An age of wolfhound analysis falls on my shoulders. Composition “A century-wolfhound rushes on my shoulders
Maybe you don't need me.
Night; from the abyss of the world,
Like a shell without pearls
I have been cast ashore.
O. Mandelstam
Osip Emilievich Mandelstam knew the true value of himself and his work, he believed that he would influence "Russian poetry, changing something in its structure and composition." The poet never cheated on himself in anything. He preferred the positions of a prophet and a priest, living together and among people, creating what his people needed.
I was given a body - what should I do with it.
So single and so mine?
For quiet joy
Breathe and live
Who, tell me, should I thank?
I am the gardener, I am the flower,
In the darkness of the world, I am not alone.
For talented poetry, he was rewarded with persecution, poverty and, in the end, death. But truthful, high-priced poems, unpublished for decades, severely persecuted, survived. and now entered our consciousness as high examples of human dignity, unbending will and genius.
In the transparent Petropolis we will die.
Where Proserpina rules over us.
We drink mortal air in every breath,
And every hour we die.
In St. Petersburg, Mandelstam began to write poetry, he returned here for a short time, he considered this city “his homeland”.
I returned to my city, familiar to tears,
To veins, to children's swollen glands.
I'm back here - so swallow quickly
Fish oil from Leningrad river lanterns.
Mandelstam was a childishly open and joyful person, going towards people with a pure soul, who did not know how to lie and pretend. He never sold his talent, preferring freedom to satiety and comfort: well-being was not a condition for creativity for him. He did not seek misfortune, but he did not pursue happiness either.
Ah, heavy honeycombs and tender nets,
It is easier to lift a stone than to repeat your name!
I have only one concern in the world:
Golden care, how to get rid of the burden of time.
Like dark water, I drink clouded air.
Time is plowed by the plow, and the rose was the earth.
The poet knew and was not indifferent to the price that had to be paid for the blessings of life and even for the happiness of living. Fate pretty much beat and ruffled him, repeatedly led him to the last line, and only a happy accident saved the poet at a decisive moment.
December solemn shines over the Neva.
Twelve months sing about the hour of death.
No, not a Straw in a solemn atlas
Tastes a slow, agonizing rest.
According to Akhmatova, at the age of 42, Mandelstam “became heavy, turned gray, began to breathe badly - he gave the impression of an old man, but his eyes still shone. The lyrics got better and better. Prose too. Interestingly, the poet combined physical decrepitude with poetic and spiritual power.
Eyelashes are pricked, a tear has boiled in my chest.
I feel without fear that there will be and will be a thunderstorm.
Someone wonderful me something hurries to forget.
It's stuffy, and yet you want to live to death.
What gave strength to the poet? Creation. “Poetry is power,” he told Akhmatova. This power over oneself, illnesses and weaknesses, over human souls, over eternity gave strength to live and create, to be independent and reckless.
For the explosive valor of the coming centuries,
For the high tribe of people
I lost the cup at the feast of the fathers,
And fun and honor.
The age-wolfhound throws itself on my shoulders.
But I'm not a wolf by my blood,
Stuff me better, like a hat, in a sleeve
Hot fur coat of the Siberian steppes.
The poet sincerely tried to merge with time, to fit into the new reality, but he constantly felt its hostility. Over time, this discord became more and more tangible, and then deadly.
My age, my beast, who can
look into your pupils
And glue with his blood
Two centuries of vertebrae.
In life, Mandelstam was not a fighter and a fighter, he knows - we had doubts and fear, but in poetry he was an invincible hero, overcoming all difficulties.
Chur! Do not ask, do not complain!
Hush! Don't whine! Is it for the raznochintsy
The dry trampled boots, so that I now betray them?
We will die like foot soldiers.
But let us not glorify theft, day labor, or lies!
Critics accused Mandelstam of being isolated from life and its problems, but he was very specific, and this was the worst thing for the authorities. This is how he wrote about the repressions of the 1930s:
Help, Lord, to live this night:
I'm afraid for life - for your slave,
Living in Petersburg is like sleeping in a coffin.
“Poems should be civil,” the poet believed. His poem “We live without feeling the country under us.” was tantamount to suicide, because of the "earthly god" he wrote:
His thick fingers, like worms, are fat,
And the words, like pood weights, are true.
Cockroaches are laughing mustaches,
And his bootlegs shine.
They could not forgive such a poet, the authorities destroyed him, but poetry remained, survived and now speaks the truth about its creator.
Where there is more sky for me - there I am ready to wander,
And clear longing does not let me go
From the still young Voronezh hills
To the all-human - clarifying in Tuscany.
- Mandelstam called his first poetry collection, published in 1913, "Stone"; and it consisted of 23 poems. But recognition came to the poet with the release of the second edition of "Stone" in 1916, in ...
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- Osip Emilievich Mandelstam was born in 1891 in Warsaw, but lived with his father and mother in St. Petersburg. He studied at the Tenishevsky commercial essay with allsoch. ru © 2005 the school, which was considered ...
- 1. The main stages of the poet's creative path. 2. The main themes of Mandelstam's lyrics. 3. The tragic death of the poet. O. E. Mandelstam was born into the family of an artisan who later became a merchant. Together with his family, the boy moved ... Osip Mandelstam has a poem "The one who found the horseshoe". A horseshoe always brings happiness. Mandelstam had such a "horseshoe" was his poetic talent. And yet the "horseshoe" did not bring him happiness. The fate of the poet was...
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- Osip Emilievich Mandelstam was born in Warsaw, in a petty-bourgeois family. He spent his childhood and youth in St. Petersburg and Pavlovsk. Graduated from the Tenishevsky School. In the same period, he was fond of Marxism, studying the works of Plekhanov. Mandelstam...
Maybe you don't need me.
Night; from the abyss of the world,
Like a shell without pearls
I have been cast ashore.
O. Mandelstam
Osip Emilievich Mandelstam knew the true value of himself and his work, he believed that he would influence "Russian poetry, changing something in its structure and composition." The poet never cheated on himself in anything. He preferred the positions of a prophet and a priest, living together and among people, creating what his people needed.
I've been given a body - what should I do with it.
So single and so mine?
For the quiet joy to breathe and live
Who, tell me, should I thank?
I am the gardener, I am the flower,
In the darkness of the world, I am not alone.
For talented poetry, he was rewarded with persecution, poverty and, in the end, death. But truthful, high-priced poems, unpublished for decades, severely persecuted, survived ... and now entered our consciousness as high examples of human dignity, unbending will and genius.
In the transparent Petropolis we will die.
Where Proserpina rules over us.
We drink mortal air in every breath,
And every hour we die.
In St. Petersburg, Mandelstam began to write poetry, he returned here for a short time, he considered this city “his homeland”.
I returned to my city, familiar to tears,
To veins, to children's swollen glands.
I'm back here - so swallow quickly
Fish oil from Leningrad river lanterns.
Mandelstam was a childishly open and joyful person, going towards people with a pure soul, who did not know how to lie and pretend. He never sold his talent, preferring freedom to satiety and comfort: well-being was not a condition for creativity for him. He did not seek misfortune, but he did not pursue happiness either.
Ah, heavy honeycombs and tender nets,
It is easier to lift a stone than to repeat your name!
I have only one concern in the world:
Golden care, how to get rid of the burden of time.
Like dark water, I drink clouded air.
Time is plowed by the plow, and the rose was the earth.
The poet knew and was not indifferent to the price that had to be paid for the blessings of life and even for the happiness of living. Fate pretty much beat and ruffled him, repeatedly led him to the last line, and only a happy accident saved the poet at a decisive moment.
December solemn shines over the Neva.
Twelve months sing about the hour of death.
No, not a Straw in a solemn atlas
Tastes a slow, agonizing rest.
According to Akhmatova, at the age of 42, Mandelstam “became heavy, turned gray, began to breathe badly - he gave the impression of an old man, but his eyes still shone. The lyrics got better and better. Prose too. Interestingly, the poet combined physical decrepitude with poetic and spiritual power.
Eyelashes are pricked, a tear has boiled in my chest.
I feel without fear that there will be and will be a thunderstorm.
Someone wonderful me something hurries to forget.
It's stuffy, and yet you want to live to death.
What gave strength to the poet? Creation. “Poetry is power,” he told Akhmatova. This power over oneself, illnesses and weaknesses, over human souls, over eternity gave strength to live and create, to be independent and reckless.
For the explosive valor of the coming centuries,
For the high tribe of people
I lost the cup at the feast of the fathers,
And fun and honor.
The age-wolfhound throws itself on my shoulders.
But I'm not a wolf by my blood,
Stuff me better, like a hat, in a sleeve
Hot fur coat of the Siberian steppes.
The poet sincerely tried to merge with time, to fit into the new reality, but he constantly felt its hostility. Over time, this discord became more and more tangible, and then deadly.
My age, my beast, who can
look into your pupils
And glue with his blood
Two centuries of vertebrae.
In life, Mandelstam was not a fighter and a fighter, he was aware of doubts and fear, but in poetry he was an invincible hero, overcoming all difficulties.
Chur! Do not ask, do not complain!
Hush! Don't whine! Is it for the raznochintsy
The dry trampled boots, so that I now betray them?
We will die like foot soldiers.
But let us not glorify theft, day labor, or lies!
Critics accused Mandelstam of being isolated from life and its problems, but he was very specific, and this was the worst thing for the authorities. This is how he wrote about the repressions of the 1930s:
Help, Lord, to live this night:
I'm afraid for life - for your slave,
Living in Petersburg is like sleeping in a coffin.
“Poems should be civil,” the poet believed. His poem “We live without feeling the country under us ...” was tantamount to suicide, because he wrote about the “earthly god”:
His thick fingers, like worms, are fat,
And the words, like pood weights, are true.
Cockroaches are laughing mustaches,
And his bootlegs shine.
They could not forgive such a poet, the authorities destroyed him, but poetry remained, survived and now speaks the truth about its creator.
Where there is more sky for me - there I am ready to wander,
And clear longing does not let me go
From the still young Voronezh hills
To the universal - clarifying in Tuscany.
"For the explosive valor of the coming centuries..." Osip Mandelstam
For the explosive valor of the coming centuries,
For the high tribe of people
I lost the cup at the feast of the fathers,
And fun, and his honor.
A wolfhound age throws itself on my shoulders,
But I'm not a wolf by my blood,
Stuff me better, like a hat, in a sleeve
Hot fur coat of the Siberian steppes.So as not to see a coward or a flimsy filth,
No bloody blood in the wheel
So that blue foxes shine all night
Me in my primeval beauty,Take me to the night where the Yenisei flows
And the pine reaches the star
Because I'm not a wolf by my blood
And only an equal will kill me.
Analysis of Mandelstam's poem "For the explosive valor of the coming centuries ..."
At the time of the October Revolution, Osip Mandelstam was already a fully accomplished poet, a highly regarded master. His relations with the Soviet authorities were contradictory. He liked the idea of creating a new state. He expected the rebirth of society, human nature. If you carefully read the memoirs of Mandelstam's wife, you can understand that the poet was personally acquainted with many statesmen - Bukharin, Yezhov, Dzerzhinsky. Stalin's resolution on the criminal case of Osip Emilievich is also noteworthy: "Isolate, but preserve." Nevertheless, some poems are imbued with rejection of the methods of the Bolsheviks, hatred for them. Recall at least "We live, not feeling the country under us ..." (1933). Because of this open ridicule of the "father of the people" and his close associates, the poet was first arrested and then sent into exile.
“For the explosive prowess of the coming centuries…” (1931-35) is a poem, somewhat similar in meaning to the above. The key motive is the tragic fate of the poet living in a terrible era. Mandelstam calls it the "age-wolfhound." A similar naming is found earlier in the poem "Century" (1922): "My century, my beast ...". The lyrical hero of the poem "For the explosive valor of the coming centuries ..." opposes himself to the surrounding reality. He does not want to see her terrible manifestations: "cowards", "flimsy dirt", "bloody bones in the wheel." A possible way out is an escape from reality. For the lyrical hero, salvation lies in Siberian nature, so a request arises: "Take me into the night where the Yenisei flows."
Twice in the poem an important thought is repeated: "... I am not a wolf by my blood." This distancing is fundamental for Mandelstam. The years when the poem was written are an extremely difficult time for Soviet residents. The party demanded complete submission. Some people were given a choice: either life or honor. Someone became a wolf, a traitor, someone refused to cooperate with the system. The lyrical hero clearly refers to the second category of people.
There is another important motive - the connection of times. The metaphor comes from Hamlet. In Shakespeare's tragedy there are lines about a torn chain of times (in alternative translations - a dislocated or loosened eyelid, a torn connecting thread of days). Mandelstam believes that the events of 1917 destroyed Russia's connection with the past. In the already mentioned poem "The Century", the lyrical hero is ready to sacrifice himself in order to restore broken bonds. In the work "For the thundering valor of the coming centuries ...", one can see the intention to accept suffering for the sake of the "high tribe of people" who are destined to live in the future.
The confrontation between the poet and the authorities, as often happens, ended in the victory of the latter. In 1938, Mandelstam was again arrested. Osip Emilievich was sent in stages to the Far East, while the sentence was not too cruel for those times - five years in a concentration camp for counter-revolutionary activities. On December 27, he died of typhus while in the transit camp of Vladperpunkt (the territory of modern Vladivostok). The poet was not buried until spring, like other deceased prisoners. Then he was buried in a mass grave, the location of which remains unknown to this day.
Maybe you don't need me.
Night; from the abyss of the world,
Like a shell without pearls
I have been cast ashore.
O. Mandelstam
Osip Emilievich Mandelstam knew the true value of himself and his work, he believed that he would influence "Russian poetry, changing something in its structure and composition." The poet never cheated on himself in anything. He preferred the positions of a prophet and a priest, living together and among people, creating what his people needed.
I've been given a body - what should I do with it.
So single and so mine?
For the quiet joy to breathe and live
Who, tell me, should I thank?
I am the gardener, I am the flower,
In the darkness of the world, I am not alone.
For talented poetry, he was rewarded with persecution, poverty and, in the end, death. But truthful, high-priced poems, unpublished for decades, severely persecuted, survived ... and now entered our consciousness as high examples of human dignity, unbending will and genius.
In the transparent Petropolis we will die.
Where Proserpina rules over us.
We drink mortal air in every breath,
And every hour we die.
In St. Petersburg, Mandelstam began to write poetry, he returned here for a short time, he considered this city “his homeland”.
I returned to my city, familiar to tears,
To veins, to children's swollen glands.
I'm back here - so swallow quickly
Fish oil from Leningrad river lanterns.
Mandelstam was a childishly open and joyful person, going towards people with a pure soul, who did not know how to lie and pretend. He never sold his talent, preferring freedom to satiety and comfort: well-being was not a condition for creativity for him. He did not seek misfortune, but he did not pursue happiness either.
Ah, heavy honeycombs and tender nets,
It is easier to lift a stone than to repeat your name!
I have only one concern in the world:
Golden care, how to get rid of the burden of time.
Like dark water, I drink clouded air.
Time is plowed by the plow, and the rose was the earth.
The poet knew and was not indifferent to the price that had to be paid for the blessings of life and even for the happiness of living. Fate pretty much beat and ruffled him, repeatedly led him to the last line, and only a happy accident saved the poet at a decisive moment.
December solemn shines over the Neva.
Twelve months sing about the hour of death.
No, not a Straw in a solemn atlas
Tastes a slow, agonizing rest.
According to Akhmatova, at the age of 42, Mandelstam “became heavy, turned gray, began to breathe badly - he gave the impression of an old man, but his eyes still shone. The lyrics got better and better. Prose too. Interestingly, the poet combined physical decrepitude with poetic and spiritual power.
Eyelashes are pricked, a tear has boiled in my chest.
I feel without fear that there will be and will be a thunderstorm.
Someone wonderful me something hurries to forget.
Stuffy, and yet you want to live to death.
What gave strength to the poet? Creation. “Poetry is power,” he told Akhmatova. This power over oneself, illnesses and weaknesses, over human souls, over eternity gave strength to live and create, to be independent and reckless.
For the explosive valor of the coming centuries,
For the high tribe of people
I lost the cup at the feast of the fathers,
And fun and honor.
The age-wolfhound throws itself on my shoulders.
But I'm not a wolf by my blood,
Stuff me better, like a hat, in a sleeve
Hot fur coat of the Siberian steppes.
The poet sincerely tried to merge with time, to fit into the new reality, but he constantly felt its hostility. Over time, this discord became more and more tangible, and then deadly.
My age, my beast, who can
look into your pupils
And glue with his blood
Two centuries of vertebrae.
In life, Mandelstam was not a fighter and a fighter, he was aware of doubts and fear, but in poetry he was an invincible hero, overcoming all difficulties.
Chur! Do not ask, do not complain!
Hush! Don't whine! Is it for the raznochintsy
The dry trampled boots, so that I now betray them?
We will die like foot soldiers.
But let us not glorify theft, day labor, or lies!
Critics accused Mandelstam of being isolated from life and its problems, but he was very specific, and this was the worst thing for the authorities. This is how he wrote about the repressions of the 1930s:
Help, Lord, to live this night:
I'm afraid for life - for your slave,
Living in Petersburg is like sleeping in a coffin.
“Poems must be civil,” the poet believed. His poem “We live without feeling the country under us ...” was tantamount to suicide, because he wrote about the “earthly god”:
His thick fingers, like worms, are fat,
And the words, like pood weights, are true.
Cockroaches are laughing mustaches,
And his bootlegs shine.
They could not forgive such a poet, the authorities destroyed him, but poetry remained, survived and now speaks the truth about its creator.
Where there is more sky for me - there I am ready to wander,
And clear longing does not let me go
From the still young Voronezh hills
To the all-human — those who clarify in Tuscany.
For the explosive valor of the coming centuries,
For a high tribe of people, -
I lost the cup at the feast of the fathers,
And fun, and his honor.
A wolfhound age throws itself on my shoulders,
But I am not a wolf by my blood:
Stuff me better, like a hat, in a sleeve
Hot fur coat of the Siberian steppes...
So as not to see a coward or a flimsy filth,
No bloody bones in the wheel;
So that blue foxes shine all night
Me in my primeval beauty.
Take me to the night where the Yenisei flows
And the pine reaches the star
And only an equal will kill me.
Osip Mandelstam. “For the explosive valor of the coming centuries…” (“Vek-wolfhound”). Reader by Konstantin Raikin
There was the following version of the beginning of the text of this poem:
The newspaper spits not with tobacco blood
The maiden knocks not with her knuckles
Human hot twisted mouth
The indignant sings says -
and such variants of the text of the final stanza:
1) Take me to the night where the Yenisei flows
To the six-fingered lie in the hut
Because I'm not a wolf by my blood
And lie to me in a pine coffin
2) Take me to the night where the Yenisei flows
And a tear on the eyelashes like ice
Because I'm not a wolf by my blood
And the man in me won't die
3) Take me to the night where the Yenisei flows
And the pine reaches the star
Because I'm not a wolf by my blood
And my mouth is twisted by untruth.
According to E. G. Gershtein, Mandelstam himself did not like the final line: “When he read this poem to me, he said that he could not find the last verse and was even inclined to discard it altogether.” The final version of the final line was found only at the end of 1935 in Voronezh: "And only an equal will kill me."
The home title of this poem is "Wolf". Wed in a letter from M. A. Bulgakov to K. S. Stanislavsky dated March 18, 1931 (!): “In the wide field of Russian literature in the USSR, I was the only literary wolf ... They treated me like a wolf. And for several years they persecuted me, according to all the rules of a literary cage in a fenced yard. Wed also an entry in the diary of V. Yakhontov (July 1931): “he was ready to burst into tears like a hunted wolf, and indeed he burst into tears, falling on the sofa immediately, as soon as he read (it seems, for the first time and the first) - the age-wolfhound throws himself on my shoulders but I am not a wolf by my blood. When S. Lipkin said that this was “the best poem of the twentieth century,” Mandelstam replied: “But in our family this poem is called“ Nadson ”, meaning, perhaps, a coincidence with the size of the poem Nadson"Believe, the time will come and Baal will perish...". But, most likely, it was something else. N. Mandelstam points out: “About the “Wolf”, O. M. said that it was like a romance, and tried to introduce a “singing” ...”.
It is characteristic that, having got to the West (one of the first - in the memoirs of S. Makovsky), this poem - "judging by the character and style, for some time was only attributed to Mandelstam."