Album dedication
Sergey BEREZHNOY
ATTEMPT TO CONFESSION
We know that we have passed from death to life because we love
brothers; He who does not love his brother remains in death.
First Epistle of John
In the late seventies or early eighties - now not
remember, something happened in his life that determined his future
The main thing: he singled out fantasy for himself as a special type of reading. Vpro-
Why, then this event did not seem so significant at all. Well,
I developed a craving for SF - who hasn't? What's the big deal? Pass-
children... in the meantime, he was re-reading all the science fiction from home
libraries and looked for new experiences, as they say, "on
side"...
As it soon became clear, it is especially far to look for these impressions
there was no need. Undisassembled incomplete items were found in the storage room
sets of magazines "Around the World", "Chemistry and Life", "Technology -
youth" and "Knowledge is power", which he had previously only leafed through
case by case. Now he folded them, sorting them by numbers, into
a huge stack by the sofa and, lying down comfortably, began to read the whole
the fiction that was in them.
He did not then divide science fiction into domestic and foreign. He
I didn’t pay any attention to the names of the authors at all. However, it's coming soon
passed. He singled out the Strugatskys for himself long ago - after"One-
businessman..." (in the home library there was the first edition - "children's
Lithuanian", sixty-five); soon began to distinguish Clark
(he often came across), Heinlein (they were shocked by “Stepchildren of the Universe” -
although there was no “Around the World” issue with the beginning of the novel), Simak...
Domestic authors published on the same pages
However, the impression was more modest, but even here they soon began to notice
to name some names (which was not an entirely easy matter - in his
Shcherbakov and Bulychev, Mikhano-
Vsky and Lem, De-Spiller and Bradbury). Remember, first of all,
serial stories: Bulychev’s “guslyar” cycle and detective fan-
Maksimovich's tastic cycle from "TM". A few things to remember
immediately - in that they made an absolutely stunning impression -
nie: unlike anything else, “Exotic Variant” by Boris Rudenko,
"The Mad King" by Boris Stern, "Decoy" by Larionova,
"The Prisoner" by Ernst Marinin (who is he? where is he?), "The Great Dry Land" by Vyaches-
Rybakov's lava...
The last story was written simply and scary. Fifteen-year-old
This boy understood the most important thing about him: evil can come from
that people want good. For him this was a monstrous discovery. Before
Since then, good and evil in his mind existed separately
from each other, fighting and opposing, and good, naturally
but, it was simply doomed to victory from the very beginning... And understand-
tionthat great Good can give rise to no less great Evil,
took his worldview to a completely new place for him
measurement...
This is not easy to forget.
Of course, sooner or later he will somehow - not through this
door, then through another one, - I would go out into this new space these -
ki. But it happened, there was a name written on this door.
And the name was Vyacheslav Rybakov.
* * *
Six or seven years have passed. Crazy amount of time. Years of re-
men that he observed in himself - or consciously began them and
tried to finish it. He learned to break himself and, it seems,
became a big hitter in this sport. He stopped being a coward (we
how long can you stop being one), deserved the friendship that will be
be proud, perhaps, for the rest of your life. Life is little by little (and sometimes
and without too much ceremony) sculpted something humanoid out of it.
And there were books. There were three thick notebooks in which he copied
all the poems of Vysotsky that he managed to get to. There were Felix Cree-
wine (also copied by hand in a thick notebook) and "Journey
amateurs" Okudzhava. After - "The Master and Margarita" (which he
exchanged it at a used bookstore for a thick volume of Pikul - “From the Dead End”,
it seems), “Until the third rooster” and everything else by Shukshina.Marquez...
Of course it's fantastic. Strugatsky - everything that I managed to get. Live
Tinsky, who conquered immediately and forever. Newly opened in "Pereval"Bulychev. "My Brother's Watchman" and Mikhailov's collections. Smart and tone-
cue "Zdarg" by Gurevich. "Ciurlenis cycle" by Larionova. Mansion-
com - Lem's pure intellectualism.
At the beginning of eighty-seven, for the first time in his life he accepted self-
worthwhile strategic decision - left the institute. Internal
the opposition was very powerful, a nature accustomed to conformism,
fused with him, she resisted with all her might. But he won.
That's when he read "Weapon of His Own."
It was a shock. He read how Salt fell to pieces, struggling
with himself, fought and won - himself, his past self... This
was about him.
Then there was “Letters from a Dead Man” (I watched the film in Moscow
at the Kerch cinema, driving through the whole city - nowhere else in
The picture did not suit Moscow at that time).
Then there was "Winter". "Homebodies"...
A meeting at the board of the city society of book lovers with some
Moscow critic (he didn’t remember her last name), familiar with the kitchen
her "Young Guard": "Ah, Volodya Shcherbakov and would be glad to publish
good things, but they don’t give him... They put so much pressure on him... And who has
publish us?" - "Rybakova!..."
Then Andrei Chertkov conceived "Oversan", and he wrote for the first
2nd issue review of “Own Weapon”. (I re-read it now, po-
smiled... Has it really only been six years?)
The next year brought new publications. It was already quite
another era: Grossman was read (this would already be enough forpe-
review of all previous experience). Platonov discovered. Topped it all off
Orwell, who shook to the core... Rybakov published "People
met", "Wind and Emptiness", "The First Day of Salvation", but neither
one of these things did not cause any special spiritual response
Nansa.... he was just on a slightly different plane of thinking.
And then there was "Trust".
Rybakov took revenge on him for being distracted. Revenge was drowned
chenna and absolute. While he was searching with the fury of a neophyte in the drowning
pies and dystopias, some good ideas wandered in trampled illustrations
Ziyakh Zamyatin, was frightened by Huxley’s gloomy irony, found something, the-
ryal - and all this in the naive conviction that there is, must be used -
a secret path... And “Trust” set up strict experiments on this path -
ment - and the beautiful, desirable and tempting world crumbled into smoke -
only by coming into contact with reality.
It was reality that irrevocably destroyed everything - everything! - good
ideas. Intellectually, he understood this after reading “Burdened with Evil.” With my heart -
after reading "Trust". And it was then that he knew hopelessness: blah-
These intentions invariably paved the way to the gates of hell. It was necessary to use
find a way out of the vicious circle. Not for everyone at once. First -
just for yourself.
"Doomed City" - a new human apocalypse, slowly, but
truly losing his conscience... It was easy to understand the Strugatskys’ thoughts.
Rybakov’s “bearer of culture” and “Long-time losses” were stated in that
same thoughts:Conscience had to be made the center of everything. But further,
what's next? He looked for something to reproach himself for, and without difficulty
found - man is imperfect and there are a lot of flaws in him...Admission-
tim, he will bring himself to such a state where there is nothing to conscience
will reproach him (which is easier - go crazy or die), but
the world?.. But people?.. How to turn your conscience outside yourself?
Life went on. At the end of eighty-nine he
nilsya. The world around remained imperfect, moreover, ugly
you, but the reflection of their love concealed the deep flaws of the action
In reality, something beautiful has appeared in the world, without which it can no longer be
I could breathe...
And suddenly - like a crowbar to the ribs - “The Hearth on the Tower”... A novel about
killing love.
He was more than just shocked. What he experienced was impossible
just call it a shock. He was Simagin, and Verbitsky killed
his love. This was no longer just an internal resonance, it was
complete identification...
I still can’t bring myself to reveal this novel - us -
it just hurts...
"...her smile burst, as if exploded from within, I threw up my hands-
were jagged and scary..."
What torment can compare with this?
“She’s not dead!” he shouted and with redoubled force began
rub the hard, like a hardened stone, body - skin with rags
crawled from his palms..."
This is "Winter" - a story about the death of all love on Earth.
What is a person withoutlove?..
What is he without a conscience?..
* * *
It happened by chance, didn’t it, but it was stories, tales and novels
Vyacheslav Rybakov's mana stood like turning points on his - mo-
eat - ways. Maybe it's an accident. Maybe not. I don't know. Just
that's how it was. And maybe it will be so.
I hope...
I am not looking for clues in his works, much less answers.
But somehow it turned out that the pain of his heroes is my pain. And love-
bless them - my love.
However, I look in vain for an explanation for the incredible connection that
arose between my life and Rybakov’s prose. He himself has long been
explained everything:
“In essence, all I write are explanations - not even in love
vi, but just love. Only love does not reject, but absorbs.
Only she makes it possible to accept the problems of another person
as sharply as your own, which means enriching yourself. And only she
gives hope that all this is not in vain."
I believe you, Vyacheslav Mikhailovich.
1991, 199
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