are garbled,
And everything is swaying to and fro.
As if by magnets drawn, down weighs the barbell,
My faithful partner and relentless foe.
Still, it creeps upwards, slowly losing power;
My muscles, though, near bursting as they swell.
While from their seats, as if from lofty towers,
Spectators scream: "Just drop it, what the hell!"
I ascertain the judges' satisfaction;
My iron god goes down -- I've done my work.
I was performing that habitual action
Sadistically called the "clean and jerk."
To sink to the bottom [Лечь на дно]
Aches and complaints, you name 'em, I've got 'em,
Sicker of everything I've never been.
Wish I could sink, like a sub, to the bottom,
And disappear from all radar screens.
A friend poured me drinks, though I kept refusing;
He kept repeating, "This, too, shall pass."
He hooked me up with one of his floozies --
"She'll help you, just like the booze in your glass."
But neither helped me feel any less rotten:
It made my head hurt, she made a scene.
Wish I could sink, like a sub, to the bottom,
And disappear from all radar screens.
Aches and complaints, you name 'em, I've got 'em,
Now, even singing sharpens my pain...
Wish I could sink, like a sub, to the bottom,
And send out signals never again.
Magadan [Магадан]
You think I am a sedentary man?
Believe me, you are very wrong on this one.
I'll tell you how I went to Magadan,
Listen!
How I saw the bay of Nagaisk, and
The highways...
If there's sleet, if there's snow, if there's ice, then --
It's my way.
I told a friend, "I'll visit when I can."
My promise was as good as etched in granite.
I knew, someday, I'd get to Magadan,
Dammit!
I would see the bay of Nagaisk, and
The highways...
If there's sleet, if there's snow, if there's ice, then --
It's my way.
Like from the plague, from my own self I ran.
The rumors flew -- my plane flew even faster.
I spent my first three days in Magadan
Plastered!
But I saw the bay of Nagaisk, and
The highways...
If there's sleet, if there's snow, if there's ice, then --
It's my way.
I didn't give my enemies a chance,
I didn't slit my wrists or have a seizure.
I simply told myself, "There's Magadan.
Be there!"
Then I saw the bay of Nagaisk, and
The highways...
If there's sleet, if there's snow, if there's ice, then --
It's my way.
I could've stayed at home, as I had planned,
While keeping all my girlfriends here from straying.
Instead, I flew away to Magadan,
Saying:
"I will see the bay of Nagaisk, and
The highways...
If there's sleet, if there's snow, if there's ice, then --
It's my way."
I knew that I'd get frostbite, not a tan;
I knew my wallet, too, would suffer badly.
But still, I chose to fly to Magadan,
Gladly!
And I gazed at the bay, at the slopes, at
The highways...
You've not seen them? Then you're a dope, that's
What I say.
Be thankful [Скажи спасибо]
Who cares that your old lady's always nagging?
Who cares that you are breaking out in hives?
Who cares that, once again, you're off the wagon?
Be thankful that, at least, you're still alive.
Big deal -- your only jacket doesn't wear well.
Big deal -- the nightmares tortured you till five.
Big deal -- somebody mugged you in the stairwell.
Be thankful that, at least, you're still alive.
Yeah, yeah -- your poker partner died of scurvy.
Yeah, yeah -- you're looking pale and sleep-deprived.
Yeah, yeah -- you spent a week-end on a gurney.
Be thankful that, at least, you're still alive.
So what if you've got footprints on your forehead?
So what if your career just took a dive?
So what if your cholesterol is horrid?
Be thankful that, at least, you're still alive.
No sweat -- you never learned to play the fiddle.
No sweat -- another summons has arrived.
No sweat -- your head is hurting you a little.
Be thankful that, at least, you're still alive.
It's true that it's my fault, and I am sorry.
It's true -- you can't achieve unless you strive.
It's true. I only have a single worry:
To whom should I give thanks that I'm alive?
The line [Очередь]
The people grumbled, and complained, and whined;
They kept demanding justice be observed:
"For hours, we've been standing in this line,
While those who came up later have been served."
It was explained to them, with motives purest:
"Dear friends! Please leave, and don't clog up our queue.
Those who are eating, those are foreign tourists.
Whereas -- forgive me -- who the hell are you?"
But people grumbled, and complained, and whined;
They kept demanding justice be observed:
"For hours, we've been standing in this line,
While those who came up later have been served."
The manager, again, was very tender:
"Dear friends! I'm begging you, please think this through.
Those who are eating, those are council members.
Whereas -- forgive me -- who the hell are you?"
Still, people grumbled, and complained, and whined,
And kept demanding justice be observed:
"For hours, we've been standing in this line,
While those who came up later have been served."
The Muse's visit [Посещение музы]
I'm ready to explode at any moment,
Filled to the brim with uncreative ire.
The Muse dropped by tonight -- a happy omen --
But then, a short while later, she retired.
I honestly can't blame her for departing,
I know she had good grounds to walk away:
The Muse, at night, in some strange man's apartment!
God knows what all the gossipers might say.
Yet, I can't help but feel depressed and weakened,
And, I'll admit it, just a little piqued.
At Blok's, I hear, she hung out every week-end,
At Balmont's, she would stick around for weeks.
I'd hurried to my desk, for greatness famished --
A stroke of genius I, for once, might nab!
But when she left, my inspiration vanished,
As did three rubles (maybe, for a cab?)
I run from room to empty room, still shaken --
Though I've forgiven her, I'm hopping mad.
For greener pastures I have been forsaken;
Perhaps, my hospitality was bad?
The giant cake (from grief, no doubt) has crumbled;
Myself, I am exhausted and confused.
My no-good neighbors, in the meantime, stumbled
Upon the rum I'd meant to serve the Muse.
So now I'm bored, as night turns into morning;
I sorely miss that quirky Muse of mine.
She took French leave of me, without a warning,
But still, she gave me two amazing lines.
These lines are proof no poet ranks above me,
And wide acclaim is sure to come my way:
"Thou art so very temperate and lovely.
Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?"
[Untitled] ["Зарыты в нашу память на века..."]
They're buried in our memories, and held
For centuries: events, and dates, and faces.
But memories run deep, as deep as wells --
Look in. Whose face is that? You can't quite tell;
Keep staring, and you're still hard-pressed to place it.
Who can say what's false and what is valid?
An unbiased court alone could learn.
Please be careful when the past is tallied;
Do not break that fragile earthen urn.
Oftentimes, in my mind, still awaken
Certain sayings from the war;
Like, "A sapper can be once mistaken --
And no more."
Half-heartedly, some rummage through the past,
While some try to recall it, without pleasure;
And others would much rather take a pass;
So, undiscovered it remains, alas --
Like a forever-hidden ancient treasure.
Like a flood, the years have been unsparing;
No more signposts keeping you on track.
In the past, you just might lose your bearings,
And might never find a pathway back.
Now and then, in my mind, still awaken
Certain sayings from the war;
Like, "A sapper can be once mistaken --
And no more."
Don't be so quick to dole out blame just yet!
For digging's hard, and folks have cause to loathe it.
They wish not to conceal, but to forget:
Amidst the years there lies another threat --
So many rusty mines, still unexploded.
In the minefield of a bygone era
Caution is especially prescribed.
Minefields never give you room for error;
If you err, you won't come out alive.
To this day, in my mind, still awaken
Certain sayings from the war;
Like, "A sapper can be once mistaken --
And no more."
Just one wrong move -- a clock will start to tick,
And then, all hell breaks loose a minute later...
Explosions are too sudden to predict.
If only we're alert enough, and quick,
To, just in time, remove the detonator!
Even now, mines still can be detected
In the Earth that's sleeping safe and sound.
May they be by able hands collected,
And blown up where people aren't around.
This is why, in my mind, still awaken
Certain sayings from the war;
Like, "A sapper can be once mistaken --
And no more."
The air-streams [Воздушные потоки]
Lucky me that the engines kept humming so loudly;
I was left by myself, one on one with my shame --
I'd forgotten my rifle was not fastened soundly,
And did not promptly exit the plane.
My instructor was quick to deliver a kick
To my lazy and cowardly rear.
He was mumbling the usual, "Don't be such a chick," --
So I guessed, though I couldn't quite hear.
My cheeks are hotly blazing,
The rushing wind outroars me.
And, like an ice-cold razor,
Freezing air-streams race towards me.
As, silently, I'm screaming,
The dreadful noise escorts me.
Cavorting and careening,
The air-streams rise towards me.
It's as if I've been grabbed by a skillful magician.
Now, the air-streams -- not I -- have control of my limbs;
And I gladly assume every crazy position,
And obey every one of their whims.
Is there any good reason I'm plunging through space?
Maybe later, it might become clear.
But, for now, the horizon stares right in my face,
While the clouds seem to scatter in fear.
My cheeks are hotly blazing,
The rushing wind outroars me.
And, like an ice-cold razor,
Freezing air-streams race towards me.
I'm having trouble breathing;
The dreadful noise escorts me.
Advancing and receding,
The air-streams rise towards me.
From the heights of the stratosphere, down into nowhere --
I was inside the airplane, and then I was gone;
I walked up to the edge, and I blindly stepped over,
To the free-fall I said, "Bring it on!"
I will break through this lightless and smothering gauze,
With my parachute yet undeployed.
But one can't really call this a "free-fall," because
What I'm falling through isn't a void!
My cheeks are hotly blazing,
The rushing wind outroars me.
And, like an ice-cold razor,
Freezing air-streams race towards me.
My eyes are almost bleeding;
The dreadful noise escorts me.
Eternal and unfeeling,
The air-streams rise towards me.
And the wind whispers glibly, "Do nothing, don't worry,
Wait a bit -- and you'll softly descend from the skies."
Only three hundred meters are left, I must hurry,
For the wind's surely telling me lies!
So I pull on the ring, and get tugged by the straps,
And the previous few minutes are moot.
There may be no such thing as a free-fall, perhaps --
But I'm still free to open my 'chute!
My cheeks are nicely cooling;
My eyes can open wider;
The air-streams, now, feel soothing,
As I gaze sadly skyward.
The lonely stars up there seem
To quietly ignore me,
As I drink in the air-streams
That slowly rise towards me.
A song about rumors [Песня о слухах]
Oh, the rumors that keep battering our senses!
Oh, the gossip that brings thinking to a halt!
Rumors say that, soon, all things will get expensive -- maybe double! --
Especially potatoes, milk, and salt.
Like mosquitoes
In the air,
Rumors greet us
Everywhere,
And the toothless hags repeat 'em
Street to street and square to square.
Deep underground, they've built a brand-new city,
In case, I gather, of atomic war;
While, by an order of the Health Committee -- nosy bastards --
No public baths will open anymore.
Like mosquitoes
In the air,
Rumors greet us
Everywhere,
And the toothless hags repeat 'em
Street to street and square to square.
Mamykin, I've been told, will do hard labor,
For drunkenness, corruption, or some such.
I hear, as well, that they'll arrest your neighbor -- that poor devil --
Because he looks like Beria too much.
Like mosquitoes
In the air,
Rumors greet us
Everywhere,
And the toothless hags repeat 'em
Street to street and square to square.
The Earth, some people claim, is getting hotter;
And harmful rays are coming from our phones.
French spies, they say, have poisoned all the water -- but with vodka,
While bread, these days, is made of scales and bones.
Like mosquitoes
In the air,
Rumors greet us
Everywhere,
And the toothless hags repeat 'em
Street to street and square to square.
Some scary lies are whispered by deceivers;
Some scary tales, passed on by the naive.
Bad rumors never fail to find believers, -- for some reason, --
The good, however, nobody believes.
So, like mosquitoes
In the air,
Rumors greet us
Everywhere,
And the toothless hags repeat 'em
Street to street and square to square.
Always growing, like malignant tumors,
Rumors echo far and wide across the land.
I hear gossip that there'll soon be no more rumors -- never ever;
I hear rumors that all gossip will be banned.
But... like mosquitoes
In the air,
Rumors greet us
Everywhere,
And the toothless hags repeat 'em
Street to street and square to square.
[Untitled] ["Все позади -- и КПЗ, и суд..."]
It's all behind me: holding cells and pens,
The prosecutor and the judges three;
And now I wait, and now I wait, to find out -- where will I be sent?
Where'll I be sent, to work for free?
Mom starts weeping, "Where, oh where?"
She keeps on mumbling in despair,
Oh where, oh where, will I be sent?
Mom starts weeping, "Where, oh where?"
But I, myself, don't really care,
Oh where, oh where, will I be sent.
To Magadan, the mail comes slightly faster;
To Vorkuta, it takes an extra week or two.
But over there, but over there, the place is full of greedy bastards,
So, either way, my parcels won't get through.
Mom is weeping, "Where, oh where?"
She keeps on mumbling in despair,
Oh where, oh where, will I be sent?
Mom is weeping, "Where, oh where?"
But I, myself, don't really care,
Oh where, oh where, will I be sent.
The guards walk in -- I hear them through my slumber --
They wake me up and hurry me away;
And so right now, right here and now, this means that I'll be taken somewhere --
Exactly where, the scoundrels wouldn't say.
Mom's still weeping, "Where, oh where?"
She still keeps mumbling in despair,
Oh where, oh where, will I be sent?
Mom's still weeping, "Where, oh where?"
But I, myself, don't really care,
Oh where, oh where, will I be sent.
The din grows louder; now, we're at the station.
Thank God, at least, I've some tobacco left;
And now we're told, and now we're told, that Kola is our destination --
Or maybe someplace else in the North-West.
Mom's still weeping, "Where, oh where?"
She still keeps mumbling in despair,
Oh where, oh where, will I be sent?
Mom, stop weeping, "Where, oh where?"
Here's what should be our only care:
Oh when, oh when, will I be home again?
Bodaibo [Бодайбо]
You left yesterday, for a week or so;
I don't miss you, though, in the least --
For I'm now in transit to Bodaibo,
In a cattle car headed East.
You won't weep for me, you won't call my folks,
But, my dear, I don't give a damn --
For the next ten years I'll be pounding rocks,
Mining gold for our Motherland.
Now the wheels have stopped, and at last I'm here,
No more tracks or ties, only turf...
I would like to cry, but I have no tears,
There are no more tears left on Earth.
You don't have to wait, you don't have to mourn,
Don't be sad that I'm in the can;
Just remember, now and forevermore:
God forbid our paths cross again.
I will tough it out till my term expires,
I'll come out alive -- that, I'll bet!
But as I sleep on plank-beds behind barbed wire,
I will try my best to forget.
Here, the cold is bad and the wind is worse,
And blue forests are my only views...
At my back are six thousand kilometers,
And ahead -- ten years of the blues.
[Untitled] ["За меня невеста..."]
My fiancée, surely, will sincerely mourn me,
And my friends will settle any debts I owe;
Some will take my songs and they will sing them for me,
And may I be honored even by my foes.
No more books to read, no more pens to write with,
Even my guitar is out of tune.
I cannot go leftward, I cannot go rightward,
I can't see the sun, and I can't see the moon.
I can't go outside -- I've been disempowered, --
Only from the door and to the wall.
I cannot go upward, I cannot go downward,
I can see a sliver of sky, and my dreams -- that's all.
Dreams about how, someday, I'll regain my freedom,
My guitar once more'll sound true and clear;
Who will I be met by? How will I be greeted?
And what songs will I, then, get to hear?
[Untitled] ["Красное, зеленое..."]
Red and blue and mauve and green,
Jade and quartz and tourmaline,
Anything to keep you away from other men;
Shirts and skirts and crinolines,
Silken robes and denim jeans,
But you just gave me vodka, and some cognac now and then.
Even though I wasn't rich,
I tried to scratch your every itch,
Many times I asked, "Is this enough for you, my love?"
Your usual response to which --
You lying, scheming, thieving bitch --
Was just to give me vodka and yell, "No, it's not enough!"
The money came perpetually,
It fell on you torrentially,
Banknote after banknote, emeralds and gold;
I played it safe, essentially,
But still got caught, eventually --
Now, for a quarter-century, my life's been put on hold.
Know that I intensely loathe
You and all your stupid clothes,
You're the only reason why I'm wearing white and black;
Screw you and your sacred oath,
Screw you and your mother, both!
Live the way you want to -- I am never coming back!
Bolshoi Karetnyi [Большой Каретный]
Where were you at seventeen?
On Bolshoi Karetnyi.
And where've your troubles always been?
On Bolshoi Karetnyi.
Where's your big black .38?
On Bolshoi Karetnyi.
And where aren't you today?
On Bolshoi Karetnyi.
Do you still recall that
House, my friend?
You'll remember always
Where it stands.
I would say that anyone's life was lived in vain,
If he never walked Karetnyi Lane --
Because...
Where were you at seventeen?
On Bolshoi Karetnyi.
And where've your troubles always been?
On Bolshoi Karetnyi.
Where's your big black .38?
On Bolshoi Karetnyi.
And where aren't you today?
On Bolshoi Karetnyi.
Now, Karetnyi Lane is
Not the same;
It has been repainted
And renamed.
But anyplace you go and no matter what you find,
Karetnyi Lane is always on your mind --
Because...
Where were you at seventeen?
On Bolshoi Karetnyi.
And where've your troubles always been?
On Bolshoi Karetnyi.
Where's your big black .38?
On Bolshoi Karetnyi.
And where aren't you today?
On Bolshoi Karetnyi.
The Backbone-Flute [Флейта-позвоночник] by Vladimir Mayakovsky
Prologue
To all whom I like, or have liked in the past,
Whom, as icons, I keep in the cave of my soul,
I raise, like a party guest raises a glass,
My skull, with verse filled whole.
I keep thinking more often: should an ounce of lead,
As a period, at the end of my story go?
So, tonight, not knowing what lies ahead,
I am giving a farewell show.
Memory! Assemble in the halls of my mind
All my beloved, in lines unending.
Pour mirth from eyes into eyes, like wine;
Fill the night with long-ago weddings.
From body to body pour the joy,
And may no-one forget this last concert of mine.
Tonight, as a flute, I will employ
My very own spine.
1
I crush miles of streets with my sweeping stride.
Where can I go, this inner hell nursing?
What omnipotent Hoffmann up in the sky
Conjured you up, you accursed one?
The streets are too narrow for the merriment's squall.
The celebration ladled out a dressy human flood.
I think. And out of my skull slowly crawl
Thoughts, sick and dried-up, like clots of blood.
I, the wizard of all that is gay,
On this day of festivities am all alone.
Why don't I just end it all right away,
By smashing my brains out on the Nevsky cobblestones?
I used to blaspheme, yelling, "God doesn't exist!",
But God from the depths of Hades uncovered
Her whom even a mountain couldn't resist,
And commanded: "Love her!"
God is pleased, as he watches the long-suffering man
Lose his humanity, and succumb to his fate.
God rubs together his little hands:
"I'll show you, Vladimir, just you wait!"
And it was he -- who else? --
Your true identity to conceal,
Who put real sheet-notes on the piano, by stealth,
And gave you a husband equally real.
And if your bedroom I were to near,
And make the sign of the cross over your sinful lair,
The crackling of the devil's flesh I would hear,
And sulfurous smoke would fill the air.
But instead, through the night, until maybe five,
Horrified that you were taken to his bed again,
I thrashed about and into verse carved my cries,
Like a jeweler gone half-insane.
I should go play cards, and in some Chardonnay
Bathe the groan-weary heart you broke.
I don't need you! I don't want you! Either way,
I know that, soon, I'll croak.
If it's true, my Lord, that indeed you reign,
And that it's you who wove the carpet of stars,
And that this torturous, daily-increasing pain
Was sent by you, from afar,
Then put on your judge's robe and wait
For me to be your visitor.
I'm a punctual man, so I won't be late.
Listen, o Grand Inquisitor!
I will keep my mouth shut. Not a single wail
Will my bitten-through lips emit.
Tie me to a comet, as to a horse's tail,
And let the stars' sharp points scrape me to bits.
Or, when my soul departs from its host,
And, dimly frowning, appears before your court,
Use the Milky Way as a gallows-post,
And hang me for my many torts.
Draw and quarter me, if you prefer,
And to wash your righteous hands I will humbly offer.
But -- please, please! -- get rid of her,
That damned woman you made me fall for!
I crush miles of streets with my sweeping stride.
Where can I go, this inner hell nursing?
What omnipotent Hoffmann up in the sky
Conjured you up, you accursed one?
2
And the sky, which the smoke turns from blue to ashen,
And the clouds, like scraggly refugees,
I will light up with my very last passion,
Bright, like a consumptive's glowing cheeks.
Even if the war, drunk on blood, is like Bacchus swaying,
Let me some words of love intone.
My joy will drown out the baying
Of the masses who've forgotten their hearth and home.
Listen, people, get out of your trenches!
Your combat you can later restart.
Dear Germans! I know that Goethe's Gretchen
Is in your hearts.
A Frenchman dies on a bayonet with a smile,
And with a smile crashes a shot-down pilot,
If they remember all the while
Your kiss, Verdi's Violet.
But I don't care about that rosy meat
Which centuries will gnaw and deaden.
Tonight, kneel down before a new pair of feet!
I sing thee, rouged up and red-headed.
From these days, as grisly as the tip of a spear,
Once the decades have grayed my hair,
Perhaps just you and I will still be here,
As after you from city to city I tear.
If, given away, across the sea you were bound,
Or if you hid in the rabbit-hole of the night,
I'd kiss into you, through the fog of London town,
The street-lamps of my lips, set alight.
If across the sweltering desert you lead your caravans,
Where the lions sleep not,
For you I will place, under the wind-blown sand,
My cheek, like the Sahara burning hot.
You infuse your lips with a smile,
You stare -- the torero's so lovable!
And I'll suddenly throw my jealousy into the aisle
With the dying eye of a bull.
Absent-mindedly onto a bridge you veer,
Thinking it must be nice underneath.
But it is I, the Seine, who down there appear,
Calling you and baring my rotten teeth.
With another, your troika will set ablaze
All the trendy pleasure estates,
But from above, I'll torment you with the moon's rays,
As, bare naked, I wait.
I am strong, and my services might be required --
They might order me: go die in the war!
Then your name, as I expire,
Will be caked on my lips, by a cannonball torn.
Shall a crown or St. Helena be, for me, the last word?
Having saddled the waves of life's hurricane,
I am equally qualified to be king of the world,
Or in chains.
And if king they chose me to anoint --
To stamp your sweet little face
On the sunny gold of my coins
I would order my race.
And over where to the world a pale tundra lays claim,
Where the river fights the Northern gale,
Onto my shackles I will scratch Lily's name,
And kiss it in the darkness of my jail.
So listen, you, bristling in a beastly fashion,
Who believe that the sky is still bleak!
This might be the world's very last passion,
Lit up like a consumptive's glowing cheeks.
3
I'll forget the year, the month, the day.
Sheet of paper and pencil, welcome me!
Commence, of words enlightened by pain
Superhuman alchemy!
Today, when I entered your abode,
I could feel that things were not well.
You hid something in your silken robe,
And of incense spread the smell.
Glad to see me?
An icy "very."
Fevered with despair, my mind is screaming,
As confusion breaks through reason's barrier.
Listen, no matter what, you can't hide the corpse.
Drop your horrible words onto my head!
For your every muscle, like a megaphone, still blares forth:
"I'm dead! I'm dead! I'm dead!"
No, answer! (I can't just go home in disgrace!)
And spare me your lies!
As two open graves, into your face
Have burrowed themselves your eyes.
The graves grow deeper -- there's no bottom to this!
Any moment, from life's stage I might fall down.
I've stretched my soul like a tightrope over an abyss,
And teeter upon it, juggling verbs and nouns.
I know that love has tired him out,
And boredom I can see outright.
In my soul, let your youth once again sprout,
Reacquaint your heart with the body's delights.
I know that, with women, one must always pay.
But you shouldn't mind if, for now, since I'm broke,
Instead of chic Parisian gowns, I dress you up today
In tobacco smoke.
The Good News of my love I will spread around,
Like an apostle, down a million roads.
You'll be crowned for all eternity -- and in your crown,
Like a rainbow of convulsions, will glimmer my odes.
Like Pyrrhus' elephants with their heavy tread
Stampeded to victory through enemy lines,
So my genius burst into your head --
But it's all in vain: you will never be mine.
Rejoice, rejoice, you've finished me! Maybe I shall,
Given the anguish I'm in,
Run straight to the nearest canal
And plunge myself into the water's vile grin?
Your lips, against mine, felt callously cold.
At the touch, my passion took a step back,
As if my repentant lips kissed the frozen basalt
Into which a monastery had been hacked.
I heard doors.
He came in, refreshed by the joy of the street.
I almost split in half, with a roar,
I yelled to him: "So be it!
I will leave. She'll be yours. Keep her in silk bedecked,
To make sure her shy wings remain furled.
Lest she fly off, weigh down her neck
With heavy strings of pearls!"
Oh, the night after!
I tightened and tightened the knot of despair.
From my weeping and my laughter
The room grimaced, deathly scared.
And the vision of you that I carried away,
As if burned by your eyes into the carpet, still shines;
Just as some Bialik of our day
Would dream up a dazzling queen of Hebrew Zion.
In agony, before the one I let slip out of my hands
I knelt face downwards on the floor.
Compared to me, King Albert, having lost all his lands,
Was like a birthday boy, showered with gifts galore.
O flowers and grasses, turn golden in the sun!
Be like spring, o elemental forces of the Earth!
Of all poisons, I want only one:
To drink and drink verse.
You who tortured my soul into delirium,
You who stole my heart and left it in tatters --
Please accept this gift, my dear; I am
Not sure I'll ever think of anything better.
May this date as holy be forever observed!
Crucifixion-like magic, don't fail!
Come see, everybody, how with words
To paper I've been nailed.
Two viewpoints [Два толка] by Sasha Chorny
"What's form?", some say, "A bunch of silly rules!
Fill crystal up with water from a sewer:
Will more be glad to drink from it, or fewer?"
Some argue back, "You've got it wrong, you fools!
Pour fine champagne into a chamber-pot:
More will refuse to drink from it than not."
... To me, both parties sound like silly asses.
Why can't we drink champagne from crystal glasses?
English to Russian
The Zeta Song by Tom Apostol and Saunders MacLane
Где же нули у функции дзета?
Где же нули у функции дзета?
Нам Риман оставил догадку про это:
"На критической линии, там они все,
А их плотность -- один-на-два-π ln T."
И эта гипотеза, словно заноза,
Многих людей довела до психоза.
Стремились они дать точный расчет,
Что происходит, когда t растет.
И Бор, и Крамер, и Ландау, и Харди
Среди одержимых шли в авангарде.
Но все-таки даже они не смогли
Уверенно все перечислить нули.
Впоследствии Харди сумел доказать,
Что на этой прямой их -- несметная рать.
Но его теорема все ж не исключает,
Что где-то еще те нули обитают.
Пусть P будет π минус Li -- вот прелестно!
Но как там с порядком P -- неизвестно.
Если корень из x ln x -- потолок,
То Гипотезу Римана вывесть я б смог.
Вопрос про μ(σ) задал Линделеф,
Над ним потрудилось немало умов.
Проверим критическую полосу,
И сколько нулей там -- как на носу.
Но функция эта ведет себя сложно;
Ее изучили, насколько возможно.
"График должен быть выпуклым," смог он сказать,
"Если сигма сама превосходит 0.5."
Так где же нули у функции дзета?
Даже через столетие все нет ответа.
А ТРПЧ можно все улучшать,
Но контур обязан нули избегать.
Тем временем Вейль обратился к предмету,
Используя более хитрую дзету.
Коль характеристика поля равна
Простому числу -- теорема верна.
Мораль этой притчи нетрудно понять,
И всем юным гениям следует знать:
Если не выручает обычный подход,
То по модулю p -- авось повезет!
Italian to English and Russian
"Dio, mi potevi..." by Arrigo Boito
(from Verdi's Otello)
Lord! You could've put me through all the torture
Of deepest sighs,
Of deepest shame.
Made of my glorious fame and fortune
A bunch of lies,
A silly game.
And I would have borne
The cruel cross
Of anguished straits
With no complaints,
And accepted, forlorn,
That the skies wished my loss.
But -- oh sorrow, oh pain,
They have stolen that one sign
Under which, for a while,
I rested my soul!
Nothing but rain,
Dead is the sunshine
That made me smile,
That kept me whole!
And now, oh Mercy, I merely ask,
Pink cherub holy --
Cover your face wholly
With Hell's horrible mask!
Боже! Ты ведь мог мне дать столько печали,
Столько стыда
И унижений.
Стереть в порошок ордена и медали --
Мол, ерунда!
Мол, сочиненье!
И я все бы вынес:
Твой крест жестокий,
И столько срама --
Стоял бы прямо,
И знал, что Ты не
Караешь, а Твой перст высокий...
Но, увы! О, печаль!
Я обкраден бесчестно --
Украли тот миф,
Которым крепился!
Солнце мое, как жаль,
Пропало безвестно;
Тот счастья прилив,
На который молился...
Ты, Состраданье,
Розовый ангел мой --
Лицо свое закрой
Дьявольской маской стенанья!
Other
Russian
Youthful indiscretion #1, at some single-digit age
На родной Руси не бывать врагу:
Если враг придет, попадет в рагу.
Youthful indiscretion #2, vaguely Mayakovsky-style
Птичка поет, а мы работаем.
Зачем же зря убиваться-то?
Поколенье двухсотое за поколеньем сотым,
А наше дело -- шестнадцатое.
Youthful indiscretion #3, same
Сел за машинку, бумагу вставил;
Тупо гляжу на стену я.
Дела мне нет до законов и правил,
Надоела мне жизнь бренная.
Все б хорошо, только вот заусеница:
Слишком много людей развелось.
И, как пиво в кружке, пенится
Моя неудержимая злость.
Люди рождаются: закон природы.
Тут и поделать нечего.
"Клал я на нации, клал на народы!"
Твержу я с утра до вечера.
Лежу на диване -- сил моих нету.
Чешу у себя под рубахой.
Хочется крикнуть на всю планету:
"А пошли бы вы все на ...!"
A self-epigram
Я -- крутой рифмоплет!
Выдал строчек пятьсот!
Не хватает идеи:
Ведь идеи -- труднее...
Песня о горле
Вот бутылка, вот и две,
Гостинцы к сердцу ближе!
Я шагаю по Москве,
Но Кремля не вижу...
Да, друзья, признаться, пью --
Все бывает с Веней.
Но зато про букву "Ю"
Знает юный гений!
припев:
Я вернулся в Петушки,
И держался гордо --
Но взяли шило мудаки
И вонзили в горло.
Ну, а ангелы -- поют,
Пляшут, веселятся.
Видно, Веничке каюк --
Только б распрощаться...
Эфемерность и тщета --
Вот -- России имя.
Херес негде нам достать,
Но предлагают вымя!
Недовольствует народ:
"Взяли нас на фук вы.
Нужен нам переворот,
Упразднить все буквы!"
(устно) "Ну, конечно -- все, кроме буквы 'Ю'. Так что вместо 'на фук вы' будет 'фук ю.' "
(припев)
Комсомольская слеза
Капает да капает.
Но всё же голосуют "за"
Мама вместе с папою.
"Походи, а то сблюешь!"
Стало нам законом.
Но до Каноссы не дойдешь:
Она -- за Рубиконом!
(шепотом) Запей одеколоном!
(припев)
"Вам -- куда?", "А вам -- куда?" --
Все бормочут люди.
Серп и Молот -- это да,
А Есина -- не будет!
Не сумеем мы восстать,
Не возропщем даже.
Можно в харю нам плевать,
Ничего не скажем!
(припев)
Не умеем ни хрена,
Своих не возим санок.
Как Кремлевская стена --
График наших пьянок.
Если и зубровки нет,
Нет ли хоть иголочки?
Нам закрыли белый свет
Бюсты разной сволочи.
(припев)
Не желаем мы стигмат,
Мы хотим -- московской.
Контролеры нас шпынят,
Мучает Козловский.
Тети Клавы поцелуй
Для нас теперь -- запретный.
Хочешь -- жни, а хочешь -- куй:
Получишь флаг трехцветный!
(припев)
Выпьем лучше из горла,
Это здесь -- уместно.
Что ж -- Россия померла,
Иль просто не воскресла?
Искушает Сатана,
То бишь Мефистофель.
Так приобрела страна
Классический свой профиль!
(припев)
Лучше в Эболи торчи,
Москва не стоит мессы.
Там -- бандиты и хрычи,
И злые мерседесы.
Там будет вечная херня
От подлости, от лени.
Но, я верю, за меня
Отмстит мой юный гений!
(припев тот же самый -- но "Только б" заменить на "Жаль, не с кем", а всю эту строчку -- не пропеть, а проговорить медленно.)
[NB насчет названия: горло упомянуто дважды (собственное, и бутылки). В третий раз не упоминается -- ну, не мог же Веничка (персонаж) знать, от чего много лет спустя помрет Веня (автор).]
Песня о малиновых пятиугольниках
Книжки сплелись,
Песни сплелись --
Лес херни.
Все еще не разберем,
Что у нас первично;
По-советски мы живем --
Значит, на отлично!
Раньше -- красная звезда,
Теперь -- пятиединство.
Получилось, как всегда --
Вот такое свинство!
Вот попал я в Москореп,
Ясно вижу дали.
Из лебеды печется хлеб,
А лебеди -- пропали!
Свобода слова здесь у них,
Это -- превосходно:
Провода ведут в тупик,
Печатай, что угодно!
Транспортером движет пар,
Надежен пар, и чист.
А Христос -- вновь суперстар:
Первый коммунист...
Не зависит от причин
Наша независимость.
Мы -- симиты, как один;
Сим -- Гениалиссимус!
Но мало -- с партией срастись,
Мы заменили партию!
И в правах мы поднялись --
Слушай нашу хартию!
Отлетели под откос
Гнилые стариканы!
Нам поет сам перлигос,
Танцуют пеликаны!
Водка нынче -- девятьсот,
Все равно не брошу я.
В Москве квартир не достает,
Но я хочу -- хорошую!
Денег много даже здесь,
А масса и в Швейцарии.
Мне плевать, что будут есть
Бухие пролетарии!
Все равно простора нет,
Нам покой не люб;
На наших танках -- буква "зет,"
Коммандует Zorglub!
(Z comme Zorglub!
Z dot com Zorglub!
Не Zorro, а Zorglub...)
Пишем все наоборот,
Но в этом -- интерес ли?
Будет ТАМ переворот,
Иль, быть может, здесь ли?
ВСЕ у нас -- наоборот,
Но носа не повесили;
Будет ТАМ переворот,
Иль, быть может, здеся ли?
Песня о Великой Захватнической
Товарищ Сталин, Вы -- большой ученый,
В военном деле знаете Вы суть.
В главе дивизий, в битвах закаленных,
Прошли тяжелый, но победный путь.
Вы плакали, когда "Майн Кампф" читали --
Книжонку, что ландсбергец напорол;
Вы дочитали, хоть не в оригинале,
"Прекрасно это!" -- сразу Вы сказали,
И порешили: Гитлер -- ледокол!
Пускай Адольфик разгромит Европу,
Возьмет Париж, и Лондон, даже Рим,
А мы -- такие über-филантропы,
Что мы Европу в миг освободим!
И мы поем, нестройным нашим хором,
Мы помним историческую нить:
Вы подписались ТАК под договором,
Чтоб самого Хэнкока посрамить?
Вы с Гитлером тогда договорились:
Тебе -- пол-Польши, а другую -- мне!
И он -- напал, а Вы -- остановились,
Чтоб лишь его винили в той войне!
Как обсуждалось в самом первом томе,
Который В. Суворов написал:
Мы не готовы были к обороне;
Атака -- наш защитный идеал!
Вы все-таки сожрали пол-Европы,
Хоть чуть не потеряли Сталинград;
Вы пожимали руку Риббентропу,
Но Молотов остался виноват?
У нас уж нет тогдашнего напора, --
Но мы порядок точно назовем:
Освободим Америку мы скоро,
А Антарктиду -- как-нибудь потом...
Австралию когда-нибудь возьмем...
А Атлантида станет нам концом.
French
Youthful indiscretion #4
(Written for B.B., a pal who wanted to flatter one of his chicks.)
Je pense à toi des millions de fois,
Je te fais la cour partout et toujours.
Comme un, deux, trois, sont simples les lois
D'amour.
Sans toi, la Terre est un grand désert;
Sans toi, les jours sont aveugles et sourds.
Aujourd'hui comme hier, je me noie dans une mer
D'amour.
De ta splendeur tu rechauffes mon coeur;
Il est chaud comme un four, joyeux mais lourd.
Prête-moi pour une heure l'ultime bonheur:
L'amour!
(That's all I remember.)
English
Hacky-sack in New York
(To J.K., who gave me the topic and challenged me to write a poem about it.)
I met a girl on Fourth St. West;
Her lips were soft and sweet.
She ripped my heart right from my chest,
And bounced it with her feet.
In Praise of Blaise
(Seven couplets masquerading as a sonnet. From "the Fray," Slate's reader forum at the time. Some female going by "Blaise" asked people to write poems about her, declaring herself to be "the Muse of the Fray." I wasn't sure how she wanted her moniker pronounced (as in English, vs. as in French); her answer, "like in 'Blaise Pascal,'" wasn't of much help. So I decided to write a poem about that.)
I penned, in seven fretful days,
A thousand lines that rhymed with "Blaise."
But still, a voice inside me says:
"You dolt! You should pronounce it 'Blaise'!"
My effort did my spirits raise,
Until I thought of facing Blaise.
Few graver sins poetics has
Than rhyming "Blaise" instead of "Blaise."
I Blaised a trail (to coin a phrase),
But now, I fear the wrath of Blaise.
She'll stare me down, like stout Cortez,
And give me hell for garbling "Blaise."
Goddamn this Fray-pervading Muse!
Because of Blaise, I've got the blues.
An Ode to Vijay Singh and Stewart Cink
(On the occasion of their winning, in consecutive weeks in 2004, the PGA Championship and NEC Invitational, respectively, and having somewhat-similar-sounding last names.)
Putts sink,
Hearts sing.
Yay, Cink!
Yay, Singh!
You've synched
Your swings.
On links,
You're kings.
Glow pink!
Spread wings!
Pour drinks!
Kiss Pings!
Mugs clink,
Bells ring.
Yay, Cink!
Yay, Singh!
My Calico
This is a goofy song about a goofy cat. (The song is goofy because it has no meter, only half the lines rhyme, etc.; it's just a little something a guy is humming to himself.) It makes two points: (1) she's very fat; (2) she's the love of the narrator's life.
My calico
Would like to lick her tail;
But, sadly,
That ship has long sailed.
My calico,
She just waddles around;
But her plodding footsteps
Make a glorious sound.
Whom can I turn to
When my spirits are low?
My only mistress,
My calico!
My calico,
A foot long, a foot wide,
When she's not busy eating,
She's right by my side.
My calico
Once fell down a hole;
But that's no longer a danger,
Now that she's grown eightfold. [twice in each direction!]
Who purrs so loudly
I can't hear the show?
My only princess,
My calico!
My calico,
She's orange, black, and white;
So, unlike most kitties,
She's not gray at night.
My calico,
I don't mind her love-bites;
As long as they're not on
The hand that writes.
Or else, how could I tell you
Whom I cherish so?
My only goddess,
My calico!
A very short, depressing-keys-only song
(To a very simple tune I wrote at age 9 or 10, using black piano keys only:
123, 45, 678, 45
123, 45, 678, 45
876, 54, 321, 54
876, 54, 321, 54
1, 2, 3... 6, 7, 8...
8, 7, 6... 3... 2... 1...)
Drink I too much wine,
Have I sunk too deep?
Have I lost my mind,
Is my heart asleep?
No, my mind's still fine,
I have not gone bats.
I still love what's mine,
Such as all my cats.
No remorse, I'm all set.
But, of course, not just yet...
[Milder version of line 8: "Mother, wife, and cats."]
[Even milder: "Parents, wife, and cats." (includes father)]
[Milder still: "Kith and kin, and cats." (includes in-laws and cousins)]
[Mildest of all: "People, dogs, and cats." (includes pretty much everybody)]
[But all these milder versions are merely intended to placate certain readers. I prefer the original, brutal version.]
Gethsemane 2033
(... Or Gethsemane 2029, if Jesus really did choose to be born in "4 BC"?)
Gethsemane 2033: A Retrospective.
(Or some even more mundane term than "retrospective," to contrast even more with how thrilling "Gethsemane 2033" sounds! Some near-opposite of "revival": "The Post-Mortem"? Or just something lengthy and boring, like "A Summary of Various Important Lessons Learned"?)
(Or, more accurately -- Gethsemane 2033: A Mash-Up! With a coupla smaller mash-ups inside it! Wheels within wheels!)
A duet between Jesus and Judas, 2K years later. (Treading very lightly, here -- don't wanna offend anyone. Mostly, a take-off on JCS.) Turns into a short musical. (JCS II: Bigger, Shorter, and Edited from Above! Jesus Christ, Superstar meets The Master and Margarita meets golf meets Starmania meets Ace of Spades meets everything, louder than everything else!)
They go over their respective roles in Jesus' real Daddy's Grand Design, and how well each played his role (Judas does his own version of "I Only Want to Say...", and then a new one of "Heaven on Their Minds.") Judas has just finished serving his 2000-year term in Hell -- set free, for good behavior, by Satan (aka Woland), on orders from Jesus (aka Yeshua).
BUT: he did what he HAD to do, very unwillingly yet obediently playing his role. So he's actually the most important human in history! (I think I was told something like that by some very young Mormon chick on IRC, many decades ago.)
(Note: if I understand correctly, the biblical Judas was never forgiven, never mind rewarded. But in JCS, he tells Jesus, "I only did what You wanted me to," and Jesus tells Pilate, "Everything is fixed, and you can't change it." I'm just extrapolating from that.)
So, after serving that seemingly-lengthy but actually relatively-short sentence ("Served 2K years... Seemed like two seconds"), he's now bound for Heaven for all eternity, after this brief little meeting with Jesus back in the Garden.
Again: the most important human EVAH!! Without him reluctantly playing his predestined part, Jesus wouldn't have been arrested, tried, convicted, sentenced, nor of course crucified! And that was the only way for Him to die for our sins! Without Judas, there would be no Christianity at all, and all of humanity would be therefore doomed forever! Really, it was Judas who died for our sins: he suffered tons of guilt, and his mind was so much "in darkness now" that he very-painfully hanged himself -- from some tree, since Jesus would also die on a "tree," as He Himself had put it.
Jesus sings all that, revealing that all the drama in JCS was just scripted LARPing: his Father offered them -- Pilate, Herod, Caiaphas, etc. -- their roles, and they all (some, with mixed feelings) knowingly accepted them! It was all a pre-written collective put-on, but a great show for a great cause (humanity's possibility of salvation) -- AND IT WORKED!!!
(Perhaps, some refused their roles, so others accepted instead -- where are those "refuseniks" now? Discuss.)
Group hug, happy end. The whole cast goes to Heaven.
... Except Thomas, of course (the lone refusenik?). But he was also predestined not to -- and thus, "Though he hasn't earned The Light, he has earned Peace" (as did "the Master," per Bulgakov). So even he'll be just fine.
Also: what, exactly, did Judas spend his term doing? Perhaps, at the Hell computer lab, he studied (maybe, invented!) COBOL? And then, on a Willie-Horton-like "furlough" near the end of his term, he saved humanity AGAIN by fixing the Y2K bug? TWICE, THE TRUE SAVIOR! Jesus bows to HIM! (Just once -- but it means A LOT, coming from, y'know, Jesus.)
... So now, we have Christians, Mormons, Jews, maybe even Muslims (who, their first time attending, have to pay a special, higher, "dhimmi" rate), AND atheists, all willing to shell out big bucks to watch this show -- but after the first time, it's free for everybody! AND, also, lots of aging computer geeks, for the COBOL jokes! Jesus commands the theaters to miraculously expand to accommodate them all! (Explained, at some point -- in mere prose -- by somebody playing the theater's manager.)
Gethsemane 2033 becomes a major hit on Broadway; we all happily (or otherwise) retire.
*I* come out on stage at some point (also in prose, playing myself), revealing that Rice, Webber, I, etc. were ALSO predestined to write all of this crap (I don't actually say "crap," unless I'm predestined to come up with a particularly-funny and not-offensive-to-anybody way of saying it. Maybe, not JCS II but JCS #2?). And THAT'S why they haven't sued me for copyright infringement (quoting lots of lines, lots of music, and so on) -- annuerunt coeptis!
... Well, I'll do so once my share of the profits hits 9 figures, which is of course also predestined. In every theater, foreign and domestic, that it's still being played in. A Grand Final Tour, to celebrate the fact that I, too, have fully performed my entire little afterthought of a role: finally explained Christianity to the whole world, so everyone (except me) happily converts. But only through Divine intervention -- I merely played along, just like everyone else! I, like Thomas, have earned not Light but Peace. But we're all heroes, martyrs, and saviors!
... And then, some guy from Queens shows up.
References:
Jesus Christ Superstar (1970)
"Heaven on Their Minds," Judas (Murray Head): audio
"This Jesus Must Die," Caiaphas (Victor Brox), Annas (Brian Keith), etc.: audio
"Damned For All Time / Blood Money," Judas, Caiaphas, Annas, etc.: audio
"Gethsemane (I Only Want to Say)," Jesus (Ian Gillan): audio
"King Herod's Song," Herod (Mike D'Abo): audio
"Superstar," Judas + chorus: audio
Deep Purple
"Smoke On the Water" (1972): audio
"Mary Long" (1973): audio
Starmania (1978)
"Ce soir, on danse à Naziland," Sadia (Nanette Workman): audio, Wikipedia article
Chess (1984)
"One Night In Bangkok," the American (Murray Head) + chorus: video
Mikhail Bulgakov
The Master and Margarita (1940): Wikipedia articles, 1 and 2
Ace of Spades
"You're Fired" (2004): text
[Note: it's up to the reader to figure out which lines are meant to be sung to which tunes; in some cases, to a tune of the reader's own invention. Some other, minor, references are likewise up to the reader to recognize.]
Gethsemane 2033
Judas:
I only want to say
That He traced my way,
And wouldn't take that cup from me,
Though I already felt its poison.
And it burned me!
I'd have rather died,
But to obey, I tried;
He took me for a ride,
And tossed away my pride.
I was just a pup,
But that bitter cup
My whole soul inspired --
So, though sad and tired,
And though it broke my heart,
I gladly played my part!
(orchestral flourish)
Listen, maybe, I have failed His expectations --
Tried for three years,
Seemed like thirty...
But could He ask as much from any other man?
I knew You'd die!
I could but cry!
I found the nearest tree,
That tree was right for me,
"Don't get me wrong," I sang,
And there, I chose to hang,
A whimper, not a bang;
Then, slowly, every pang
First peaked, and then subsided --
I lived it, then I died it!
And once I died,
I was much more noticed
Than I ever was before;
All the things I'd said and done
Mattered so much more!
People hated, cursed, and blamed me!
"Worst man ever," so they named me --
They didn't understand
My fate had been pre-planned,
Directed by His hand!
I felt so bad, so really, really bad,
I didn't know, yet felt I knew, Your Dad!
And still I knew, and still I knew, my God
Would know I was, would know I was, so awed!
And still I knew, and still I knew, my Lord
Would give me pain, but let me know I'd scored!
Would let me die, but then bring me aboard!
By and by,
I shall hear His chord!
Why can't I
Correct my discord?
I can't buy
What I can't afford!
Will the Big Guy
Unsheathe His big sword?
Yes, it is my
Fault that I'm bored!
My ox, awry,
Is getting gored!
I don't deny, I won't deny,
His gourd!
So, why, oh why
Am I ignored?
Should I try
To make myself cured?
Blind men cry,
But speak not a word!
(spoken, slowly)
We were CROSS-STARRED, from afar,
It was my loss!
And so, a real superSTAR
Died on a CROSS!
(sung, increasingly fast)
Really high,
I rose and soared!
In the sky,
Fire I adored!
Does a lie
Make me impure?
Fum fo fi,
Smell it for sure!
Years go by,
Still I endure!
Ointments -- why
Not for the poor?
I didn't pry --
Never before!
I'm young and spry,
Yet always sore!
Your rum supply,
Please always pour!
On L.I.,
I'll start my last tour!
Say good-bye,
Chérie, mon amour!
Satan's eye
Tries me to lure!
Jesus, my
Faith is secure!
Je garde la foi,
Mais mon coeur est lourd!
Donne-moi Ta voix,
Et Ton secours!
Mes jours, sans Toi,
Sont aveugles et sourds!
Comme un, deux, trois,
Mes jours sont courts!
Sont simples les lois,
Partout et toujours!
Qu'est-ce que ce soit,
Je Te fais la cour!
Et, bien de fois,
Vers Toi je cours!
[The best case of self-plagiarism, since... WAIT FOR IT... "Mary Long"!]
Why did I die?
I sure knew why!
I knew, I knew,
I hadn't died in vain!
I trusted You,
I hadn't gone insane!
I listened to
His omnipresent brain!
I wasn't hot on "why?"...
I let You watch me die...
I was still inspired,
Still was glad, though tired;
Into my head, You'd wired:
"Soon, you'll be retired!
Two thousand years in Hell,
But then, I'll ring a bell,
You'll clearly hear its knell,
To Hell, you'll say farewell,
To Me, you'll say hello,
And up to Me, you'll go --
And your perfidious kiss
Will earn eternal bliss!"
Caiaphas (off-stage):
Yeah, pretty good wages, I'll say!! Sure better than little extras like me get -- I'm still sharing a communal cloud with Annas. Квартирный вопрос даже меня испортил...
Judas:
I'd tried for three years,
Seemed like ninety;
Served 2K years,
Seemed like two seconds...
(At the lab, though,
Mastered COBOL;
While on furlough,
I was noble:
Fixed up Y2K!
OK?)
Could either One of You...
In my view...
How could You ask that much from even this one man?
... Still, I finished what I started,
What You started --
I didn't start it!
Christ, Thy will was hard,
I was caught off guard,
So I drank Your cup of poison,
But, hanging from that tree,
I knew You'd think of me!
That You might be unkind --
That never crossed my mind...
(Jesus hugs him. Judas pauses, then hugs and KISSES Jesus. Woland briefly teleports the Master over, so he can shake Judas' hand and get a sign of the cross from Jesus, then disappear. Judas resumes -- starting with his previous two words, for the sake of continuity.)
My mind, at last, is clear:
At last, all too well, I can see
Where we all soon will be.
Once You wiped away my last bitter tear,
I could see that I'd done right by Thee.
I see great things, tomorrow --
You'll be the King, and all sin You will ban!
No more terror or horror --
And that's thanks to You, Son of God, Son of man.
For the sake of salvation,
You, Jesus, have died,
Have died, have died, You, Jesus, have died.
For the world, and our nation,
You, Jesus, You, Jesus, You, Jesus, have died.
I had no thought at all about my own reward,
But I obeyed Your orders, of my own accord --
Thank You that I'm
Saved for all time!
Jesus!
I really do believe
What I know now of You,
That You did not deceive --
Your talk of God was true!
And all the bad I've done
Will soon be swept away;
Folks will trust You, every one,
And more so, every day!
Listen, Jesus, I can truly now see
You were right not to listen to me,
But I somehow played my part right, all along;
You have set my soul on fire,
Your love is now my sole desire,
I did right, though I was always wrong!
I remember when this whole thing began:
No talk of God, then -- we called You a man;
But, believe me, my admiration for You never died.
And every word You then did say
Helped lead me down the righteous way,
And I'm glad I got You crucified!
Nazareth, your famous Son
Didn't stay a great unknown,
And, instead of carving wood,
Made us all good!
Hearts that pounded in our chests
Jesus turned from worst to best,
Made us wish nobody harm --
Just with His charm!
Jesus really, truly cared for His race,
So He gave us our own special place --
We were occupied; but independent now, at last, we are!
And of infidels the crowd
Has heard Your message, clear and loud,
That You'll crush them if they go too far,
If they go too far -- ah ah ah ah!
All have heard the sacred promise You give:
"He who joins Me, forever shall live!" --
And, amazingly, Your grace is spreading all the world around!
Wretches see, who once were blind;
Only Heaven's on their minds;
They were lost, but now at last are found!
Yes, at last, they're found -- ah ah ah ah!
Oh, Jesus!
Through Your love, they're found...
Jesus:
Your heart and soul are clear.
You've done very well,
And I'm happy you answered My bell --
Now you're here, that is swell.
Yes, it's swell that you're here,
And, so, now, you can hear
The true story of Heaven and Hell.
God (off-stage):
Which, at last, He may tell...
Jesus:
Pilate, Herod, Caiaphas, and Peter, and all --
All were asked to serve, and they all answered the call!
Thomas, he turned down a much-more-intricate role;
Fear and doubt corrupted his already-frail soul!
(Still, the hounds of Hell on him I shall not release --
Didn't earn The Light; but still, at least, he's earned Peace.)
Judas, you accepted the most-difficult part,
You were just magnificent -- a great work of art!
You deserve high praise from everyone in this nation --
Without you, humanity would have no salvation!
Without you, My Father's work would have been in vain,
Thanks so much for jumping on Our Heavenly train!
Without you, there's no arrest, conviction, crucifixion --
Without you, "Eternal Life" would be a contradiction!
Jesus (+ chorus of Angels, from above):
Didn't get it wrong, (Didn't get it wrong,)
Wanna let you know, (Wanna let you know,)
So I sing this song, (So we sing this song,)
Because you stole the show! (Because you stole the show!)
(Judas dear, Judas dear,
You've done your job, won't you please come near?
Judas dear, Judas dear,
You've made your point, won't you join us here?)
Jesus:
I'd also like to say...
That the only way
For Dad and Me to save the world was through you!
The toughest holes -- you parred,
Nine birdies on your card!
So now the highest blessings will come to you!
Woland:
Judas, I am overjoyed
To tell you, face to face:
You've been getting quite a name
All around my place!
And you're now back with Christ,
With the great Jesus Christ!
You've fulfilled His wish Divine,
You're now in His arms, not mine --
You're His King of the Jews!
Judas, you just won't believe
The hit you've made down here;
You are all we've talked about,
For the last two thousand years.
But you're now back with Christ,
With the great Jesus Christ!
You have proved that you're no fool,
From boiling hot now go to cool,
New patron of the Jews!
Good thing you hitched your wagon to a Superstar,
He's the only reason why we are now where we are!
I, like you, and even more, am His captive fan,
We all know He's Son of God, and not just any man!
You will now stay with Christ,
With the great Jesus Christ!
Drink His wine, eat His bread,
Let His heart feed your head!
And spread forth the Good News!
You have played your great part,
And you've finished His start!
You have done nothing wrong,
So I bid you, so long!
And be nice to the Jews!
Glad I met you,
Don't forget my name!
We are all just pawns in
God's eternal game!
But I am not God's servant,
That'd be far too lame:
He saves the good, I smite the bad,
We're really just the same!
"Satan" 's just a nickname,
"Woland" 's my true name!
I send you off to meet your God,
Go back to whence you came!
Stay forever with Christ,
With the great Jesus Christ!
And say "hi" to the Jews!
Jesus (+ chorus of Angels, from above):
Judas dear, (Judas dear,
You eagled the fifth! Won't you please come near?)
Judas dear, (Judas dear,
Course record set, won't you join us here?)
Judas dear, (superstar,
Amateur champion -- that, you are!)
Judas dear, (Judas dear,
We're in the Crow's Nest, please climb up here!)
[Note to producer: the Angels' chorus works best in theaters with at least triphonic sound.]
(From their front-row-center seats, Phobos and Deimos -- playing Dismas and Gestas, resp. -- loudly boo: they liked the West-End production better, esp. the décor and costuming. Barrabas, sitting in between, still doesn't know what hit him.)
Nanette Workman:
Autour de nous, il tombe des bombes!
Plus besoin de creuser nos tombes!
Rod Evans:
Ian Gillan's a hypocrite --
He writes just one song, then he tells us he wrote two!
Murray Head is so sick of it,
He's opted for some cloister-goddess crew.
Well, Frank Zappa and the Mothers,
They never tired of playing chess!
If one song's much like the other,
Gillan thinks that's for the best.
A scholar's mate? What a big disgrace,
Malee Wong!
Come on, I dare you to break my face --
Tuh-Tuh-TUH, Tuh-Tuh-TUH-Ruh,
Tuh-Tuh-TUH, Tuh-TUH.
Ryan George (off-stage):
"Hypocrite" / "sick of it" is TIGHT!
Ian Gillan and Arthur Lee, together:
When I'm cold, I need some heat!
When I'm hungry, then I eat!
And if you think it obsolete,
Then you go back across the... street!
Yeah, street, yeah!
Rod Evans:
We ended up at the Grand Hotel,
It was empty, cold, and comical;
One thing that Mary Long does well:
Write sermons in the Sunday Chronicle.
Montreux's got waves,
Mont Blanc is in the sky.
Bombs dig our graves --
Tuh-Tuh-TUH, Tuh-Tuh-TUH-Ruh,
Tuh-Tuh-TUH, Tuh-TUH.
Nanette Workman:
Ce soir... On danse... Ce soir... On danse --
On danse à JudasLand... Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!!!
Leon Trotsky:
Sounds good, see y'all up there! What's the floor number, again?
Nanette Workman:
Onze au carré.
Leon Trotsky:
Gotcha, thanks.
Koroviev:
One for each Margarita in Moscow!
Emmett Brown (off-stage):
If only I had that many decamegawatts...
Donald J. Trump (86, but doesn't look it):
Dan Rather is a dimwit,
And a liar.
Team, it is time to rip it,
Tina's fired!
My robot buddy, so logical,
Taught me stuff...
All this winning's so pedagogical --
Had enough?!
(beat)
Mes ennemis? Balayés,
Avec leur Crooked Joe.
Au vingtième Janvier,
Je repars à Zéro!
(beat)
Four more years -- let's go, Brandon!
Jared, hold my hand...
Have no fear, I'm still standin',
Rested, ready, tanned.
Turn states Red, heal the nation,
Judas, bless us all.
Close the Fed, tame inflation,
Build the bleeping wall!
Rod Evans:
Red states... Where they once were Blue!
Red states... Where I'll vote for you!
Trump:
Listen, Jews, listen, Arabs,
Put your hate to bed!
No more feuds, no more flare-ups,
No more flying lead.
Peace is nigh, since God pleases;
Yes, we had it planned.
Rule the skies will Lord Jesus --
And Lord Trump, the land!
William Devane (off-stage):
But until then -- make sure to buy gold, from Rozz...
(gets drowned out by a very loud...)
Tuh-Tuh-TUH, Tuh-Tuh-TUH-Ruh,
Tuh-Tuh-TUH, Tuh-TUH.
Trump (so excited, he gives up on internal rhymes):
Turn dry sand into fairways,
Build some luscious greens!
And to Heaven the stairway
Leads to Hole Nineteen!
Nevermore shoot your neighbor --
Shoot your age, instead!
Make the fruits of your labor
Links along the Med!
Tuh-Tuh-TUH, Tuh-Tuh-TUH-Ruh,
Tuh-Tuh-TUH, Tuh-TUH.
Beat your swords into putters,
And "no stymies" pledge.
Thanks to You, Dei Mater,
I can stiff that wedge!
Hit the ball straighter, harder,
And for eagles strive --
'Cause Gethsemane Garden
Makes a great par five!
Pilate:
Don't sink triremes -- sink putts!
Yassir Arafat:
Don't bomb pizza shops -- bomb your drives!
Nathaniel Rothschild:
Don't run the world, in secret -- play a bump and run, at the Open!
Tuh-Tuh-TUH, Tuh-Tuh-TUH-Ruh,
Tuh-Tuh-TUH, Tuh-TUH.
(All except Woland, Jesus, and Trump dash towards a speedboat; the riff slowly fades, while Paicey wakes up and goes TOTALLY nuts. After the fadeout, a pause.)
Woland (slowly):
You have whipped all the baddies,
Herod's now impressed.
Jesus (also, slowly):
You have tipped all your caddies,
May your course be blessed!
Trump (slowly, then even slower):
Still delay, moment flying,
For thou art so fair!
Bind me in bonds undying,
And my end declare...
(They stand motionless, heads bowed. Curtain.)
Jokes
- Arnold Schwarzenegger's favorite pick-up line: "Come with me, if you want to live a little."
- Jesus's team met Satan's team in the World Series. Jesus swept.
- Opera: "Liked it, but why were all the actors singing?"
- BurgerTime hero selected a set of drunken crackheads: Peter Pepper picked a peck of pickled pipers.
- Morning sickness: being a morning person.
- Inflation in China: food prices up 84%. Also, now, it's with twelve you get egg roll.
- "I need to crash in a few." -- Mohammed Atta's last words
- Sometimes I shudder to think what Hitler might have done if it hadn't been for term limits.
- Off my lawn, n. phr.: something you get.
- Romanian train conductor, Mr. Ciuciu
- "My wife drives me to work... and to drink."
- "Unlike me, the night is still young."
- "A man never stands so tall as when he stoops to steal candy from a child."
- [after the latest terrorist bombing in France] "I'm glad that Beirut has regained its status as the Paris of the Middle East."
- "Down and out ARE Paris and London."
- "Do I repeat myself? Very well, then -- I repeat myself. I am large; I contain multisets."
- Always look on the bright side: LSBTYD
- Indefinite integrals ought to end with "- C": just as valid, but think of all the ink/chalk/etc. we'll save!
- Most analysts say the economy will worsen; however, most algebraists say it will improve.
- Some social scientists agree with Rutherford, some don't.
- Kirstie Alley's last words: "But Shelley Long still lives!"
- In English, the standard example of an obvious statement is "2+2=4"; in Russian, it's "2×2=4". Is there a language in which it's "2^2=4"?
- 65536: most people think of it as
I prefer
- Вот -- заветы Ильичей. / Как узнать, какой там -- чей?
- Самые лучшие русскоязычные юмористы, сто лет тому назад: Аверченко и Зощенко. А еще говорят, что Украина -- не наша!
- "Вчера я в Ленинграде, в Кировском, смотрел 'Ивана Сусанина'. Или... тьфу, опять все перепутал! Это я в Питере, в Мариинском, смотрел 'Жизнь за царя'..."
- "И, Ахмашу избегая..."
- Not my joke, but true story:
S, after several hours of debugging: "OK, I've finally found it! When some_function() calls some_other_function(), it passes it some_array[1] instead of some_array[0]!"
[pause]
K: "Well, that's really the only kind of bug there ever is... Some 0s should've been 1s, some 1s should've been 0s..."
- "It's not the heat, it's the humidity of my clothes."
- From somebody's Wikipedia page: "he grew up speaking French in an impoverished home with an abusive father"
- "These people -- and I use the term loosely -- ..."
- New social-media poster "Testing123" explains his handle: "Well, 'Testing1' through 'Testing122' were already taken..."
- USA : stately :: Canada : provincial ?
- CE and BCE: I preferred AD and BC. Reminded me of determinants...
- August 21, 2017: total solar eclipse in the afternoon, Deep Purple (once Guiness-certified as "the world's loudest band") concert in the evening. "It's not often that you can go blind and deaf, on the same day!"
- 1984: a Miniluv story
- Morning dialog: (also, true story)
C: "Oh, hon?"
[pause]
C: "HON?"
[pause]
S: "What?"
C: "What time do you wanna be woken up?"
[pause]
S: "You woke me up just to ask me what time I wanted to be woken up?"
C: "Well, I didn't know you were sleeping. I heard you cough."
S: "What, I never cough in my sleep?"
C: "Actually, you do."
[pause]
C: "So, what time?"
Puzzles
1. The Hit List
All of the 200+ words on the list below possess a certain very specific property, one that the vast majority of English words do not. Find it.
able ad adder addle age aid ail ale allow ally ample and ash at ate cab camp can car care cent cold cone coop cope core corn crap cream crew ear eat elect elf end entry even ever exist extant hack hag hall hallow halt ham hard hare harp hatter have he hear hell hip hit hoe hone hook hoot hop horn hot hovel how hunt hut idle ilk ill imply in ink inner ire it kid kill kin kipper kit lab lack lag lap lash late laughter lay led lender lice lick light lime link lip lit liver lob log lot low lumber lump mall mart mash melt mile mite mock mother mug nag nail nap nip not now oak oar often oil old on ore our pace pan par pare park parse pat patter pawn pay peak pear peck pend pew pike pill pin pine pit platter poke pool pore port pot pout pray print pry punk putter tab table tack tag take tale talk tall tar teak teal team tern tick tiff till tilt tint tone tool top tout tow train trait trap tray tress trident trip tripe troll truck trumpet tub tumble upper urge wallow wan warm way wear weep well wig wine wing will wipe witch word
2
I'm thinking of a pair of words. They each have 8 letters; they are anagrams of each other; and, in fact, 5 of the 8 letters are in the same places! Both words are adjectives; and one of them applies in exactly twice as many situations as the other. (Well, sorta.) Find them.
3
Find a context in which the words "light" and "sound" are antonyms.
4. Cryptic clues
Singer of old does without eager look (5, 3, 4)
Enemies treated as adults (8) [*]
Evaluation procedure stores integers incorrectly (10, 4)
Red pill swallowed by drunkard (9)
Unusual in sum! (5)
And the address (1) [**]
I'm back in the USSR (3) [***]
[*] I was working for a software company called PTC, at the time.
[**] The surface is the title of the first track on Deep Purple's first album.
[***] The surface is, of course, from a Beatles song; also, this clue is only appropriate if given by a female having a certain first name.
5. Double Entendre
Name a French word which, if written twice, forms another (unrelated) French word.
6. Rejoice, Russia!
Name an aria to the tune of which the Soviet / Russian national anthem can be sung (at a much-faster pace).
7. The Last Word
What's the next word?
NO THE IN THE THE NO THE THE THE AFTER THE THE THE ALL NEITHER THE THE THE THE EXCESSIVE IN IN NO THE NO A ...
8
Prove or disprove: The product of any pair of twin primes, when increased by 1, always gives a perfect square.
9
Let γ be the Euler Gamma --
γ = lim n -> ∞ ( Σ k = 1...n 1/k – log n ) = 0.5772156649...
Prove or disprove:
π log γ = γ log π
10
Prove or disprove:
1 + 2 = 3
1⋅2 + 2⋅3 + 3⋅4 = 4⋅5
1⋅2⋅3 + 2⋅3⋅4 + 3⋅4⋅5 + 4⋅5⋅6 = 5⋅6⋅7
etc.
11
2 2 2 3 2 2 4 2 3 ?
12
Compute 1/49 to 12 digits, in your head.
13
Consider the altitudes of a non-degenerate triangle as vectors (say, vertex-to-side). Divide each by the square of its length. Prove or disprove: the resulting vectors add up to 0.
14
Name two famous mathematicians whose names are synonymous.
(Names not etymologically-related, and interesting -- not just a color or occupation, say.)
Bonus true story:
Grading papers in a graph-theory course. Problem: prove that if G is not connected, then the complement of G is connected.
"We use a contrapositive proof..."
Bonus joke (most likely unintentional):
"We beat [the tin can] out flat; we beat it back square; we battered it into every form known to geometry -- but we could not make a hole in it."
(Jerome K. Jerome, Three Men in a Boat)
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© Copyright 2025, Serge Elnitsky
May be copied and distributed, but unchanged, and with attribution.