M hot yak folded a song short zmist. "How they made a song
The axis, like two women, sang a song, under the summary ringing of the bells of the monastery, on a summer day. It was all in the quiet street of Arzamas, before evening, on the benches they were stealing a booth, in which I am alive. The place slumbered in the speck of silence of the chervne weekdays. I, sitting in the window with a book in my hands, hearing, like my cook, Ustin's ridges, quietly speak with the peace of my mop, the zemstvo chief.
- And what else to write? - Whip out with a human, but even with a gnuchky voice.
- That's nothing, - thoughtfully and quietly rests, a thin girl, with dark guises and small, squirming, unruly eyes.
- So, - take your bow and send pennies, - what is it?
- And who is still alive - guess for yourself ... ehe-he ...
At the stake behind the garden of our street, toads croak with a marvelous curse sound; annoyingly squishing in the screeching silence of the bells of bells; here, in the back, she drank a croak, but it turns out that she croaked, having fallen asleep and gasping for breath, an old house of susida.
- Ridni, - summarily and angrily seems to be Ustinnya, - but look at them for three versts - and mute you, and work like a bitch! I also, if the first river lived near the city, I summed it up casually. You don’t live all of your life - not all at once - but half of your soul in the village has been lost, and everyone thinks day or night: how is it, what is there?
Do not repeat the words of the ringing of the calls, do not speak at the tone of them. Rest, trembling for the hospitality of the colony, stealing his head in the white bush and biting his lips, he vaguely listens to what he wants. Ustinya's thick voice sounds mocking and angry, it sounds soft and vague.
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Maksim Gorky
How they made a song
The axis, like two women, sang a song, under the summary ringing of the bells of the monastery, on a summer day. It was all in the quiet street of Arzamas, before evening, on the benches they were stealing a booth, in which I am alive. The place slumbered in the speck of silence of the chervne weekdays. I, sitting in the window with a book in my hands, hearing, like my cook, Ustin's ridges, quietly speak with the peace of my mop, the zemstvo chief.
- And what else to write? - Whip out with a human, but even with a gnuchky voice.
- That's nothing, - thoughtfully and quietly rests, a thin girl, with dark guises and small, squirming, unruly eyes.
- So, - take your bow and send pennies, - what is it?
- And who is still alive - guess for yourself ... ehe-he ...
At the stake behind the garden of our street, toads croak with a marvelous curse sound; annoyingly squishing in the screeching silence of the bells of bells; here, in the back, she drank a croak, but it turns out that she croaked, having fallen asleep and gasping for breath, an old house of susida.
- Ridni, - summarily and angrily seems to be Ustinnya, - but look at them for three versts - and mute you, and work like a bitch! I also, if the first river lived near the city, I summed it up casually. You don’t live all of your life - not all at once - but half of your soul in the village has been lost, and everyone thinks day or night: how is it, what is there?
Do not repeat the words of the ringing of the calls, do not speak at the tone of them. Rest, trembling for the hospitality of the colony, stealing his head in the white bush and biting his lips, he vaguely listens to what he wants. Ustinya's thick voice sounds mocking and angry, it sounds soft and vague.
- Buvalo - you are deaf, you are blind at the evil ace in your own way; but in me I don’t have anyone there: the father is near the fire, he died, the uncle died of cholera, they were brothers - one was left alone with the soldiers, they robbed him of the underdog, the other was a molyar, live near Boigorodi. Usikh nibi povin zmilo z zemlі.
Smiling at the sunset, near the calamous sky, the red sun hangs on the golden exchanges. The quiet voice of a woman, the midday splash of calls and the glass of the croaking of toads - these are the sounds that live in the city of hvilin. Sounds plyvut low above the ground, like lastivki in front of the plank. Above them, next to them - silence, scho all rot, like death.
There are people without a head of land: one is planted somewhere near a great dance, which lies on the side, plugged with a fiery cork, and even lazily, quietly call on the heated slope.
Raptom Ustim'ya seems to be zhvavo, ale dilovito:
- Well, Mashutka, tell me ...
- Why?
- We’ll fold the song ...
I, noisily sighing,
Eh, that was in the afternoon, with a clear sun,
A bright night, at the moon.
Irishly mumbling the melody, calmly, calmly singing:
I'm worried, young girls...
And Ustim'ya is sung and even more outrageously bring the melody to the end:
All the sum of the heart toil ...
Skinchila and immediately began to speak cheerfully, little puffs of praise:
- Axis out and roared, song! I love you, I’ll learn how to fold a song, how to twist a thread ... Well ...
Having spoken, listening to the tight flocks of toads, the lazy tinkling of the bells, she again quietly began to chirp with words and sounds:
Oh, that is not the winter of fierce swirls,
No hanging strings are fun.
Pokoivka, leaning sharply up to her, resting her white head on her round shoulder, flattened her eyes and even more boldly, continued in a thin three-way voice:
Do not convey from the right side
I’ll leave the heart of the news ...
- So axis! - said Ustinnya, grunting her hand over her knee. - And I was young - that shorter song folded! Buvalo, girlfriends are chirping: “Ustyusha, learn the songs!” Eh, and I will burst! .. Well, how far will it be?
- I don't know, - said the resting woman, squashing her eyes, laughing.
I marvel at them krіz kіti vіknі; sleepers don’t mark me, but I can be clearly seen with a deep smack in my throat, Ustinya’s short cheek, little ear, don’t cover it with a yellow, gray eye, not straight, at the beginning of a magpie, and stupidly picking a person. Tse woman is cunning, balakucha; won't even love to drink and listen to the reading of the saints' lives. Plitkarka out on the whole street, and more: here, all the hidden places are in the gut in it. Next to her, mitznoy and sieve, kistlyava, negrabna rest - pidlіtok. That mouth at the resting place is childish: small, puffy lips are puffed up, instead of skrivgen, you are afraid that it will be more contagious, and the axis will cry.
Swallows blink over the brukivka, may sticking up the earth with bent wings: now, the midges have sank low - a sign that the woods will climb before night. On the parkan, on the other hand, the crow sits unruly, instead of the virizan tree, and with black eyes to lash the swallows for the blink of an eye. They stopped ringing, but the stogin is more sonorous, and the silence is thicker, hotter.
The lark sleeps over the fields.
Cornflowers bloomed in the fields,
- Thoughtfully sing Ustinnya, clasping her hands on her chest, marveling at the sky, and calmly echoing calmly and boldly:
Look at the native fields!
І Ustinnya, sweetly singing a high, cunning voice, stele with oxamite sincere words:
Take a walk, with a dear friend, foxes!
Having finished sleeping, stink for a long time, clinging tightly one to one; let the woman speak quietly, thoughtfully:
- Ali pissed off the song? Adzhe zovsіm good ...
- Look, - quietly zupinila її pokoїvka.
The stench marveled right-handed, navskis looked at himself: there, generously doused with sun, the great priest crouching proudly at the lilac cassock, peacefully rearranging his club; shining silver knob, shining a gilded cross on wide breasts.
The crow glanced at the new black nasty eye and, lazily waving its important wings, flew at the knot of the gorobine, and the starry gray breast fell into the garden.
The women stood up, movchki, bowed to the priests. Vіn not mentioning їх. Not sitting down, the stench saw off Yogo Ochima, not roaming the docks at the wires.
- Oho-ho, girl, - said Ustinnya, straightening the coat on her head, - I wish I were younger with that lance ...
- Marya! .. Mashko!
- Oh, call ...
The calmness flowed in, and Ustinnya, sifting on the lava again, thought, ironing the chintz cloth on the knees.
Stop the toad. It’s stuffy, it’s not rukhome, like the water of a fox lake. Flowery burning day. In the fields, beyond the ruined river Tesha, there is an angry rumble - a distant grumbling of a witch.
2. Remembrance of the study “How they made a song” (material of proponations at the book “Read, think, speak ...”, grade 8).
Learn to give food - think, proponate after M. Gorky's roses:
What experiences did the heroines of the confession have about the song?
Why did he want to compose a song?
What do women think about, what do they think? Like їхні мрії, expressions in the song, svіvvіdnosya z everyday life, what does a writer say?
What rows did Ustinnya put together, and what about rest? How can you explain?
Behind what signs do you see this song as a folk song?
VI. The word of the teacher.
That scho vіdrіznyає lyrical tvіr tse epic and drama? Songs of lyric, after the words of V.G. Bєlinskogo - tse simple-hearted waving of grief and joy of the heart in a tight chi frying if suspіlny chi family stoksіv. This is a woman’s skarga, separated from a dear heart and forcibly seen for an unloved and frail, tight for her fatherland, who lied in her native house and native village, remembrance in a foreign land, on a barbarian setting of a man and a mother-in-law. As the hero of our songs is a man, then - he spoke about the darling, hatred to the squad, but the sounds of the wild, hearty merriment are violent, mittevy vyhіd іz the soul of an important tightness.
The drama is recognized for staging on stage, it will require a full work of actors, directors, artists, illuminators, musicians.).
Who could be the hero of folk songs, what kind of stench did they win?
(Also in the number of children they sang with songs, pdrostayuchi, they themselves learned to sing, then it was just an hour, and not so far away, if all the life of a Russian people of the people and to death was accompanied by a song. Russian folk song - tvir collective songs. in the mountains, Song could sleep for itself and about itself, busying itself at the same time as a non-vaping, monotonous robot.
Name the ritual songs.
(Spring songs, see off to the army, holy first furrows and many others).
Finding the best form of ritual song - Russian wedding, de skin z diyovih osib- named, named, matchmaker, friends - their "roles", created by the people for centuries.
VII. Analysis of the poetics of the spring song. (Text of the song of the skin study).
Can you mentally subtract the text in some part?
(Into 3 parts: Smiliviy Ivan cross the river; Natalia crosses the river; Natasha’s rozmova with Ivan after the sound).
How prompted was the song from the position to change?
(This song is merry, in it they say about Ivan and Natasha, as they used to live in a bad way. The people of the song praise the betrothed, have mercy on him for his mercifulness, lower almost to Natasha’s kohana. , obviously, now I’m “sweet”).
Yaky moral ideal the betrothed is painted in a song?
(Smiley, smart, able to know how to get out of any situation, so much lower, loving, it’s easy to go through life with such a person).
What poetic features of the song can you name?
(In an hour, I will describe the betrothed vikoristano more richly dієslіv: the meaning of the names is the person is diyalna, pracovita. Rich slіv zmenshuvalno - affectionate suffix: “gudziki”, “thread”, “mileshenya”, “father”, “mother”. Rich repetition: “ lay, "walk, shift", "kiss" and others. Ivan's food is rhetorical: "Tell me, Natasha, the whole truth, your own: who are you, Natasha, from your kind family?").
What kind of advice does the soul of the listeners know about this song?
(learn to give a letter on the food chain at home)
1. Complete the analysis of the song.
2. Remember to remind me to write a song (for reading).
3.Individual zavdannya - reminder of "Russian historical song".
Outline of the study of the theory of literature.
Prologue. Genre. (grade 9)
a) remembrance of the pupils of the honorary mentors of the fifth-eighth grades;
b) as a result of reading the academic guilt, clearly show what kind of “self-destruction” metaphor is.
2. Reading articles from the assistant “Repetition of the past. Genri". Rozmov's reading hour:
a) genres of folklore; work at zoshiti: little-scheme "Folklore tree";
b) recognition of folklore and literature;
c) global genres for folklore and literature.
3. Contest of folklore and literary passages or the quiz "Journey of passages" (learning to name folklore and literary turns of passages).
4. Learn how to direct butts, if folk art becomes material for literary creation. Then we say to them: “How can a literary tvir become folklore?”
Home tasks (differentiation):
1. Genre folklore.
2. Literary genres.
3. Folk tale and literature.
4. References to Krylov's tales: folklore or literature?
5. Fold a memo-scheme "Apply to the genre ...": fairy tales, bilini, lyrical verse, tales, explanations, novel.
Outline of the event dramatic creation.
Moliere. "Tartuffe" (grade 9)
1. The teacher's speech: "It's not easy literary works". Reading the article "Molière" from the assistant.
2. Self-reading of the first and the other prohan to the king with offensive remarks on nutrition about the topic of creation, the place of deity and choice of heroes.
3. Discussing the problem of objective and subjective meaning of creation.
4. Analysis of Moliere's comedy "Tartuffe".
Two options for vikonannya (at the reader's discretion):
a) commenting on the reading before moving, then analyzing the work;
b) analysis of creation, manifestation characteristic rice literary straightening, epochs; accept that way of creating images of heroes, the author's setting before them; porіvnyannya removi z otrimanimi vysnovki and results.
A.M. Gorky
How they made a song
The axis, like two women, sang a song, under the summary ringing of the bells of the monastery, on a summer day. It was all in the quiet street of Arzamas, before evening, on the benches they were stealing a booth, in which I am alive. The place slumbered in the speck of silence of the chervne weekdays. I, sitting in the window with a book in my hands, hearing, like my cook, Ustin's ridges, quietly speak with the peace of my mop, the zemstvo chief.
What else to write? - Whip out with a human, but even with a gnuchky voice.
That’s nothing, - thoughtfully and quietly rests, thin girl, with dark guises and small, squirming, unruly eyes.
So, - take your bow and send pennies, - what is it?
And who is still alive - guess for yourself ... ehe-he ...
At the stake behind the garden of our street, toads croak with a marvelous curse sound; annoyingly squishing in the screeching silence of the bells of bells; here, in the back, she drank a croak, but it turns out that she croaked, having fallen asleep and gasping for breath, an old house of susida.
Ridni, - summarily and angrily like Ustinnya, - but go through them for three miles - and mute you, and work like a bitch! I also, if the first river lived near the city, I summed it up casually. You don’t live all of it - not all at once - but half of your soul in the village has been lost, and you keep thinking day and night: how is it, what is there?
Do not repeat the words of the ringing of the calls, do not speak at the tone of them. Rest, trembling for the hospitality of the colony, stealing his head in the white bush and biting his lips, he vaguely listens to what he wants. Ustinya's thick voice sounds mocking and angry, it sounds soft and vague.
Buvalo - you are deaf, you are blind at the evil ace in your own way; but in me there is no one there: the father was drunk in the fire, the uncle died of cholera, they were brothers - one was left alone with the soldiers, they robbed the underdog, the other was a molyar, live near Boigorodi. Usikh nibi povin zmilo z zemlі...
Smiling at the sunset, near the calamous sky, hanging on the golden exchanges of the red salt. The quiet voice of a woman, the honey splash of calls and the glass of the croaking of toads - these are the sounds that live in the city of hvilin. Sounds plyvut low above the ground, like lastivki in front of the plank. Above them, next to them - silence, scho all rot, like death.
There are people without a head of land: one is planted somewhere near a great dance, which lies on the side, plugged with a fiery cork, and even lazily, quietly call on the heated slope.
Raptom Ustinnya seems zhvavo, ale dilovito:
Well, mow, Mashutka, tell me ...
Why?
We'll store the song...
I, noisily sighing,
Eh, that was in the afternoon, with a clear sun,
A bright night, at the moon ...
Irishly mumbling the melody, calmly, calmly singing:
Restless me, young girl...
And Ustinnya is sung, and it’s even more outrageous to bring the melody to the end:
All the tight heart toils...
Skinchila and immediately began to speak cheerfully, little puffs of praise:
Axis out and roared, song! I love you, I’ll learn how to fold the pen, like a thread of sukati ... Well, well ...
Having spoken, listening to the tight flocks of toads, the lazy tinkling of the bells, she again quietly began to chirp with words and sounds:
Oh, that is not the winter of fierce swirls,
No hanging strings of fun...
Pokoivka, leaning sharply up to her, resting her white head on her round shoulder, flattened her eyes and even more boldly, continued in a thin three-way voice:
Do not convey from the right side
I'll close my heart to the news...
Ax so! - said Ustinnya, grunting her hand over her knee. - And I was young - I folded the song better! Buvalo, girlfriends are chirping: "Ustyusha, learn the songs!" Eh, and I will burst! .. Well, how far will it be?
I don't know, - said the resting woman, squashing her eyes, laughing.
I marvel at them krіz kіti vіknі; sleepers don’t mark me, but I’m clearly visible. Tse woman is cunning, balakucha; won't even love to drink and listen to the reading of the saints' lives. Plitkarka out on the whole street, and more: here, all the hidden places are in the gut in it. Next to her, mitznoy and sieve, kistlyava, negrabna rest - pidlіtok. That mouth at the resting place is childish; small, puffy lips inflated, instead of skrivgen, be afraid that it is more contagious to squint, and the axis is crying.
Swallows blink over the brukivka, may sticking up the earth with bent wings: now, the midges have sank low - a sign that the woods will climb before night. On the parkan, on the other hand, the crow sits unruly, instead of the virizan tree, and with black eyes to lash the swallows for the blink of an eye. They stopped ringing, but the stogin is more sonorous, and the silence is thicker, hotter.
The lark sleeps over the fields,
Gorky Maxim
How they made a song
A.M. Gorky
How they made a song
Why?
We'll store the song...
All the tight heart toils...
Oh, that is not the winter of fierce swirls,
No hanging strings of fun...
Do not convey from the right side
I'll close my heart to the news...
The lark sleeps over the fields,
Mary! Masha!
Oh sound...
Gorky Maxim
How they made a song
A.M. Gorky
How they made a song
The axis, like two women, sang a song, under the summary ringing of the bells of the monastery, on a summer day. It was all in the quiet street of Arzamas, before evening, on the benches they were stealing a booth, in which I am alive. The place slumbered in the speck of silence of the chervne weekdays. I, sitting in the window with a book in my hands, hearing, like my cook, Ustin's ridges, quietly speak with the peace of my mop, the zemstvo chief.
What else to write? - Whip out with a human, but even with a gnuchky voice.
That’s nothing, - thoughtfully and quietly rests, thin girl, with dark guises and small, squirming, unruly eyes.
So, - take your bow and send pennies, - what is it?
And who is still alive - guess for yourself ... ehe-he ...
At the stake behind the garden of our street, toads croak with a marvelous curse sound; annoyingly squishing in the screeching silence of the bells of bells; here, in the back, she drank a croak, but it turns out that she croaked, having fallen asleep and gasping for breath, an old house of susida.
Ridni, - summarily and angrily like Ustinnya, - but go through them for three miles - and mute you, and work like a bitch! I also, if the first river lived near the city, I summed it up casually. You don’t live all of it - not all at once - but half of your soul in the village has been lost, and you keep thinking day and night: how is it, what is there?
Do not repeat the words of the ringing of the calls, do not speak at the tone of them. Rest, trembling for the hospitality of the colony, stealing his head in the white bush and biting his lips, he vaguely listens to what he wants. Ustinya's thick voice sounds mocking and angry, it sounds soft and vague.
Buvalo - you are deaf, you are blind at the evil ace in your own way; but in me there is no one there: the father was drunk in the fire, the uncle died of cholera, they were brothers - one was left alone with the soldiers, they robbed the underdog, the other was a molyar, live near Boigorodi. Usikh nibi povin zmilo z zemlі...
Smiling at the sunset, near the calamous sky, hanging on the golden exchanges of the red salt. The quiet voice of a woman, the honey splash of calls and the glass of the croaking of toads - these are the sounds that live in the city of hvilin. Sounds plyvut low above the ground, like lastivki in front of the plank. Above them, next to them - silence, scho all rot, like death.
There are people without a head of land: one is planted somewhere near a great dance, which lies on the side, plugged with a fiery cork, and even lazily, quietly call on the heated slope.
Raptom Ustinnya seems zhvavo, ale dilovito:
Well, mow, Mashutka, tell me ...
Why?
We'll store the song...
I, noisily sighing,
Eh, that was in the afternoon, with a clear sun,
A bright night, at the moon ...
Irishly mumbling the melody, calmly, calmly singing:
Restless me, young girl...
And Ustinnya is sung, and it’s even more outrageous to bring the melody to the end:
All the tight heart toils...
Skinchila and immediately began to speak cheerfully, little puffs of praise:
Axis out and roared, song! I love you, I’ll learn how to fold the pen, like a thread of sukati ... Well, well ...
Having spoken, listening to the tight flocks of toads, the lazy tinkling of the bells, she again quietly began to chirp with words and sounds:
Oh, that is not the winter of fierce swirls,
No hanging strings of fun...
Pokoivka, leaning sharply up to her, resting her white head on her round shoulder, flattened her eyes and even more boldly, continued in a thin three-way voice:
Do not convey from the right side
I'll close my heart to the news...
Ax so! - said Ustinnya, grunting her hand over her knee. - And I was young - I folded the song better! Buvalo, girlfriends are chirping: "Ustyusha, learn the songs!" Eh, and I will burst! .. Well, how far will it be?
I don't know, - said the resting woman, squashing her eyes, laughing.
I marvel at them krіz kіti vіknі; sleepers don’t mark me, but I’m clearly visible. Tse woman is cunning, balakucha; won't even love to drink and listen to the reading of the saints' lives. Plitkarka out on the whole street, and more: here, all the hidden places are in the gut in it. Next to her, mitznoy and sieve, kistlyava, negrabna rest - pidlіtok. That mouth at the resting place is childish; small, puffy lips inflated, instead of skrivgen, be afraid that it is more contagious to squint, and the axis is crying.
Swallows blink over the brukivka, may sticking up the earth with bent wings: now, the midges have sank low - a sign that the woods will climb before night. On the parkan, on the other hand, the crow sits unruly, instead of the virizan tree, and with black eyes to lash the swallows for the blink of an eye. They stopped ringing, but the stogin is more sonorous, and the silence is thicker, hotter.
The lark sleeps over the fields,
Cornflowers bloomed in the fields,
Thoughtfully sing Ustinnya, clasping her hands on her chest, marveling at the sky, and calmly repeating calmly and boldly:
Look at the native fields!
І Ustinnya, sweetly singing a high, cunning voice, stele with oxamite sincere words:
Take a walk, with a dear friend, foxes!
Having finished sleeping, stink for a long time, clinging tightly one to one; let the woman speak quietly, thoughtfully:
Chi nastily put together a song? Adzhe zovsіm well ...
Marvel, - quietly zupinila її pokoїvka.
The stench marveled right-handed, navskіs vіd itself: there, generously doused with the sun, the great priest crouched majestically at the lilac cassock, peacefully rearranging his club; shining silver knob, shining a gilded cross on wide breasts.
The crow glanced at the new black nasty eye and, lazily waving its important wings, flew at the knot of the gorobine, and the starry gray breast fell into the garden.
The women stood up, movchki, bowed to the priests. Vіn not mentioning їх. Not sitting down, the stench saw off Yogo Ochima, not roaming the docks at the wires.
Oh, ho, girl, - said Ustinnya, straightening the coat on her head, - I wish I were younger with that lance ...
Mary! Masha!
Oh sound...
The calmness flowed in, and Ustinnya, sifting on the lava again, thought, ironing the chintz cloth on the knees.
Stop the toad. It's stuffy in the air, like the water of a fox lake, The day burns flowery. In the fields, behind the ruined river Tesha, there is an angry rumble, a distant grumbling of a witch.
Gorky Maxim
How they made a song
A.M. Gorky
How they made a song
The axis, like two women, sang a song, under the summary ringing of the bells of the monastery, on a summer day. It was all in the quiet street of Arzamas, before evening, on the benches they were stealing a booth, in which I am alive. The place slumbered in the speck of silence of the chervne weekdays. I, sitting in the window with a book in my hands, hearing, like my cook, Ustin's ridges, quietly speak with the peace of my mop, the zemstvo chief.
What else to write? - Whip out with a human, but even with a gnuchky voice.
That’s nothing, - thoughtfully and quietly rests, thin girl, with dark guises and small, squirming, unruly eyes.
So, - take your bow and send pennies, - what is it?
And who is still alive - guess for yourself ... ehe-he ...
At the stake behind the garden of our street, toads croak with a marvelous curse sound; annoyingly squishing in the screeching silence of the bells of bells; here, in the back, she drank a croak, but it turns out that she croaked, having fallen asleep and gasping for breath, an old house of susida.
Ridni, - summarily and angrily like Ustinnya, - but go through them for three miles - and mute you, and work like a bitch! I also, if the first river lived near the city, I summed it up casually. You don’t live all of it - not all at once - but half of your soul in the village has been lost, and you keep thinking day and night: how is it, what is there?
Do not repeat the words of the ringing of the calls, do not speak at the tone of them. Rest, trembling for the hospitality of the colony, stealing his head in the white bush and biting his lips, he vaguely listens to what he wants. Ustinya's thick voice sounds mocking and angry, it sounds soft and vague.
Buvalo - you are deaf, you are blind at the evil ace in your own way; but in me there is no one there: the father was drunk in the fire, the uncle died of cholera, they were brothers - one was left alone with the soldiers, they robbed the underdog, the other was a molyar, live near Boigorodi. Usikh nibi povin zmilo z zemlі...
Smiling at the sunset, near the calamous sky, hanging on the golden exchanges of the red salt. The quiet voice of a woman, the honey splash of calls and the glass of the croaking of toads - these are the sounds that live in the city of hvilin. Sounds plyvut low above the ground, like lastivki in front of the plank. Above them, next to them - silence, scho all rot, like death.
There are people without a head of land: one is planted somewhere near a great dance, which lies on the side, plugged with a fiery cork, and even lazily, quietly call on the heated slope.
Raptom Ustinnya seems zhvavo, ale dilovito:
Well, mow, Mashutka, tell me ...
Why?
We'll store the song...
I, noisily sighing,
Eh, that was in the afternoon, with a clear sun,
A bright night, at the moon ...
Irishly mumbling the melody, calmly, calmly singing:
Restless me, young girl...
And Ustinnya is sung, and it’s even more outrageous to bring the melody to the end:
All the tight heart toils...
Skinchila and immediately began to speak cheerfully, little puffs of praise:
Axis out and roared, song! I love you, I’ll learn how to fold the pen, like a thread of sukati ... Well, well ...
Having spoken, listening to the tight flocks of toads, the lazy tinkling of the bells, she again quietly began to chirp with words and sounds:
Oh, that is not the winter of fierce swirls,
No hanging strings of fun...
Pokoivka, leaning sharply up to her, resting her white head on her round shoulder, flattened her eyes and even more boldly, continued in a thin three-way voice:
Do not convey from the right side
I'll close my heart to the news...
Ax so! - said Ustinnya, grunting her hand over her knee. - And I was young - I folded the song better! Buvalo, girlfriends are chirping: "Ustyusha, learn the songs!" Eh, and I will burst! .. Well, how far will it be?
I don't know, - said the resting woman, squashing her eyes, laughing.
I marvel at them krіz kіti vіknі; sleepers don’t mark me, but I’m clearly visible. Tse woman is cunning, balakucha; won't even love to drink and listen to the reading of the saints' lives. Plitkarka out on the whole street, and more: here, all the hidden places are in the gut in it. Next to her, mitznoy and sieve, kistlyava, negrabna rest - pidlіtok. That mouth at the resting place is childish; small, puffy lips inflated, instead of skrivgen, be afraid that it is more contagious to squint, and the axis is crying.
Swallows blink over the brukivka, may sticking up the earth with bent wings: now, the midges have sank low - a sign that the woods will climb before night. On the parkan, on the other hand, the crow sits unruly, instead of the virizan tree, and with black eyes to lash the swallows for the blink of an eye. They stopped ringing, but the stogin is more sonorous, and the silence is thicker, hotter.
The lark sleeps over the fields,
Cornflowers bloomed in the fields,
Thoughtfully sing Ustinnya, clasping her hands on her chest, marveling at the sky, and calmly repeating calmly and boldly:
Look at the native fields!
І Ustinnya, sweetly singing a high, cunning voice, stele with oxamite sincere words:
Take a walk, with a dear friend, foxes!
Having finished sleeping, stink for a long time, clinging tightly one to one; let the woman speak quietly, thoughtfully:
Chi nastily put together a song? Adzhe zovsіm well ...
Marvel, - quietly zupinila її pokoїvka.
The stench marveled right-handed, navskіs vіd itself: there, generously doused with the sun, the great priest crouched majestically at the lilac cassock, peacefully rearranging his club; shining silver knob, shining a gilded cross on wide breasts.
The crow glanced at the new black nasty eye and, lazily waving its important wings, flew at the knot of the gorobine, and the starry gray breast fell into the garden.
The women stood up, movchki, bowed to the priests. Vіn not mentioning їх. Not sitting down, the stench saw off Yogo Ochima, not roaming the docks at the wires.
Oh, ho, girl, - said Ustinnya, straightening the coat on her head, - I wish I were younger with that lance ...
Mary! Masha!
Oh sound...
The calmness flowed in, and Ustinnya, sifting on the lava again, thought, ironing the chintz cloth on the knees.
Stop the toad. It's stuffy in the air, like the water of a fox lake, The day burns flowery. In the fields, behind the ruined river Tesha, there is an angry rumble, a distant grumbling of a witch.
Axis like two women folded a song, under a summary ring
monastery, summer day. All was in the quiet street of Arzamas, before evening, on
the shop was stealing a booth, in which I am alive. Misto slumbered in the speck of silence
worm weekdays. I, sitting by the window with a book in my hands, hearing, like my cook,
Ryaba Ustinnya, quietly roaming with the rest of my mop, zemstvo
chief.
- And what else to write? - Vipitue out of the cholovіchim, but even more gnuchki
voice.
- That’s nothing else, - thoughtfully and quietly resting,
a thin girl with dark guises and little squiggles and unruly
ochima.
- So, - take your bow and send pennies, - what is it?
- Axis...
- And who is still alive - guess for yourself ... ehe-he ... At the headquarters, behind the garden
our streets, toads croak with a marvelously cursed sound; squish annoyingly
at the speck of silence bryazkit calls; here on the backs of the nail file, and
it’s alright, shope, having fallen asleep and gasping for breath, an old house of susida.
- Rіdnі, - summarily and angrily, it seems Ustinnya, - but look at them on
three versti - and you don’t know, and you thought, like a bitch! I am the same, if the first river
she lived at the city, she summed up casually. You don't live all of you - not all at once - but
half of the soul in the village was lost, and everyone thinks day or night: like there, what
there?
Її the words of the dumb echo the ringing of the calls, nіbi won't be navmisne - it seems
at tone im. Rest, trembling for the guests of the colony, stealing his head in
white khusttsі, having bitten his lips, he listens to his heart's content. Gustius
Ustinya's voice sound malignant and angry, sound soft and vague.
- Buvalo - you are deaf, you are blind about the bright-red tesk according to your boots; and at
I don’t have anyone there: the priest in the fire burns drunk, the uncle - cholera
died, buli brothers - one was overwhelmed by the soldiers, they were crushed by the underdog, the other -
Mulyar, live near Boigorodi. Usikh nibi povin zmilo z zemlі...
Smiling at the sunset, near the calamity sky, hanging on the golden exchanges of red
sun. The quiet voice of a woman, the honey splash of calls and the glass of croaking
toads - all the sounds that live in the place of these whilins. Sounds spitting low
above the ground, moving lastivki in front of the plank. Above them, around them - silence,
that everything dies like death.
The people are stupidly poor; like a place planted near a big dance,
I’m lying on the beck, plugged with a fiery cork, and it’s lazy, quietly b’є
call on її heated room.
Raptom Ustinnya seems zhvavo, ale dilovito:
- Well, Mashutka, tell me ...
- Why?
- We'll store the song...
I, noisily sighing,
Eh, that was during the day, with a clear sun.
A bright night, at the moon ...
Irishly mumbling the melody, calmly, calmly singing:
Restless me, young girl...
And Ustinnya is sung, and it’s even more outrageous to bring the melody to the end:
All the sum of the heart toil ...
Skinchila and immediately began to speak cheerfully, little puffs of praise:
- Axis out and rozpochalas, song! I love you
a thread of sukati... Come on...
Having spoken, listening to the tight stacks of toads, lazy
I rang bells, she again quietly began to ring out with words and sounds:
Oh, that is not the winter of fierce swirls,
No hanging strings of fun...
Pokoivka, leaning sharply up to her, laying her head on the round
shoulder її, flattened her eyes and even more cheerfully, in a thin three-handed voice
continue:
Do not convey from the right side
I'll close my heart to the news...
Ax so! - said Ustinnya, grunting her hand over her knee. - BUT
bula I was young - I folded the song better! Buvalo, girlfriends are chipping:
"Ustyusha, learn the pisenci!" Eh, and I will burst! .. Well, how far will it be?
- I don't know, - said the resting woman, squashing her eyes, laughing.
I marvel at them krіz kіti vіknі; sleepers don't bother me, but me
it is good to see the deeply frayed vіspoyu, the short cheek of Ustinya, її small
voho, do not close the yellow hustka, sire zhvave eye, nіs straight, instead of
magpies, and stupidly pick up a person. Tse woman is cunning, balakucha; won
to love vipiti in listening to the reading of the holy lives. Plitkarka out on the whole street, and
more: yes, all the hidden places in the intestines are in it. Instruction from her
mіtsnoy i sieve, kіstlyava, nezgrabna rest - pіdlіtok. Ta th mouth
rest of the child; small, puffy lips inflated, why is she depicted,
be afraid that it is more contagious to skrivdat, and the axis-axis is crying.
Over the brukivka, lastivki blink, mayzhe sticking out of the earth bent
with wings: well, the midge sank low, - a sign that before night it would get away
plank On the parking lot, against my wind, the crow sits unruly, why not
the tree is virizano, and with black eyes to lash out for the moments of the lasts. Telefonuvati
they stopped, but the stogin is more sonorous, and the silence is thicker, hotter.
The lark sleeps over the fields,
Cornflowers bloomed in the fields,
Thoughtfully sing Ustina, clasping her hands on her chest, marveling at the sky, and
peace to repeat smoothly and boldly:
Look at the native fields!
І Ustinnya, sweetly pіdtrimuyuchi high, cunning voice, stele
oxamite sincere words:
Take a walk, with a dear friend, foxes!
Having finished sleeping, stink for a long time, clinging tightly one to one;
let the woman speak quietly, thoughtfully:
- Ali pissed off the song? Adzhe zovsіm well ...
- Look, - quietly zupinila її pokoїvka.
Stink to marvel right-handed, navskis vіd yourself: there, generously doused
the sun, importantly crimsoning the great priest at the lilac cassock, peacefully rearranging
dovga club; shine the silver knob, shine the gilded cross on
wide chests.
The crow glanced at him with her dark black eyes I, lazily waving
with important wings, flew at the gorobini twig, and with a gray breast fell into
garden.
The women stood up, movchki, bowed to the priests. Vin not mentioned
x. Not sitting down, the stench saw off Yogo Ochima, not roaming the docks at the wires.
- Oho-ho, girly, - said Ustinnya, straightening the hoodie on her head, -
I would be young and with a different lance ...
Htos shouting angrily, in a sleepy voice:
- Marya! .. Mashko! ..
- Oh, call...
The calm flowed in, and Ustinnya, again sivshi on the lava,
I thought, ironing the chintz of cloth on the knees.
Stop the toad. It’s stuffy, it’s not rukhome, like the water of a fox lake.
Flowery burning day. In the fields, behind the ruined river Tishey, an angry rumble,
- a distant grim grumble with a witch.
How the song was composed Maxim Gorky
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Name: How they made a song
About the book “How They Made a Song” Maxim Gorky
Maxim Gorky wrote in a sly manner for the earth, create - foretell life and hvilyuyuchi. Yogo rozpovid "How they made a song" - the center of emotions and emotional experiences. Having written down the letter, which he especially posterigated the fact that he described in the book.
"How they put together a song" - the whole dialogue of two women - the cook of Gorky Ustinya and the bed of Mary of one of the chiefs. The stench quietly roams the back of the head, opening one soul to one - like the stench bothers the village and checks the stars in the relatives. Rozmova is reminded by notes that hurt the heart, and Urtinnya pronounces to make a song. Mar'ya will be fine, and the stench will begin to sleep, continuing the replicas of one another.
At the improvised songs of the leading heroes, the kohannya and the tightness behind the ordinary missions are clearly stomped. Maxim Gorky seems to be different: it’s impossible to convey in words, only - I sing. Starting to read the book "How they made a song," you are immediately full of strong emotions and unrepentantly come to sleep. A pismennik, posterіgayuchi tsyu picture, signifying that all dovkola hid the appearance of a wondrous song - ringing of calls, singing of a nightingale, lightly croaking toads, ringing silence.
The song unites and erases all boundaries. Tse spovna dov_v Maxim Gorky with his book, describing the image of the heroines. The cook - mіtsna i vpevnena in sobі woman, s quiet, yakі "a galloping horse," rest - tenditna and thin, young girl, what a call guessing pіdlіtka. Embracing, the stench began to sleep, and the world changed for a long time. Maxim Gorky, looking out of the sky, appreciating the change: like a crow unruly caught on the parkan, the nightingale stopped sleeping - no, all nature was in the middle of the spiritual spiv of two women.
Having finished the song, Ustinya and Mary succumbed to the priest, who was passing near them. Tse is a logical addition to those pictures, as the writer predicted. At that moment, everything was sharpened spiritually, for the most part the heroines consecrated it with their pure and wide song. Batiushka nachebto sealed the holiness of the atmosphere with his presence.
"How they made a song" - zovsim small difference, prote skin word here vagome and add to the whole picture of human and natural tightness. Reading this tvir is necessary for those who want to pierce into the depths of the experience of the writer and for the first time enjoy yoga maesternistyu and penetrating mov.
On our site about books, the site you can get free of charge without registration or read online book"How they put together a song" Maxim Gorky in epub, fb2, txt, rtf, pdf formats for iPad, iPhone, Android and Kindle. The book will give you a lot of pleasant moments and satisfaction in reading. You can buy the new version from our partner. So, with us you will find the rest of the news from the literary world, find out about the biography of your favorite authors. For writers-pochatkivtsiv є okremy distributed s brown colors and with recommendations, quotes, zavdyaki, you yourself can try your hand at literary craftsmanship.
Quotations from the book "How They Made a Song" Maxim Gorky
Glory to the madness of the good ones!
The madness of the good ones is the axis of the wisdom of life! O merciful Sokil! At the battle with the enemies, there will be a blood flow ... Ale, there will be an hour - and drops of your blood are hot, like sparks, to shake off the darkness of life and richly courageous hearts to set on fire with a mad heat of will, light!
Come on, you're dead! strong in spirit forever you will be a living butt, proud of the call to freedom, to light!
The madness of the good ones sing to me!
You know, sometimes you live by your heart - marvelous! Here you are, scream, where you come, comrades, all burn with one fire, all are cheerful, kind, glorious. Without words, one can understand one ... We must live in chorus, and the skin of the heart sings its song. All the songs, like strings, b_zhat - pour into one river, and the river flows wide and freely in the sea of bright joys of a new life ... And you will come to you, - saying a crest, shaking your head, - you will marvel at how cold and brudno it is! Everyone was tired, angry ... Cover it up - but you don’t need to believe people, you need to be afraid of it and instill hatred! Two people. You only want to love, but how can you? How do people go around, like a wild beast on you, I don’t recognize you as a living soul and give a stusani in your human appearance? Can't forgive! I can’t do it for myself, - I’ll take everything for myself, - but I don’t want to mess around, I don’t want others to be beaten on my back. I can’t spit out anything bad, even if it didn’t hurt me. I am not alone on earth! Today, I will allow myself to imagine and, perhaps, I will only laugh at the image, not while I am there, but tomorrow, having tested my strength on me, I will know the falsehood. І be brought to people to be amazed in a different way, to be brought to the heart of Suvoro, to sort out people: tse - one's own, tse - strangers. Fair - but not vtіshaє!
