Many people believe that beauty is only the outer shell. Correct facial features, physique, well-groomed hair - these are some of the main criteria for them. But have we really forgotten about inner beauty? How are external and internal beauty related? These questions are revealed in his text by V. A. Sukhomlinsky.

In the text proposed for analysis, V. A. Sukhomlinsky poses the problem of the ideal of human beauty.

Revealing it, the author reflects on what are the components of beauty. He draws attention to the fact that human beauty is not only the anthropological perfection of the body and health, but also a rich inner world. “A person’s beauty manifests itself most clearly when he is engaged in his favorite activity,” writes V. A. Sukhomlinsky. To prove this, he cites the example of Miron, a discus thrower. Further, the author says that “external beauty has its internal moral sources.” For example, a favorite activity changes a person in better side, makes it beautiful.

V. A. Sukhomlinsky believes that the ideal of human beauty is the ideal of morality.

The problem of beauty is often raised in literature. Take Oscar Wilde's novel The Picture of Dorian Gray. The young man was endowed with rare beauty. Under the influence of Lord Henry, convinced of the limitless power of his beauty, he commits many moral and criminal crimes. All these actions are reflected in his portrait. The essence of the work is that external beauty, not complemented by spiritual beauty, is selfish and cannot replace moral feelings.

Let us also turn to Nikolai Zabolotsky’s poem “The Ugly Girl”. In it, the poet proves that only spiritual beauty can be considered true, because it is born out of love for life, people, and the world around us.

To summarize, I would like to say that a person should improve himself, want to become beautiful. But this beauty should be expressed through good deeds and moral education. After all, people who are beautiful in appearance, but absolutely poor spiritually, are just dummies in a beautiful package.

“1.Text by V. Sukhomlinsky About true beauty: Our ideas about the ideal of beauty are embodied in external human beauty. External...”

1.Text by V. Sukhomlinsky “About true beauty”:

Our ideas about the ideal are embodied in external human beauty

beautiful. External beauty is not only anthropological perfection

all elements of the body, not just health. This is inner spirituality -

a rich world of thoughts and feelings, moral dignity, respect for people and

yourself... The higher the moral development and general level of spiritual culture

of a person, the more clearly the inner spiritual world is reflected in external features. This glow of the soul, as Hegel puts it, is increasingly manifested, understood and felt modern man. Inner beauty is reflected in the external appearance... The unity of internal and external beauty is an aesthetic expression of a person’s moral dignity. There is nothing shameful in the fact that a person strives to be beautiful, wants to look beautiful. But, it seems to me, one must have a moral right to this desire. The morality of this aspiration is determined by the extent to which this beauty expresses the creative, active essence of man. A person’s beauty manifests itself most clearly when he is engaged in a favorite activity, which by its nature emphasizes something good in him, characteristic of his personality. At the same time, his appearance is illuminated by inner inspiration. It is no coincidence that Myron embodied the beauty of the discus thrower at the moment when the tension of internal spiritual forces is combined with the tension of physical forces, in this combination - the apotheosis of beauty... External beauty has its own internal moral sources. Favorite creativity makes a person beautiful, transforms facial features - makes them subtle and expressive.

Beauty is also created by anxiety and care – what is usually called “the pangs of creativity.” Just as grief leaves indelible wrinkles on the face, so creative concerns are the subtlest, most skillful sculptor who makes the face beautiful. And, conversely, the inner emptiness gives the outer facial features an expression of dull indifference.

If inner spiritual wealth creates human beauty, then inactivity and, especially, immoral activity destroy this beauty.

Immoral activities disfigure. The habit of lying, hypocrisy, and idle talk creates a wandering gaze: a person avoids looking other people in the eyes; it is difficult to see the thought in his eyes, he hides it... Envy, selfishness, suspicion, fear that “I am not appreciated” - all these feelings gradually coarse his facial features, making him gloomy and unsociable. Being yourself, cherishing your dignity is the living blood of true human beauty.

The ideal of human beauty is at the same time an ideal of morality.

The unity of physical, moral, aesthetic perfection is the harmony that is talked about so much. (V.A. Sukhomlinsky)

2. Text by I. Fonyakov “About intelligence” It seems that the concepts of good manners, decency, spiritual nobility are being blurred before our eyes - everything that we are accustomed to associate with the words “intellectual” and “intelligence”.

One brave critic once admitted in print: before reading any work on the Internet or on a floppy disk, he checks with the help of a computer whether it contains profanity.

pink water! Such a cool representative of the creative intelligentsia. Need I say that he is not alone today? Under the onslaught of vocabulary, which is also called “obscene”, one redoubt after another falls. Words that only yesterday seemed forbidden are penetrating the works of the most venerable writers.

On the one hand, the intelligentsia is a social stratum or, as was recently said, a stratum that arises in certain circumstances. And then everything said is true. On the other hand, the same words carry an ethical and, I would say, aesthetic assessment. Let’s say that the intelligentsia (in the form of “proto-intelligentsia”) really appeared in our country in the 15th–16th centuries. But back in the 12th century, “The Tale of Igor’s Campaign” appeared! Was its author - a brilliant artist of words, a man of lofty and noble thoughts - an intellectual?

Were his readers intellectuals? After all, he did not compose his poem for himself alone! What about the builders of the Kyiv St. Sophia Cathedral and its Novgorod namesake?

3. Kuprin’s text “About Nature”

Under his supervision and protection there were twenty-seven thousand acres of state-owned forest, and even, at the request of the millionaire Solodeev brothers, he looked after their huge, perfectly preserved forests in the southern part of the district. But this was not enough for him: he arbitrarily took under his protection all the surrounding, adjacent and interstitial peasant forests. Carrying out various boundary work and forest surveys for peasants for pennies, and more often for free, he gathered gatherings, spoke passionately and simply about the great importance of agriculture large forest areas and implored the peasants to protect the forest better than their eyes. The men listened to him attentively, nodded their beards sympathetically, sighed, as if at a sermon from a village priest, and assented: “You’re right.... needless to say...

your truth, Mr. Lesnitsyn... What are we? We are men, ignorant people..." But it has long been known that the most beautiful and useful truths coming from the lips of Mr. Lesnitsyn, Mr. Agronomist and other intelligent guardians... represent for the village only a simple shock of the air. The next day, the good villagers they let livestock into the forest, completely eating up the young animals, stripped basts from tender, fragile trees, felled spruce trees for some kind of fence or window, drilled birch trunks to extract spring sap for kvass, smoked in the dead forest and threw matches on the gray dried moss, flaring up like gunpowder, they left the fires unextinguished, and the shepherd boys senselessly set fire to hollows and cracks in the pine trees, filled with resin, only to see with what a cheerful, seething flame the amber resin burned. love for the forest, encouraged them, together with the village priests - and, of course, fruitlessly - to organize afforestation festivals, pestered the police officers, zemstvo chiefs and justices of the peace about predatory logging, and at zemstvo meetings so tired of everyone with his passionate speeches about the protection of forests that they stopped listening to him. “Well, the philosopher spoke his usual nonsense,” the Zemstvo people said and went off to smoke, leaving Turchenka to rant, like the preacher Bede, in front of empty chairs. But nothing could break the energy of this stubborn Ukrainian, who did not suit the sleepy town. He, on his own initiative, strengthened the river banks with shrubs, planted coniferous trees on sandy wastelands and afforested ravines. We talked about this topic with him, curled up on the doctor’s spacious sofa. - There is now so much snow in my ravines that the horse will run away with an arc. And I rejoice like a child. At the age of seven, I raised the spring water height in our filthy Vorozha by four and a half feet. Oh, if only I had working hands! If only I were given greater, unlimited power over these forests. In a few years, I would make Mologa navigable to its very source and raise grain yields throughout the region by fifty percent. I swear to God, in twenty years you can make the Dnieper and Volga the deepest rivers in the world - and it will cost a penny! The most waterless provinces can be moistened with forest plantings and irrigated with ditches.

Just plant a forest. Take care of the forest.

4.Text by V.A. Pietsukha "About reading books"

For five thousand years now, humanity has kept up with reading, although he has, as they say, his mouth full of worries (here you have endless civil strife, and children on the wrong path, and a crisis of non-payments), and he reads everything at his leisure. There seems to be no practical use from this activity: after all, reading a book is not like digging up a plot for potatoes or fixing electrical wiring in a house, it seems that life is already short, like a hare’s tail, and it’s not good to spoil your eyes, and the main questions of existence have long been closed, and people are still drawn to the printed word, as if it contains some kind of great grace... And indeed: contacting a wise author through the printed word is not at all like finding out from Sasha or Masha what they had for lunch; this is not at all the same as hearing a scolding from your mother for stupidity and negligence, suffering a beating from your older brother in connection with stealing a sweet pie from the buffet... Exclusively for the reason that a great writer is a rare phenomenon, that he is the highest subspecies of Homo sapiens, endowed with the ability to think and feel like no one else, his works should certainly be read.

Pushkin instruct us that we should not idealize love, an anomalous state and, rather, a psychophysical property, excited by the organs of secretion, regardless of the object of passion, since in the case of Tatyana Larina, “The soul was waiting for ... someone,” that is, in the place of Onegin as an object there could be , for example, a visiting salesman, a police captain, some avid billiard player. Gogol will announce to us: “It’s boring in this world, gentlemen!” - and he will be partly right, because, indeed, it is not fun to exist among half-humans who do not at all cherish their high destiny, although at other times it can be amusing to watch two provincial fools who poison each other’s lives because of a broken gun. Leo Tolstoy will inspire us with his insight: “They tell me that I am not free, but I took it and raised it right hand“, Chekhov will alert us with a categorical imperative: “Everything in a person should be beautiful...”, in turn, Dostoevsky will tell us that “Russian man is broad, too broad, I would narrow it down” and “By beauty the world will be saved.”

Consequently, people from time immemorial have clung to a practical book for the reason that they feel the need to communicate with the brightest minds that humanity has ever produced, and neither family, nor friends, nor newspapers, much less conferences at a food stall, can satisfy this need. It is impossible to say exactly where this need came from, but it can be assumed: it lies in the very nature of man as a lifelong student of Higher Courses, a subtle thing, a thinker and creator. In any case, it is obvious that the book is not needed either by a baboon, or a swallow, or an elephant, whose head is seven times larger than that of homosapiens, and only by man, this unnatural creature, who knows how and why, bred by nature, from time to time It may be advisable to read. In a word, the poet Brodsky is most likely right, “Man

- this is what reads,” at least for a person - this is not as simple as materialists believe, and thinking individuals must be constantly on guard.

5.Text by Soloukhin “About words (and about “Dead Souls”)”

You can explore the chemical composition, production technology, recipes, secrets of craftsmanship and find out everything exactly: why a porcelain cup rings beautifully and brightly, but a simple clay one makes a dull sound. But we will never know why some phrases, poetic lines, stanzas are voiced and others are dull.

The point is not at all in deaf consonants, hissing, closed and open sounds. Every word, without exception, can ring when put in its place. The words are the same, but in one case they produce porcelain, bronze, copper, and in the other case, raw clay. One sings and the other wheezes. One mints, the other mumbles. One line seems to glow from within, the other is dim and even dirty.

One looks like a gem, the other like a lump of putty.

Why are the heroes Dead souls“Have they seemed surprisingly bright, prominent, and alive to so many generations of readers? Neither in the time of Gogol, nor later, I think, it was possible to meet either Sobakevich, or Nozdryov, or Plyushkin in their pure form. The fact is that in each of Gogol’s heroes the reader recognizes... himself! Human character is very complex. It consists of many inclinations. Gogol took one normal person (it could have been Gogol himself), split him into inclinations, and then from each inclination, exaggerating it, created an independent hero. In an embryonic state, there lives in each of us a tendency to fruitless daydreaming, a tendency to boast, and a tendency to hoarding, although in the complex totality of character none of us are Manilov, Nozdryov, or Plyushkin. But they are very clear to us and, if you like, even close.

Once I spent the night in an indigenous Dagestani village. During the day, while we were fussing and talking, having dinner and singing songs, nothing was heard except the usual sounds for the village: the cry of a donkey, creaking and clinking, the laughter of children, the crowing of a rooster, the noise of a car and in general daytime noise, when you cannot distinguish one sound from another and do not pay attention to the noise, if only because you yourself take part in its creation.

Then I went to bed, and I began to imagine the sound of the river. The quieter it became on the street, the louder the river roared. Gradually it filled all the silence, and there was nothing left in the world except it. The river roared imperiously, loudly, steadily, which during the day was not heard anywhere nearby. In the morning, when the world was again filled with the crowing of a rooster, the creaking of a wheel, the rumble of a truck and our own conversation about all sorts of nonsense, I asked the inhabitants of the village and found out that the river I didn’t dream, it really exists in a distant gorge behind the mountain, but you can’t hear it during the day.

What is it like for an artist, through the everyday bustle of life, to listen to the voice of revelation that constantly exists in himself and in the world, but is not constantly heard?

6.Text by S. Alexievich “War does not have a woman’s face...”

Everything we know about a woman is best summed up in the word “mercy.”

There are other words - sister, wife, friend, and the highest - mother. But isn’t mercy also present in their content as the essence, as the purpose, as the ultimate meaning? A woman gives life, a woman protects life, a woman and life are synonymous.

In the most terrible war of the 20th century, a woman had to become a soldier. She not only saved and bandaged the wounded, but also shot with a sniper, bombed, blew up bridges, went on reconnaissance missions, and took tongues. The woman killed. She killed the enemy, who attacked her land, her home, her children with unprecedented cruelty...

So who are they, these girls who in 1941 left with the retreating units, besieged the military registration and enlistment offices, by hook or by half-childish crook, adding a year or two to themselves, rushing to the front? They themselves remember that they were ordinary schoolgirls and students. But one day the world for them was divided into the past - what happened yesterday: the last school bell, a new dress for the prom, vacation, student internship in a rural hospital or school, first love, dreams of the future... And war. What was called war was brought down first of all by the necessity of choice. And the choice between life and death for many of them turned out to be as simple as breathing.

I try to imagine that such a choice would confront me, and with new eyes I see my room - my favorite books, records, warmth table lamp, which is now shining for me, the familiar breath of my mother behind the wall... What I could have lost. And I am in no hurry to repeat that the choice was “as simple as breathing,” although for them it was exactly that.

The war changed them. The war shaped me because it saw me at the age of developing my character and outlook on life. The war forced them to see a lot, much of what it would be better for a person not to see at all, especially for a woman.

The war made me think about a lot. About good and evil, for example. About life and death.

About those questions that a person learns to answer to some extent after living his life. And they were just beginning to live. And we should have already answered these questions... Let us bow low to her, to the very ground. To her great Mercy.

7. Text by V.F. Tendryakov “About the relationship between fathers and children” Fifteen years or more ago I went to London for an international meeting of physicists who were then excited by the theory of quarks. A few steps from the sparkling advertising Piccadilly under the arch of a house overlooking the crowded pavement, I saw a group of long-haired youths, in colored jackets hung with beads, with eyeliner, painted lips, with the inviting expression of panel girls. Passers-by did not pay attention to them - as usual - and I betrayed myself with a disgusted shudder.

Don't you have one, Mr. Grebin? - inquired my fellow traveler, a well-known scientific observer in England.

And I answered decisively, with a clear conscience:

No. Confused sigh:

In this case, I believe that the future is yours, because the youth of many developed nations is leprous.

I was punished for my conceit.

By that time my son had already grown up.

Seva is the only son in a prosperous family. But for a teenager there comes a time when every family begins to seem dysfunctional to him. Each one, even the most ideal! It becomes crowded within its framework, the outside world beckons, the guardianship of the father’s matter oppresses. I want freedom and independence. The formation of a person inevitably creates this non-exceptional crisis; for some it passes unnoticed, for others it develops into a tragedy. Seva began to disappear from home more often... He let his hair grow, flatly refused to cut his hair, and immediately lost his well-groomed homely appearance, a kind of feral novice. He came across his mother's old jacket with wide sleeves, but he was not satisfied with the usual buttons, he got hold of copper bells somewhere and sewed them on himself. In a woman's jacket with bells, in frayed jeans, from someone else's backside (traded), with fringes at the bottom, with unkempt thin braids falling on the shoulders - a strange, however, concern for one's own appearance: trying not to please others to look like a garden tangle. Our son... It’s unlikely that he expected us to become moved, but he perceived our bewilderment, annoyance, and contempt painfully, and became increasingly irritable.

Now every little thing made him angry: a disapproving look, a bitter grin on my face, my mother’s request to take out the trash can - everything was perceived as an attack on his dignity. And the simplest questions for him grew into the most painful problems - whether or not to celebrate his birthday at home, whether to go with the class on an excursion to Kolomenskoye, whether to ask his mother for money to buy a new record?.. More and more often, universal thoughts arose on his face. a sour expression until it solidified into a permanent expression and completely disfigured him. We felt that the further we went, the more he no longer respected himself.

And I remembered the incident in London and repented of my bravado - we do not have something that is impeccable, unlike others... What is characteristic of times and peoples cannot escape us in one form or another.

The sacramental conflict between fathers and sons did not appear yesterday. “I have lost all hope for the future of our country if the youth of today take the reins of power tomorrow, because these youth are unbearable, uncontrollable, simply terrible.” These words were spoken by Hesiod back in the 7th century BC. But such ancient recognition did not make it any easier for the fathers of subsequent generations.

This is a riot, George. Against us, against the whole world. Are you going to suppress it?

I didn't answer.

No,” she said bitterly, “you want me to do it.”

And I kept silent again, because she guessed right. I had nothing to add.

So, Georgy, it’s better for us to turn away from his boyish rebellion, to pretend that he doesn’t deserve attention. Let's not add wood to the fire. It will go out on its own.

Once again Katya proved her wisdom, incomprehensible to me.

Indeed, Seva soon threw away the jacket with the bells, cut his hair, washed the sour expression from his face, and began to pull the school strap, but now it is heavy.

Albums with stamps have long disappeared, children's cameras, textbooks have replaced science fiction books, there was not enough time to even go to the cinema, constantly

8. Text by K. Simonov “About the soldier who answered letters”

Early in the morning Lopatin and Vanin left for the first company. Saburov stayed: he wanted to take advantage of the calm. First, they sat with Maslennikov for two hours compiling various military reports, some of which were really necessary, and some of which seemed superfluous to Saburov and introduced only due to a long-standing peaceful habit of all kinds of bureaucratic work. Then, when Maslennikov left, Saburov sat down to the task that had been postponed and was weighing on him - answering the letters that had come to the dead. Somehow it had become his custom almost from the very beginning of the war that he took upon himself the difficult responsibility of answering these letters. He was angry with people who, when someone died in their unit, tried for as long as possible not to inform his loved ones about it. This apparent kindness seemed to him to be simply a desire to pass by the grief of others, so as not to cause pain to himself.

“Petenka, dear,” wrote Parfenov’s wife (it turns out his name was Petya), “we all miss you and are waiting for the war to end so that you can return...

The tick has become quite big and is already walking on its own, and almost never falls...”

Saburov carefully read the letter to the end. It was not long - greetings from relatives, a few words about work, a wish to defeat the Nazis as quickly as possible, at the end two lines of children's scribbles written by the eldest son, and then several unsteady sticks made by a child's hand, which was guided by the mother's hand, and a note: “A Galochka herself wrote this...

What to say? Always in such cases, Saburov knew that there was only one answer: he was killed, he was gone, and yet he always invariably thought about it, as if he was writing an answer for the first time. What to say? Really, what to answer?

He remembered the small figure of Parfenov, lying supine on cement floor, his pale face and field bags placed under his head. This man, who died on the very first day of the fighting and whom he knew very little before, was for him a comrade in arms, one of many, too many, who fought next to him and died next to him, while he himself remained intact. He was used to this, accustomed to war, and it was easy for him to say to himself: here was Parfenov, he fought and was killed. But there, in Penza, on Marksa Street, 24, these words - “he was killed” - were a disaster, the loss of all hopes. After these words, there, on Karl Marx Street, 24, the wife ceased to be called a wife and became a widow, the children ceased to be called just children - they were already called orphans. It was not only grief, it was a complete change of life, of the entire future. And always, when he wrote such letters, he was most afraid that whoever read it would think that it was easy for him, the writer. He wanted those who read it to feel like it was written by their comrade in grief, a person grieving just like them, so that it would be easier to read. Maybe it’s not even that: it’s not easier, but it’s not so offensive, it’s not so sad to read...

People sometimes need lies, he knew that. They certainly want the one they loved to die heroically or, as they say, die a brave death... They certainly want him to not just die, but to die having done something important, and they certainly want him to die he remembered them before his death.

And Saburov, when answering letters, always tried to satisfy this desire, and when necessary, he lied, lied more or less - this was the only lie that did not bother him. He took a pen and, tearing out a piece of paper from the notebook, began to write in his fast, sweeping handwriting. He wrote about how they served with Parfenov, how Parfenov died heroically here in a night battle in Stalingrad (which was true), and how he himself shot three Germans before falling (which was not true), and how he died in Saburov’s arms, and how before his death he remembered his son Volodya and asked him to tell him to remember his father.

9.Text by A. Chekhov “About a Cab Driver” MEANINGS To whom shall I convey my sadness?..

Evening twilight. Large wet snow lazily swirls around the newly lit lamps and falls in a thin soft layer on the roofs, horses' backs, shoulders, and hats. The cab driver Iona Potapov is as white as a ghost. He is bent over, as far as it is possible for a living body to bend, sits on the box and does not move. If a whole snowdrift had fallen on him, even then, it seems, he would not have found it necessary to shake off the snow... His little horse is also white and motionless. With its immobility, angular shape and stick-like straightness of its legs, even up close it looks like a penny gingerbread horse. She is, in all likelihood, lost in thought. Anyone who has been torn away from the plow, from the usual gray pictures and thrown here into this pool, full of monstrous lights, restless crackling and running people, cannot help but think...

Jonah and his little horse have not moved for a long time. They left the yard before lunch, but still there was no move. But then the evening darkness descends on the city.

The pallor of the street lamps gives way to vibrant colors, and the bustle of the streets becomes noisier.

Cab driver, to Vyborgskaya! - Jonah hears. - Cab driver!

Jonah shudders and through his eyelashes, covered with snow, sees a military man in an overcoat with a hood.

To Vyborgskaya! - the military man repeats. - Are you sleeping, or what? To Vyborgskaya!

As a sign of agreement, Jonah pulls the reins, causing layers of snow to fall from the horse’s back and from his shoulders... The military man sits down in the sleigh. The driver smacks his lips, stretches his neck like a swan, sits up and, more out of habit than necessity, waves his whip. The little horse also cranes its neck, bends its stick-like legs and moves hesitantly...

Where are you going, devil! - at first Jonah hears exclamations from the dark mass moving back and forth. -Where the hell are they going? Keep it right!

You don't know how to drive! Keep your rights! - the military man is angry.

The coachman from the carriage scolds, a passer-by, who was crossing the road and bumped into the horse’s face with his shoulder, looks angrily and shakes snow off his sleeve. Jonah fidgets on the box as if on pins and needles, pokes his elbows to the sides and moves his eyes like a madman, as if he doesn’t understand where he is and why he’s here.

What scoundrels they all are! - the military man jokes. - They try to bump into you or get run over by a horse. It was they who conspired.

Jonah looks back at the rider and moves his lips... He apparently wants to say something, but nothing comes out of his throat except a wheeze.

What? - asks the military man.

Jonah twists his mouth into a smile, tenses his throat and wheezes:

And my master, my son died this week.

Hm!.. Why did he die?

Jonah turns his whole body towards the rider and says:

And who knows! It must have been from a fever... I spent three days in the hospital and died...

God's will.

Turn around, devil! - is heard in the darkness. - Did an old dog crawl out? Look with your eyes!

Go, go... - says the rider. - We won’t even get there until tomorrow.

Adjust it!

The driver again cranes his neck, rises and swings his whip with heavy grace. Several times later he looks back at the rider, but he has closed his eyes and, apparently, is not in the mood to listen. Having dropped him off on Vyborgskaya, he stops at the tavern, bends over on the box and again does not move...

The wet snow again paints him and his little horse white. An hour passes, then another...

Three young men walk along the sidewalk, loudly knocking their galoshes and arguing: two of them are tall and thin, the third is small and hunchbacked.

Cab driver, to the Police Bridge! - the humpback whale shouts in a rattling voice. - Three... two kopecks!

Jonah tugs the reins and smacks his lips. The two-kopeck price is not the same, but he doesn’t care about the price... Whether it’s a ruble or a nickel, it doesn’t matter to him now, if only there were riders... The young people, jostling and swearing, approach the sleigh and all three immediately climb onto the seat. The solution to the question begins: which two should sit, and which third should stand? After a long squabble, capriciousness and reproaches, they come to the decision that the humpback should stand like the smallest.

Well, let's go! -And Jonah turns around to tell how his son died, but then the hunchback sighs lightly and declares that, thank God, they have finally arrived.

Having received two kopecks, Jonah stares for a long time after the revelers disappearing into the dark entrance. Again he is lonely, and again silence sets in for him... The melancholy that has subsided for a short time appears again and expands his chest with even greater force. Eyes

Jonah runs anxiously and martyrically through the crowds scurrying on both sides of the street:

Is there not one of these thousands of people who would listen to him? But the crowds flee, not noticing either him or the melancholy... The melancholy is enormous, knowing no boundaries.

If Jonah’s chest had burst and melancholy poured out of it, it would seem to have filled the whole world, but, nevertheless, it is not visible. She managed to fit into such an insignificant shell that you cannot see her during the day with fire...

Jonah sees the janitor with a bag and decides to talk to him.

Darling, what time will it be now? - he asks.

Tenth... What happened here? Drive on!

Jonah moves away a few steps, bends over and gives in to melancholy... He considers it no longer useful to address people. But not even five minutes have passed before he straightens up, shakes his head as if he felt a sharp pain, and tugs on the reins... He can’t bear it.

“To the court,” he thinks. - To the yard!

And the little horse, as if understanding his thought, begins to trot. An hour and a half later, Jonah is already sitting near a large dirty stove. People are snoring on the stove, on the floor, on the benches. There is a “spiral” and stuffiness in the air... Jonah looks at the sleeping people, scratches himself and regrets that he returned home so early...

“And I didn’t go to the oats,” he thinks. - That’s why there’s melancholy. A man who knows his business... who is well-fed, and his horse is well-fed, is always at peace...”

In one of the corners a young cab driver rises, quacks sleepily and reaches for a bucket of water.

Do you want to drink? - asks Jonah.

So, drink!

So... To your health... And my brother, my son died... Did you hear? This week in the hospital... History!

Jonah looks at the effect his words had, but sees nothing. The young man has covered his head and is already asleep. The old man sighs and itches... Just as the young man wanted to drink, so he wants to talk. Soon it will be a week since his son died, and he still hasn’t spoken to anyone... We need to talk sensibly, with clarity...

You need to tell how your son got sick, how he suffered, what he said before he died, how he died... You need to describe the funeral and the trip to the hospital to get the dead man’s clothes. His daughter Anisya remains in the village... And we need to talk about her... But who knows what he can talk about now? The listener should groan, sigh, lament... And talking to women is even better. Even though they are fools, they roar at just two words.

“Let’s go look at the horse,” Jonah thinks. “You’ll always have time to sleep... You’ll probably get some sleep...”

He gets dressed and goes to the stable where his horse is. He thinks about oats, hay, the weather... He can’t think about his son when he’s alone... You can talk to someone about him, but it’s unbearably creepy to think about him and draw his image for yourself...

Are you chewing? - Jonah asks his horse, seeing its sparkling eyes. - Well, chew, chew... If we didn’t go out to harvest oats, we’ll eat hay... Yes... I’m getting old now... My son should be driving, not me... He was a real cab driver... If only I could live...

Jonah is silent for a while and continues:

So, brother filly... Kuzma Ionych is gone... He ordered him to live long... He took it and died in vain... Now, let’s say, you have a foal, and you are this foal’s own mother... And suddenly, let’s say, this same foal ordered to live long... It’s a pity, isn’t it?

The little horse chews, listens and breathes into the hands of its owner...

Jonah gets carried away and tells her everything...

10. Text by Yu. Vizbor “Time Makes Songs” We say that time makes songs. It's right. But the songs themselves make time a little. Entering our life, they not only create its cultural background, but often act as advisers, put forward their arguments on certain issues, or even just tell us. We had a room with an area of 12 meters, and the five of us lived in it. My aunt, who had just been evacuated from besieged Leningrad, from where she sent letters - “beat the brown animals!”, got up before everyone else and was the first to turn on the radio. Exactly at six o'clock, the heavy wake-up song of the war years sounded from a black paper loudspeaker: “Get up, huge country! Get up for mortal combat!” And it was heard by the neighbors, and all over Pankratievsky Lane, and all over Moscow, and all over the country in 1942. Since then, I have not known a song that would have such a strong effect on me. As a person who has his own attitude to the song, I was interested in the fact that in the first verse of “Holy War” there is, as it seems to me, a not very accurate rhyme: a huge dark one. Of course, I reasoned, such a master as Lebedev-Kumach could not help but notice this. Therefore, he had his reasons for leaving this not entirely accurate rhyme for the sake of some higher goal. Which? I guess I wasn't wrong. For the sake of the word - HUGE. How extraordinarily precisely it is said! How much poetic strength you need to find within yourself to say with such accuracy, with such folklore simplicity in a terrible year the word that is so necessary for the country - it’s like putting a mirror in front of it! How much confidence this line gave! How much seriousness and drama there is in it! This poetic find was like a road for the country, giving rise to an undeniable feeling of personal involvement in the fate of the people.

symbols, so a young officer, shaking in a half-dead semi-truck somewhere between Dmitrov and Moscow, composes something that will be forever engraved in granite - “And the enemy will never get your head to bow...”. And we stand at the “hedgehogs” on the Leningradskoe highway and bare our heads before the feat of the defenders of Moscow. And we thank the poet.

Of course, not every song suffers such a fate; not everyone is given the gift of being so realistically made in concrete, cast in metal, carved in granite. In the end, this can be tolerated. But to enter the human soul, to remain there, albeit small but reliable supports of humanism, honesty, and devotion, is the direct task of the song-publicist. And often our national economic plans, the affairs of the current and upcoming five-year plans, pose before us not only economic, but also poetic tasks. New construction projects are appearing. New songs about them appear.

It doesn’t seem to me that one fine day a composer, getting together with a poet, decide to write “a real folk song that will not die for centuries.”

This situation seems unlikely. The song is written as a modern topical work. The years test her talent, structural strength, and survival. Decades of life make it popular. In the end, “Moscow Nights” were written only for a sports documentary, and “The Star Spangled Banner,” the future US anthem, was composed by its author on the back of an envelope under the impression of the fire of the city of Boston, fired from the sea by Southern ships. The song is written today, and if it contains “genes” directed to the future, tomorrow it will sprout in a new quality, without losing strength, but gaining wisdom.

And for some reason, it is this personal, individual telegraph of souls that turns into a conversation for everyone.

11.Text by Efremov “On Education” In the fall of 1925, I entered the Academy of Sciences as a laboratory assistant at the geological museum.

11.Text by Z. Prilepin “About the New Year”

In the fall of 1925, I entered the Academy of Sciences as a laboratory assistant at the geological museum.

It would seem that all I had to do was finish university. In reality it turned out quite differently. The varied activities of the laboratory assistant and science itself fascinated me so much that I often stayed in the laboratory until nightfall. It became increasingly difficult to combine such intense work with classes. In addition, from spring to late autumn we had to go on expeditions. Soon I quit my studies completely, not being able to combine long-distance expeditions to Central Asia and Siberia, where I was already working as a geologist, although I did not yet have a diploma.

I was fortunate to be among those geologists who discovered many important mineral deposits. This difficult work fascinated us so much that we forgot everything. I also forgot about my teaching.

Every now and then I “stumbled” when I had to defend my views, put forward new research projects, or “defend” discovered deposits. Finally, it became clear to me that without a higher education I would face too many annoying obstacles. Being already a qualified geologist, I applied for permission, as an exception, to graduate as an external student from the Leningrad Mining Institute. They met me halfway, and within two and a half years I managed to finish it without interrupting my work.

How much I repented and scolded myself for leaving the teaching and not completing it earlier, when I still had few obligations, accumulated little research that required hasty completion.

Now, when I, an elderly scientist and writer who has seen a lot, look into the past, it is clear to me that the desire and will for knowledge did not leave me. I made my way to knowledge, feeling and understanding how huge and wide world opens up to me in books, research, travel. But whatever my abilities and desires, only systematic education could make accessible all the spiritual wealth of the world. All this - school and lessons, dictations and tasks - was a difficult obstacle, but at the same time a key that opened the gates to something new, interesting, and beautiful.

I was lucky with my teachers - there were good, high-hearted people along the way.

Real teachers who managed to discern some abilities in a poorly educated, poorly brought up, sometimes just rude boy. But I think that if this had not happened, I would still have continued to overcome all the difficulties of teaching. Will, like everything else, requires hardening and exercise. What seemed difficult yesterday becomes easy today if you do not give in to momentary weakness, but fight with yourself step by step, exam after exam.

Training in perseverance and will comes unnoticed. When you learn to drive a car, it is difficult to cope with it and keep an eye on the road, signs, and pedestrians. And suddenly you stop noticing your actions, the car becomes obedient and does not require intense attention. So it is with the difficulties of life.

The habit of overcoming them comes unnoticed, learning becomes easy, but you can’t let yourself get discouraged and complain. Comrades will respectfully call such a person collected, strong-willed, courageous, and he will be surprised: what was so special about him?

And if you really strive for knowledge, then do not give in to weakness, never cancel your decision. Even a weakened man can navigate the road while he walks. But having fallen, it will be difficult for him to get up, much more difficult than to continue walking!

13.Text by B. Ekimov “Boy on a Bicycle”

Lately, Khurdin has often thought about Vikhlyaevskaya Mountain and his bicycle; and, thinking about the trip to his mother, he dreamed of fixing his old bicycle and going to Vikhlyaevskaya Mountain.

They didn't say another word until they got home. And the closer they got, the more acutely Khurdin realized how long those five years of separation had been. So long... And at some moment it suddenly seemed: his mother was no longer there, she died, but they simply didn’t tell him. Yes, suddenly it seemed like this.

Mom was alive. Hearing the hum and horn of the car, and the voices, she opened the gate and went out. She came out and rushed to her son. The Lord brought, he brought... He saved and brought...

alive... - she muttered unconsciously. - Lord... What a yoke I have endured. He left and took out his mother’s heart... - the mother muttered, bending down and feeling her son’s head, shoulders, stroking his face, hair, caressing and as if checking if everything was with him.

And, realizing, believing that her son was alive and whole in front of her, she weakened, and at once, at once, the tears that had been accumulated for so long poured out. The mother could no longer speak, she only banged her light gray head against her son’s chest in a frenzy.

Khurdin also cried. Silently, swallowing tears, he cried and waited for his mother to calm down.

The car had left a long time ago, things were standing in the yard, but the mother still couldn’t believe it.

What a year I see nothing in tears... Everything is about you and about you. I'm afraid of war.

I watch TV every day, and there they say all the bad things: war and war. And my heart bleeds for you. It will begin - and right away you... We will be saved and die next to each other, and my child is far away, alone... She would become a little walker and fly...

Khurdin listened and understood more and more that five years is such a long time, endless. Five years is almost a tenth of a whole life, and if you take it into the strength and intelligence of an adult being, then twice as much. And for separation it is not a measured period at all, it is endless.

After all, as long as Khurdin could remember, he was always a little boy in front of his mother, even an adult. And now a big, broad-shouldered man sat next to her, and his mother huddled close to him like a little sparrow. And, hugging his mother, he smelled her bird bones and light flesh. Why, mother, when even the hut began to sink into the ground.

Khurdin talked about his wife and children, listened to his mother’s story about her farm relatives. In the area there were only four siblings, the same number of aunts and uncles, and the cousins grew by themselves. And everyone lived well, it’s a sin to complain. And more than once the middle son Vasily, daughter Raisa, called his mother to come to him.

But the mother lived alone. And how once, with her late father and large family, she kept a cow, goats, poultry, and fed a wild boar.

The mother was proud of her household and therefore was very pleased when Khurdin said:

14. Text by L. M. Leonov “Russian Forest”

With eyes full of tears, Ivan looked into the snow below him: the end of his fairy tale was approaching. True, a good half of the Olog was still untouched, but in the boy’s mind the forest ceased to exist simultaneously with the death of that mighty old pine woman who overshadowed Kalinov’s roof. It was unthinkable to leave it: in the first blizzard, when it fell, it would crush Kalinov’s lodge like a rotten nut.

“Now give yourself away, Orthodox Christians,” Knyshev said in a dull voice. “It’s okay for me to warm up a little!”

Unexpectedly for everyone, he took off his undershirt and remained in a white, whiter-than-white embroidered shirt, belted with a Caucasian strap with a silver set.

A dozen hands held out sharpened, sharp-toothed saws to him; he chose an ax from the nearest one, estimated the weight, approvingly, as a test, touched the blade with his fingernail, which rang like a string, spat into his palm so that it would not slip, and trampled the snowball where it got in the way - he listened to the upper rustle of the forest and leisurely, as if scaffold, looked at his victim from head to toe. She was incredibly beautiful now, Oblog's old mother, in her ancient beauty, straight as a ray, and without a single blemish; the snow, like a pink dream, rested on its heavy branches. Not yet at full strength, Knyshev swung and, with a draw towards himself, as if teasingly, struck at the very bottom, on the resinous streak at the butt, where, like veins, the roots ran up the trunk, and the boy Ivan almost gasped in surprise that the blood did not splatter his hands.

“Here’s how to piss her off,” Zolotukhin said instructively. - Learn!

At first the ax bounced off the frozen sapwood, but suddenly the iron went berserk, and small, bone-colored chips often sparkled in the air.

Immediately, without a single misfire, a narrow, precise cut was formed, and now special skill was needed so as not to get the ax stuck in the wood. The sounds, loud at first, became muffled as they went deeper into the body and, like a woodpecker's clatter, echoed into the surrounding area. Everything around was silent, even the forest. Nothing could yet awaken the old woman’s winter slumber... but then the breeze of death stirred her needles, and scarlet snow dust fell on Knyshev’s sweaty back. Ivan did not dare to raise his head, he only saw out of the corner of his moist eye how, with each blow, the silver case at the end of the Knyshev strap jumped up and beat.

But the rest watched intently as the stagnant merchant warmed up. It was clear from everything that he knew how to do this well, that’s all he could do on earth. In essence, an ordinary felling was taking place, but the loggers were tormented by a guilty feeling that they were present at a very sinful, because it was also dandy and with a fatal outcome, self-indulgence. And although Knyshev acted without respite, everyone understood: he was somewhat delaying his pleasure, which simple people they never forgave even real executioners... To complete the job, the merchant switched to the other side: all that was left was to hit once or twice before the end.

Nobody heard the last blow. Knyshev threw away the ax and stepped aside;

steam was pouring out of it, like in a dressing room. Zolotukhin arrived in time and silently threw the undershirt over his sweaty shoulders, and Titka loudly uncorked the flat, silver, never-drying one. The pine tree stood as before, all in a frosty glow.

She didn't yet know that she was already dead.

Nothing has changed yet, but the lumberjacks have retreated back.

“Let’s go...” someone whispered strangledly above Ivan’s head.

It became clear to everyone that Knyshev had once earned his living with a hatchet, and now it was interesting to check the degree of his skill: having slipped from the stump when falling, the pine tree, like a cannon, could throw Kalinov’s shell away...

A barely noticeable movement was born in the branches, something crunched busily below and echoed with a small trembling at the top. The pine tree tilted, everyone breathed a sigh of relief; the second notch was slightly higher than the initial one, the wood went in a safe direction, resting on the future split of the stump. And suddenly - a whole storm erupted in its awakened crown, breaking branches, blowing away snow - snowdrifts fell to the ground, ahead of its fall... There is nothing slower and more painful on earth than the fall of a tree, under whose canopy the vague dreams of childhood visited you!

15.Text by B.Ekimov. "Lonely old age. Wormwood":

Crimea. The seaside village of Koktebel is a famous place. On the right are the huge mountains of Karadag, the Holy Mountain, on the left are the sloping hills of the steppe Crimea.

Autumn. Mid September. The holiday season is ending. The sea still breathes warmth and turns a gentle blue. The sun is shining hot during the day. The evenings are already cool and it gets dark quickly in the south. But people relaxing under the roof do not like to sit, and therefore on the embankment, along its short length, which has long been called “Piglet”, idle people from all over the village gather.

This fall, an old woman appeared at the Koktebel “Piglet” with bouquets of dried herbs. Every evening she settled down on the edge of the “Piglet” with a not very impressive product: dry wormwood and a few simple flowers, from those that grow around. Something yellow and lilac.

Hang it on the wall,” she convinces rare curious people. - Hang it up, it will smell so good.

But for some reason I didn’t see her products being taken. Nearby are rings and earrings with carnelian, jasper brooches, landscapes with the sea and the moon. If you bring it home, it will be a memory. Every person will understand: this is Crimea. What about dry wormwood? There is enough of it everywhere.

An old woman in a dark scarf and a shabby coat sits alone on the edge of the autumn, but still festive Crimean vernissage, sometimes explaining:

Hang it on the wall... It smells so good.

Autumn. It gets dark quickly. Lanterns are now rare. They say that there is nothing and no one to pay for them. It's time for ruin. Twilight "Piglet" is narrowing. The first to disappear is the old woman. She had not left yet, but somehow faded away, merging with the gray granite and dark asphalt. People are still walking and wandering, looking at souvenirs and paintings illuminated by lanterns. An old woman is in the darkness, hunched over, near the already invisible bunches of wormwood. Then she disappears completely.

And in the evenings there is a noisy “Piglet” from the veranda shaded by wild grapes to the Voloshin Museum. Walking, talking, hustle. Interesting trinkets on the parapet and trays. Look at something, buy something. Whether for yourself, family or friends as a gift.

Everything is great. And only the old woman with bouquets of wormwood worried me for some reason. She was so out of place with her appearance: a shabby coat, a dark dress, old age, and with her pitiful, useless bouquets. In the evenings, she sat hunched over and alone on a bench at the very edge of Piglet. She was superfluous at this autumn, but still a holiday on the seashore.

Immediately, on the first or second day, of course, I bought a bouquet of wormwood from her, after hearing: “Hang it on the wall... It will smell so good.” I bought it as if I had repaid a debt. But that didn't make it any easier. Of course, she didn’t come here from a good life. He sits, then drags himself home in the darkness. My old mother usually goes to bed before the sun has set. She says she's tired.

After all, I'm really tired:

such a long life. And such a long summer day is for an old man.

Old people... How many of them are now with outstretched hands! And this one, on the shore of the warm sea. Apparently he doesn’t want to beg. Although they would have given her a lot more than what she would get for her pitiful dry twigs and flowers. But he doesn’t want to ask. Is sitting...

And every evening there was an old woman sitting alone near bouquets of dry wormwood.

But one day, going out to the embankment, I saw that a couple was sitting next to the old woman, on her bench: a bearded man was on the edge of the bench, on the fly, smoking peacefully, and his wife or girlfriend was chatting animatedly with the old woman. A dry bouquet in hand, some words about the benefits of wormwood and all sorts of other plants. And conversations “about benefits” are very attractive.

Here, not far away, a respectable man who day in and day out quickly sells dried herbs and roots, clearly labeling each one: “from the head,” “from the heart,” “from insomnia,” “from oncology.” They buy in full.

So, near the old woman, near her bouquets, having heard something “about the benefits,” they began to stop. It's evening, the day is drawing to a close, there are no worries.

16.Text by D. Koretsky “About Scientists” In the scientific world, in order to preserve your name for centuries, you need to be the first at the ribbon of a new fact - new, of course, only for us. Actually, this fact has existed since the moment the World existed. Actually, this fact will be discovered and explained sooner or later. It's unavoidable. Einstein marveled at Galileo. Why did the old man have to explain his truths to the crowd? It is enough that I found out myself. And I received great pleasure. Why tell others? Sooner or later everyone will know what you found out. Sooner or later, all the stars will be counted, since they are in the sky.

Artists do not have a Patent Office. Artists don't need it. Artists are not able to repeat each other even in those cases when they set themselves such a task. And even if there were card indexes of artistic revelations, they would not help other artists. For discoveries in the artistic perception of the world are always primary for everyone. You can discover the force of gravity thousands of times at any geographical location and in any century or make sure that the Earth is round.

It is impossible to create a second Mona Lisa, just as it is impossible to equivalently replace the weakest artistic talent with pure reflection. The value of the average thought is zero, the average talent has a price, because thoughts are repeated, but artistry is individual, and therefore unique. Try to repeat Boborykin!

A great scientist who has explained a great fact of nature for himself, but is unable for some reason to convey his knowledge to others, dies with less difficulty than an artist of average talent who painted a picture with chemically incompatible paints.

The scientist has no doubt that sooner or later another genius will come and find his truth and tell people about it. The scientist knows that only his authorship disappears, not the truth. When a painting disappears, both authorship and artistic truth disappear forever.

The basis of creative scientific thinking is problem solving, that is, asking and answering questions. When an artist both poses a question and tries to answer it, most often he ends up in a puddle. Artistic creativity does not coincide with the scientific style. For a brilliant artistic masterpiece, a question is enough. For example: are genius and villainy compatible?

If a question is asked in perfect artistic form, it has as many answers as there are people on the planet. Of course, these answers can be grouped by degree, for example, of their evidence. But there will be no two absolutely identical answers, because such an answer (if, of course, it is given in an expanded, motivated form) entirely includes all philosophy, all life experience, all the knowledge of the responding individual.

Depending on the degree of erudition, the answerer can give more or fewer examples of the combination of a genius and a villain, but no amount of it will convince the opponent.

The answer to the question hidden in an artistic masterpiece is sought by the whole society, the whole world, all amateurs who have nothing to do with the profession of specialists in the psychology of creativity. The search for an answer is tabooed neither by a savage nor even by a madman. On the contrary, the answers of the latter are even more interesting for everyone thinking about the question.

An artist communicates with the world, and a scientist communicates with his colleagues.

What does the leader deer do when he perceives an unfamiliar smell or a distant rustle?

Everyone saw how the leader froze, pretending to be a question mark. All of him - from the last hair on his tail to his eyes, ears, and horns - is a question. The leader asks a question to himself and the entire herd. He immediately shares the question with everyone - this is necessary to increase the accuracy of the answer, this is necessary in order to survive.

After all, when a child draws, he always looks at you, he asks a question:

“Dad, do you understand that I drew the house? And this is a goat, right, dad?” Then the question that the artist asks himself and the world becomes more and more complicated and reaches the point of being confusing for the uninitiated, because the artist is not able to formulate the question in logical concepts. He asks the question “are genius and villainy compatible?” in the form of “Mozart and Salieri”, but, retold by me in the form of words-concepts, this question no longer exists, I just pulled one of the countless nesting dolls into the light of logic. In fact, the question that Pushkin asks is as complex as the entire complexity of the World.

The scientist wants to pose the question so that the task or problem can not only be solved, but also solved as quickly and completely as possible and at minimal cost. If a scientist asks a question that cannot fit into the mainstream of a scientifically developed answer strategy, then his colleagues do not consider this scientist a scientist. They consider him a groundless dreamer and pseudo-thinker, a fiction writer and sensationalist, or even a mystic and charlatan.

17.Text by V.F. Tendryakov "About half a loaf of bread"

We all spent a month in the reserve regiment beyond the Volga. We, that’s true, are the remnants of units defeated beyond the Don that reached Stalingrad. Someone was thrown into battle again, and we were taken to the reserve, it would seem - the lucky ones, some kind of rest from the trenches. Rest... two lead-heavy crackers a day, muddy water instead of stew. The departure to the front was greeted with joy.

Another village on our way. The lieutenant, accompanied by the sergeant major, went to investigate the situation.

Half an hour later the foreman returned.

Guys! - he announced with inspiration. - We managed to knock out: two hundred and fifty grams of bread and fifteen grams of sugar per snout!

Who will receive bread with me?.. Come on! “I was lying next to him, and the foreman pointed his finger at me.

A thought flashed into my mind... about resourcefulness, cowardly, disgusting and sad.

I laid out a raincoat right on the porch, and loaves of bread began to fall on it - seven and half more.

The foreman turned away for a second, and I shoved half a loaf under the porch, wrapped the bread in a raincoat, and slung it over my shoulder.

Only an idiot can expect that the foreman will not notice the disappearance of a loaf cut in half. No one touched the resulting bread except him and me. I am a thief, and now, right now, in a few minutes it will become known... Yes, to those who, like me, have not eaten anything for five days. As I!

In my life I have done bad things - I lied to teachers so as not to give them a bad grade, more than once I promised not to fight and did not keep my word, once while fishing I came across someone else’s tangled line on which a chub was sitting, and I took it off the hook... But every time I found an excuse for myself: I didn’t learn the task - I had to finish reading the book, I fought again - so he climbed in first, took a chub from someone else’s line - but the line was carried away by the current, mixed up, the owner himself would never have found it... Now I didn't look for excuses. Oh, if only I could go back, get the hidden bread, and put it back in the raincoat!

From the side of the road, soldiers began to rise towards us with effort - every bone ached. Gloomy, dark faces, bent backs, drooping shoulders.

The foreman opened his raincoat, and the pile of bread was greeted with respectful silence.

It was in this respectful silence that a puzzled voice was heard:

And where?.. There was half a loaf!

There was a slight movement, dark faces turned towards me, from all sides - eyes, eyes, eerie alertness in them.

Hey, you! Where?! I'm asking you!

I was silent.

An elderly soldier, bleached blue eyes, wrinkled cheeks, a gray chin with stubble, a voice without malice:

It will be better, boy, if you admit it.

Why talk to him! - One of the guys raised his hand.

And I involuntarily twitched. And the guy just adjusted his cap on his head.

Don't be afraid! - he said with contempt. - To beat you... Get your hands dirty.

And suddenly I saw that the people around me were amazingly beautiful - dark, exhausted from the campaign, hungry, but their faces were somehow faceted, clearly sculpted. Among beautiful people, I am ugly.

There is nothing worse than feeling unable to justify yourself to yourself.

I was lucky, in the signal company of the guards regiment where I ended up, there was no one who could see my shame. With small actions over and over again I won self-respect - I was the first to climb a broken line under heavy fire, I tried to lift a reel with a heavier cable onto myself If you managed to get an extra pot of soup from the cook, you didn’t consider it your spoils, you always shared it with someone. And no one noticed my altruistic “deeds”; they thought it was normal. And this is what I needed, I did not claim exclusivity, I did not dare to dream of becoming better than others.

I never stole again in my life. Somehow I didn’t have to.

18.Text by K.G. Paustovsky “Watercolors” (1) When the word “homeland” was uttered under Berg, he grinned. (2) I didn’t notice the beauty of nature around me, I didn’t understand when the soldiers said: “(3) Let’s take back our native land and water the horses from our native river.” - (4) Chatter! – Berg said gloomily. – (5) People like us do not and cannot have a homeland. - (6) Eh, Berg, crack soul! – the soldiers answered with heavy reproach. - (7) You don’t love the earth, eccentric. (8) And also an artist! (9) Maybe that’s why Berg wasn’t good at landscapes. (10) In a few years early autumn Berg went to the Murom forests, to the lake where his friend the artist Yartsev spent the summer, and lived there for about a month. (11) He didn’t intend to work and didn’t take it with him oil paints, but I only brought a small box of watercolors. (12) For whole days he lay in the still green meadows and looked at flowers and herbs, collected bright red rose hips and fragrant juniper, long pine needles, aspen leaves, where black and blue spots were scattered across the lemon field, fragile lichens of a delicate ashy hue and wilting carnation. (13) He carefully examined autumn leaves from the inside, where the yellowness was slightly touched by leaden frost. (14) At sunset, flocks of cranes flew over the lake to the south, and Vanya Zotov, the forester’s son, said to Berg every time: - (15) It seems that the birds are throwing us away, flying to the warm seas.

(16) Berg for the first time felt a stupid insult: the cranes seemed to him traitors. (17) They abandoned without regret this forested and solemn region, full of nameless lakes, impassable thickets, dry foliage, the measured hum of pine trees and the air smelling of resin and damp swamp mosses. (18) One day Berg woke up with a strange feeling. (19) Light shadows of the branches trembled on the clean floor, and behind the door a quiet blue shone. (20) Berg encountered the word “radiance” only in the books of poets; he considered it pompous and devoid of clear meaning. (21) But now he understood how accurately this word conveys that special light that comes from the September sky and sun. (22) Berg took paints and paper and, without even drinking tea, went to the lake. (23) Vanya transported him to far shore. (24) Berg was in a hurry.

(25) Berg wanted to give all the power of the colors, all the skill of his hands, everything that trembled somewhere in his heart to this paper, in order to depict at least a hundredth part of the splendor of these forests, dying majestically and simply. (26) Berg worked like a man possessed, sang and shouted. …(27) Two months later, a notice was brought to Berg’s house about an exhibition in which he was supposed to participate: they asked him to tell him how many of his works the artist would exhibit this time. (28) Berg sat down at the table and quickly wrote:

“I’m exhibiting only one watercolor sketch made this summer - my first landscape.” (29) After a while, Berg sat and thought. (30) He wanted to trace by what elusive ways a clear and joyful feeling of his homeland appeared in him.

(31) It ripened for weeks, years, decades, but the final impetus was given by the forest edge, autumn, the cries of cranes and Vanya Zotov. - (32) Eh, Berg, crack soul! – he remembered the words of the fighters. (33) The fighters were right then. (34) Berg knew that now he was connected with his country not only with his mind, but with all his heart, as an artist, and that love for his homeland made his smart but dry life warm, cheerful and a hundred times more beautiful than before.

19.Text by B. Akunin “About fear/courage”:

I recently read most interesting article in the journal Current Biology about an American woman who has absolutely no sense of fear. That is, generally zero point zero. Scientists hung her with sensors, scared and scared her in every way they could imagine - no negative emotions.

The reason for our American woman’s fearlessness was purely medical. There is an almond-shaped area in the brain called the amygdala. It is he who is responsible for the formation of fear.

I'm trying to imagine what it would be like to live without fear at all. Would I like it or not?

The first impulse, of course, is to answer: yes, I would really like to!

Fear is a terribly nasty feeling.

Tolstoy wonderfully describes how Nikolai Rostov celebrates the coward, running away from the French: “One inseparable feeling of fear for his young, happy life controlled his entire being. Quickly jumping over boundaries, with the same swiftness with which he ran while playing burners, he flew across the field, occasionally turning around his pale, kind, young face, and a cold of horror ran down his back.”

Now he will drop the pistol and run. Lieutenant Tolstoy must have known this state firsthand - it is impressively described in “Sevastopol Stories.”

And how many unworthy acts and meanness are committed out of fear, how many destinies are broken.

No, it's decided. Please remove my amygdala. I want to not be afraid of anything. Nothing at all. As Vysotsky sang: “I don’t like myself when I’m a coward.”

On the other hand... Everyone has probably had to do something through fear in their life.

One of my early memories is how for some reason we started jumping from the roof of the garage in the yard. I was probably six or seven years old. As usual, there was someone reckless, and the rest followed him, including me. He looked down from above - horror, numbness. Especially when my friend, who was braver than me, jumped, twisted his ankle and screamed in pain. And I'm next. The girls are watching from below (they are smarter than us fools - they didn’t climb). He jumped, of course. Where to go?

And for the first time in my life I experienced a feeling of victory - the most precious of victories, victory over myself. Maybe it wasn’t such a stupid thing to jump from the roof of a garage.

38) Why fear is needed from a biological point of view is clear - the instinct of self-preservation is triggered. 39)But fear is also necessary for personality development.

40) Fear is needed so that you have something to win. 41) Courage is not fearlessness, but the ability to defeat the amygdala. 42) Cowardice is the opposite. 43)When the amygdala defeats you.

(there was a piece about professions, I couldn’t find it) I thought and thought and refused. It's impossible to write a living book if you're not vibrating with the fear that you won't succeed. Even if it's just a detective story.

And where would I be without this fear?

No, I want to be afraid and rejoice in victory over fear.

Don't touch my amygdala.

20. Text by A. Green “The Voice and the Eye” VOICE AND EYE The blind man lay quietly, folding his arms on his chest and smiling. He smiled unconsciously. He was ordered not to move, in any case, to make movements only in cases of strict necessity. He lay there like that for the third day, blindfolded. But his state of mind, despite this weak, frozen smile, was that of a condemned man awaiting mercy.

From time to time, the opportunity to begin to live again, balancing himself in a bright space with the mysterious work of his pupils, suddenly appearing clearly, excited him so much that he twitched all over, as if in a dream.

Protecting Rabid's nerves, the professor did not tell him that the operation was a success, that he would certainly become sighted again. Some ten-thousandth chance back could turn everything into a tragedy. Therefore, when saying goodbye, the professor said every day

Rabidu:

Keep calm. Everything has been done for you, the rest will follow.

Amid the painful tension, anticipation and all sorts of assumptions, Rabid heard the voice of Daisy Garan approaching him. It was a girl who worked at the clinic; often in difficult moments Rabid asked her to put her hand on his forehead and now he was pleased to expect that this small friendly hand would lightly cling to his head, numb from immobility. And so it happened.

When she took her hand away, he, who had looked inside himself for so long and learned to unmistakably understand the movements of his heart, realized once again that his main fear lately had been the fear of never seeing Daisy. Even when he was brought here and he heard a swift female voice in charge of the patient’s device, a gratifying feeling stirred in him of a gentle and slender creature, drawn by the sound of this voice. It was a warm, cheerful and close to the soul sound of young life, rich in melodious shades, clear as a warm morning.

Gradually, her image clearly arose in him, arbitrary, like all our ideas about the invisible, but necessary for him. Talking only to her for three weeks, submitting to her easy and persistent care, Rabid knew that he began to love her from the first days; now getting well became his goal for her sake.

He thought that she treated him with deep sympathy, favorable for the future. Blind, he did not consider himself entitled to ask these questions, postponing their decision until the time when both of them looked into each other's eyes. And he was completely unaware that this girl, whose voice made him so happy, was thinking about his recovery with fear and sadness, since she was ugly. Her feeling for him arose from loneliness, the consciousness of her influence on him and from the consciousness of security. He was blind, and she could calmly look at herself with his inner idea of her, which he expressed not in words, but in his entire attitude - and she knew that he loved her.

Before the operation, they talked for a long time and a lot. Rabid told her about his wanderings, and she told about everything that was happening in the world now. And the line of her conversation was full of the same charming softness as her voice. As they parted, they thought of something else to say to each other.

Her last words were:

Goodbye, bye.

Bye... - answered Rabid, and it seemed to him that in “bye” there was hope.

He was straight, young, brave, humorous, tall and black-haired. He should have had

If they do - black shiny eyes with a point-blank gaze. Imagining this look, Daisy walked away from the mirror with fear in her eyes. And her painful, irregular face was covered with a gentle blush.

What will happen? - she said. - Well, let this good month end. But open his prison, Professor Rebald, please!

When the hour of testing came and the light was installed, which at first Rabid could fight with his weak gaze, the professor and his assistant and with them several other people from the scientific world surrounded Rabid.

Daisy! - he said, thinking that she was here, and hoping to see her first. But she was not there precisely because at that moment she did not find the strength to see or feel the excitement of a man whose fate was being decided by the removal of the bandage. She stood in the middle of the room as if spellbound, listening to Mr.

21.Text by T.N. Tolstaya "On Mercy":

Thirty-six families were helped by their grandmother over three decades. Once again: thirty-six. Where it was impossible to cut back from her family without harming their livelihood, she cut back from herself. It seems that she spent her whole life in the same boring blue dress; when the dress became worn out, it was replaced with the same one.

No, not all my life. Before the revolution, she wore beautiful, fashionable things - black velvet, transparent sleeves with embroidery, tortoiseshell combs - but I myself found them by digging through chests in the closet. What happened to her, when it happened, why it happened, how she became a saint - I will never know.

After my grandmother’s death, my mother began to receive timid letters from distant exiles, from beyond the Arctic Circle. Tatyana Borisovna sent us so many rubles every month, we survived. The daughter has no legs, there is no job, the husband is dead. What should we do? And mother - seven children, nanny Grusha, cook Marfa, Sofya Isaakovna - music, Malyaka - partying, Elizaveta Solomonovna - French, Galina Valeryanovna - English, this is for everyone, plus Cecilia Albertovna - mathematics for stupid people (that's me, hello!), Yassa's dog - woof-woof, twice a week a herd of dad's graduate students - soup, second course - mom calmly and steadfastly took this cross upon herself, and bore it, and continued payments and parcels, without telling anyone, without complaining to anyone, everything as calm, friendly and mysterious as we knew her.

And I would never have known about any of this if one of the unfortunate people, already in the seventies, had not reached Moscow and ended up in a relationship with my mother’s closest friend, and she proceeded to ask my mother and found out and told everything to me - in great secret, shocked, as everyone has always been shocked, by my mother’s mysterious sunny personality.

Since I’ve gotten ahead of myself, I’ll say that we also - to complete the picture of our gluttony - had a Volga car and a dacha with verandas and colored glass; the whole camp moved to the dacha in the summer, and although the music and language teachers did not go with us, we had a lame Aunt Lelya, who herself knew three languages, a bald old woman Klavdiya Alekseevna, who took the kids for a walk, and the family of my father’s graduate student Tolya - a wife and two kids, because they needed fresh air and why don’t they live with us. So no fewer than fifteen people sat at the table, and I always see my mother standing at the stove, or dragging a cauldron with laundry boiled in it together with Martha, or weeding beds with peonies, lilies and strawberries, or darning, or knitting socks, and her face is the face of the Madonna, and her hands, fingers, are twisted by hard work, her nails are knocked down and her knuckles are swollen, and she is ashamed of her hands. And she never, never takes out of the chest of drawers and puts on either a silver necklace or a golden neck scarf.

But he doesn’t allow us to wear them either.

*** The fictitious marriage soon grew into a real one, in March they even celebrated a wedding, and the new relatives of Alexei Tolstoy, who had almost disappeared in the Perm, or Ufa, or Saratov, or Orenburg, or Tomsk wilderness, were left with displeasure alone (he interceded for them Bitter). By the way, the security officers figured out my father’s plan (well, there were always enough informers around). Recently, the diary of Lyubov Vasilyevna Shaporina, a theater artist, the mother of my father’s friend Vasya, was published. She writes that Vasya was going to marry his friend Natasha and the local (children's village) security officer shouted, what do you think, they took the manner: marry those being deported! They think that since Nikita Tolstoy did it, they can do it too!

Vasya got married after all.

22.Text by Yu.M. Nagibin “What is beauty?”:

What is beauty? True, not always, people have different tastes, different ideas about “what is good and what is bad.” It is much easier for those who have a highly developed perceptive apparatus to understand the artist’s fascination with this or that nature and to share his feeling despite their own predilections than for those who rarely come into contact with art. What amazes the Mona Lisa? The complexity of expression, the depth of spiritual life, revealing itself in a multi-valued half-smile, a gaze immersed in the distance, but ready to respond to the moment. Can you say that the Mona Lisa is impeccably beautiful? Leonardo himself has much more beautiful women in his canvases (at least the Hermitage “Madonna Litta”), but the immortal Mona Lisa beckons, attracts, drives poets crazy, inspires musicians, captivates complex and simple souls - she does not reveal a cold, generalizing type of beauty, but the hot, pulsating, bottomless life of a single soul. Man, Pascal said, is only truly interested in man. And therefore, generation after generation does not tire of fighting over the mystery of Gioconda, the mystery of a very real woman who lived in our world, and not on Olympus and not in the heights of the mountains, a Florentine citizen, the wife of the merchant Giocondo.

Words cannot describe the beauty. Leo Tolstoy knew this very well. In a half-joking argument with Turgenev and Druzhinin over who would better describe the beauty of a woman, he crossed out the straightforward descriptions of his rivals with a single phrase from Homer: “When Elena entered, the elders stood up.” Clever, daring, sly, but at the same time Tolstoy seems to admit that he is powerless to express in words the living beauty of a woman. However, this did not prevent either himself or his literary brethren from creating captivating female images. Do we doubt the mature beauty of Anna Karenina, or the girlish beauty of Natasha Rostova, or the romantic beauty of Tatyana Larina? Meanwhile, Pushkin did not give her portrait.

After all, it cannot be considered a portrait: “Tatyana’s pale beauty and flowing hair.” But all it says is that “everything was quiet, it was just there.” What does Pushkin achieve with such visibility of an image that has become a symbol of Russian female beauty - physical and spiritual? The magic of light strokes scattered throughout the novel, the enchanting author's intonation, filled with tenderness and respect, and something completely elusive that belongs to the secret of genius.

Soulless, external beauty is nothing; only beauty that glows from within is valuable; it illuminates the world with goodness, elevates the person himself and strengthens faith in the future.

As the great teacher K. Ushinsky said well: “Any sincere enjoyment of the elegant is in itself a source of moral beauty.”

23. Text by M.M. Prishvin “Love” When a person loves, he penetrates into the essence of the world.

The white hedge was covered in needles of frost, the bushes were red and gold. The silence is such that not a single leaf is touched from the tree. But the bird flew by, and just a flap of its wing was enough for the leaf to break off and fly down in a circle.

What a joy it was to feel the golden hazel leaf covered with the white lace of frost! And this cold running water in the river... and this fire, and this silence, and the storm, and everything that exists in nature and that we don’t even know, everything entered and united into my love, which embraced the whole world.

Love is an unknown country, and we are all sailing there, each on our own ship, and each of us is the captain of our own ship and leads the ship in our own way.

I missed the first powder, but I don’t repent, because before the light a white dove appeared to me in a dream, and when I then opened my eyes, I realized such joy from white snow and the morning star, which you don’t always recognize when hunting.

This is how tenderly the warm air of a flying bird embraced its face with its wing, and a joyful man stood up in the light of the morning star and asked, like a little child: stars, moon, white light, take the place of the white dove that flew away! And the same in this morning hour was the touch of understanding my love as the source of all light, all the stars, the moon, the sun and all the illuminated flowers, herbs, children, all living things on earth.

And then at night it seemed to me that my charm was over, I no longer loved. Then I saw that there was nothing more in me and my whole soul was like a devastated land in late autumn: the cattle had been driven away, the fields were empty, where it was black, where there was snow, and in the snow there were traces of cats.

What is love? Nobody said this correctly. But only one thing can be truly said about love, that it contains the desire for immortality and eternity, and at the same time, of course, as something small and in itself incomprehensible and necessary, the ability of a being embraced by love to leave behind more or less durable things , ranging from small children to Shakespearean lines.

A small ice floe, white on top, green at the break, floated quickly, and a seagull was floating on it. While I was climbing the mountain, it became God knows where in the distance, where you can see the white church in the curly clouds under the magpie kingdom of black and white.

Large water overflows its banks and overflows far. But even a small stream rushes to big water and even reaches the ocean.

Only stagnant water remains to stand for itself, go out and turn green.

That’s how people love: big love embraces the whole world, it makes everyone feel good. And there is simple, family love, running in streams in the same beautiful direction.

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Composition

Beauty is a very individual concept. What one person admires, another will not even look at, and if he does, he will be very surprised, because he will not find anything beautiful there. What is this connected with? Probably, scientists could explain this fact from the point of view of genetics or psychology. But now this is not very interesting for us. We simply accept it as a fact: beauty is individual. This is the first.

Secondly, beauty makes you admire. Beauty attracts. Often it carries some kind of positive energy, cleanses and enlightens. Therefore, we can say that beauty has a higher nature, it is divine.

But this is only true beauty. It happens that we mistake beauty, external shine, for beauty. But this beauty covers up inner poverty, wretchedness, even ugliness or vice. Then we can say that this beauty is from the devil, it destroys. This is exactly what O. Wilde’s novel “The Picture of Dorian Gray” is about. The young hero of the work was dazzlingly beautiful in appearance, but this beauty did not extend to his soul. Dorian believed that everything was permissible for him: he needed to use his beauty and youth, fulfilling all his whims and not thinking about others.

But Wilde shows that it is impossible. The laws of human nature are such that the ugliness of the soul will certainly be reflected in appearance. Even a magical portrait, “suffering” for the sins of its “master,” did not save the hero. Retribution inevitably comes, and beauty instantly turns into the most disgusting ugliness.

Many items and objects can be beautiful. Animals can be beautiful. People can be beautiful. What is a beautiful person to me? What should he be like for me to admire him?

Ozhegov’s explanatory dictionary gives several definitions for the word “beautiful”. In the first place here is the meaning “full of internal content, highly moral.” On the second - “delivering pleasure to the eye, pleasing in appearance, harmony, harmony, beautiful.” And only in third place is “attracting attention, spectacular, but meaningless.” Thus, the authors of this dictionary bring inner beauty to the fore.

They consider this the most important, defining sign of beauty. Is this true for me? Of course, I appreciate outwardly beautiful people who have a spectacular, bright appearance, a beautiful figure, and are fashionably and catchily dressed. Such people constantly appear on TV screens, they look at us from the covers of glossy magazines. As a rule, these are the so-called “glamorous people” who lead a fashionable lifestyle.

Of course, at first glance, they are attractive. But, it seems to me, most of them are internally very poor. I'm afraid that when I meet them there will be nothing to talk about, it will just be very boring to be with them. Their external beauty will quickly become familiar, and these “glossy people” will become simply beautiful picture, an interior that you quickly stop noticing.

This means that external beauty alone is not enough. And what is external beauty? How to define it? What is it, regular facial features, beautiful skin, a certain eye color? It seems to me that no, or rather, not only that. For me personally, an outwardly beautiful person is a person with glowing eyes, cheerful and cheerful, a person with an open smile, looking directly at you during a conversation. So, beauty is determined for me rather by internal qualities?

Of course, I believe that a beautiful person should be confident, full of dignity, even majestic. These qualities, undoubtedly, are reflected in a person’s appearance, giving him nobility, even aristocracy. Such traits appear in a person’s entire appearance: in his facial expressions, gestures, and gait. It is important to make one more point here: a beautiful person is not only a beautiful face. This is the impression that is created from the entire appearance of a person: his face, figure, manner of dressing and manner of speaking, from his facial expressions and gestures.

In addition, a handsome person must be an intelligent and educated person. Intelligence for me is generally the most important quality in a person. It seems to me that if you have intelligence, then many qualities will be added. An intelligent and confident person simply cannot be ugly.

Also, in my opinion, the level of his general culture is very important for the external beauty of a person. This culture will manifest itself in everything: how a person looks, what he wears, how he behaves, what books he reads, what music he listens to, what he dreams about.

It is very important for me that a person is cheerful and cheerful, that he glows with happiness and optimism. What could be more beautiful than a wide smile, eyes sparkling with joy, and a light flying gait?

This is Natasha Rostova from L. N. Tolstoy’s novel “War and Peace”. If you “disassemble” the appearance of this heroine by individual features - a large moving mouth, black round eyes, thin arms and legs - then Natasha is not beautiful. But who can say this about her, having seen this person, having observed her in life, in difficult situations, or simply by talking to her?! This girl is so emotional, sincere, so full of energy with a love of life that she is brighter and more attractive than many “marble” beauties.

In addition, a handsome person, in my opinion, is an enthusiastic person who knows how to love and make friends. This is a person who is interested in living in the world, in his own country. This is a person for whom there are no barriers, boundaries or stereotypes. In general, he is probably a free person who knows how to use and enjoy his freedom to the fullest.

Thus, I probably consider a harmonious person to be beautiful. This is the key word, it seems to me, to define beauty. “Harmony” for me is a synonym for the word “beauty”. Only a person who is at peace with himself can look and be beautiful. Only the person who found " golden mean"between internal and external, can be called beautiful. Only a person who is in harmony with life and himself can be happy.

Consequently, a chain is built that defines my idea of beauty: harmonious - happy - beautiful. I think it is true for most people on our planet.

External human beauty embodies our ideas about the ideal of beauty. External beauty is not only the anthropological perfection of all elements of the body, not only health. This is inner spirituality - a rich world of thoughts and feelings, moral dignity, respect for people and oneself... The higher the moral development and general level of a person’s spiritual culture, the more clearly the inner spiritual world is reflected in external features. This glow of the soul, as Hegel puts it, is increasingly manifested, understood and felt by modern man. Inner beauty reflects on the outer
appearance...

The unity of internal and external beauty is an aesthetic expression of a person’s moral dignity. There is nothing shameful in the fact that a person strives to be beautiful, wants to look beautiful. But, it seems to me, one must have a moral right to this desire. The morality of this aspiration is determined by the extent to which this beauty expresses the creative, active essence of man. A person’s beauty manifests itself most clearly when he is engaged in a favorite activity, which by its nature emphasizes something good in him, characteristic of his personality. At the same time, his appearance is illuminated by inner inspiration. It is no coincidence that Myron embodied the beauty of the discus thrower at the moment when the tension of internal spiritual forces is combined with the tension of physical forces, in this combination - the apotheosis of beauty...

External beauty has its internal moral sources. Favorite creativity makes a person beautiful, transforms facial features - makes them subtle and expressive.

Beauty is also created by anxiety and care – what is usually called “the pangs of creativity.” Just as grief leaves indelible wrinkles on the face, so creative concerns are the subtlest, most skillful sculptor who makes the face beautiful. And, conversely, the inner emptiness gives the outer facial features an expression of dull indifference.

If inner spiritual wealth creates human beauty, then inactivity and, especially, immoral activity destroy this beauty.

Immoral activities disfigure. The habit of lying, hypocrisy, and idle talk creates a wandering gaze: a person avoids looking other people in the eyes; it is difficult to see the thought in his eyes, he hides it... Envy, selfishness, suspicion, fear that “I am not appreciated” - all these feelings gradually coarse his facial features, making him gloomy and unsociable. Being yourself, cherishing your dignity is your life blood
true human beauty.

The ideal of human beauty is at the same time an ideal of morality. The unity of physical, moral, aesthetic perfection is the harmony that is talked about so much.
(According to V.A. Sukhomlinsky)

Show full text

In the text offered to us by V.A. Sukhomlinsky raises the problem of human beauty.

When commenting on the text, you should pay attention to the fact that the author leads us to the idea that every person wants to look beautiful and in this“There’s nothing wrong with that.” In the same time it seems to the writer, that people should have a “moral right” to this desire, determined by its relationship to their favorite business.

In the second part of the text V. Sukhomlinsky discusses the origins of human beauty. He notes “creative concerns” and morality are “the most skillful skilled sculptors” creating the human appearance.

I completely share the point of view

Criteria

1 of 1 K1 Formulation of source text problems
3 of 3 K2

Show full text

In the text offered to us by V.A. Sukhomlinsky raises the problem of human beauty.

I completely share the point of view

Criteria

1 of 1 K1 Formulation of source text problems
3 of 3 K2

EGE are embodied in external human beauty. Arguments on the topic “Beauty” for the Unified State Exam essay

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“1.Text by V. Sukhomlinsky About true beauty: Our ideas about the ideal of beauty are embodied in external human beauty. External...”