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Sergey Zagraevsky


My XX century


Chapter 1. “Soviet burgers”

Chapter 2. Vorkuta

Chapter 3. Sixties

Chapter 4: “Stagnation”

Chapter 5. Psychoanalysis

Chapter 6. Lenin, Party, Komsomol

Chapter 7. “Scientific career”

Chapter 8. Euphoria of epochs changing

Chapter 9. Arkady

Chapter 10. Commerce

Chapter 11. The loss of the bank

Chapter 12. Christianity




Published in Russian: Çàãðàåâñêèé Ñ.Â. Ìîé ÕÕ âåê. Ì.: Àëåâ-Â, 2001. ISBN 5-94025-009-2



Chapter 5. Psychoanalysis



The following text was translated from the Russian original by the computer program

and has not yet been edited.

So it can be used only for general introduction.




The ground shakes under the nightingales

Under the may basked rain,

But the tin soldier

In the eternal feat convicted.


It probably sad master

Let in the light, Newslab.

Ask the soldier: “are You happy?”

And he took aim at you.


And in the alternation of holidays and weekdays,

In discordant March centuries

People laugh, cry,people

And he is still waiting for his enemies.


He waits and stubbornly biased,

When you are fighting, pipe...

Ask him, “are You afraid?”

And he took aim at you.


Lives tin soldier

The harbinger of large separations,

And damned control

Afraid to let go.


Live my defender, involuntarily

The signal for battle slowly.

Ask him, “are You hurt?”

And he took aim at you.


                         Bulat Okudzhava

                         “Tin soldier my son”




Painting I started very early.

Wolfgang Volfgangovich, as most graduates of Architecture, had a great schedule set by hand. When it without any line drawing huge sketches of churches, I was breathtaking. And the animals that he sometimes just painted on small sheets of paper, we then hid with his mother and collect. Not only that they were written masterfully - even the soul of them were present!

And my father drew his mother. Not from nature, but in a sustainable way some hybrids puppy with a man. It was charming.

The heroine of the drawings, not having any art education, also drew - and watercolors, and a small (20x30 cm) oil painting on canvas. It is in the childhood collecting old postcards and at some point start to copy them. Mainly landscapes.

Beyond this Inna not go, but I must say that at the Crimean embankment sold and weaker job...

And the mother in the late sixties and in the seventies was friends with wonderful artists - Tatiana A. Mavrina and Nikolai Vasilyevich Kuzmin. These were the two power and presentable older wife, and they lived in the summer in Abramtsevo, on the next street.

Me mom went to visit them often enough, sometimes two or three times a month. Sometimes we are with them sedately strolling through the village.

Their house was full of interesting things. Many paintings Tatyana (in Abramtsevo she actively worked), books, albums, booklets, wall copy “Sunflowers” van Gogh " for some reason, I particularly remember her. Intelligent conversation, which mom was with Mavrina and Kuzmin, I realized percent that way at ten, but listened with pleasure.

I sunk into the memory of one of their terrifying asked his mother: “Inna, You're a chemist, get us potassium cyanide, that we have not been doomed to a helpless old age”... of Course, Inna get the poison was gone.

Our relationship ended in the late seventies, with a very natural way. Whether I began to visit in the country, whether they... Kuzmin died many years later, in 1987, Mavrina lived another ten years.

Interestingly, graphics Kuzmina child any impression was not done, and now I'm not very fond of her - she is very interior and refined. A picture Mavrina at me not so much affected - infected!

A professional of the highest class, a pupil Falk, a member of the group of thirteen, she's in the postwar years absolutely have deliberately moved away from the “standard” of their circle and began to write stunning lunacearski landscapes and portraits. Bright, lively, with love. All the neighborhood of Abramtsevo and Sergiev Posad (Zagorsk) reflected on her canvases. And so what animals she was what she had cats and horses!

After watching her paintings, as a child I began to paint in watercolor and pastel bright, colorful little animals, and everything that came to hand - cartons, boxes of chocolates...

Naivizm for graphics-father and kobietki-mother was a stranger, but they have impeccable taste and perfectly understood what is good and what is bad. My drawing them is encouraged, even in my childhood for some of the work was paid any penny. The child put his hand” completely unobtrusive. In General, explaining how best to dip the brush and how much water you need to dial to paint does not spread.

Then I began to show these pictures Mavrina, when my mother visited her away, and she gave me a very polite, but very capacious and informative tips and techniques letters, and style.

This occurred in the preschool and early school age.

About the same time was one curious episode that I remember. My mom and I were visiting his son Lev Kassil (Lev Abramovich himself was already dead). On the wall hung a few abstract paintings, and I sarcastically said something like: “wow, what nonsense, I can too”, to which I was told: “just try it”. The next day I sat down and began to try, but could not even touch the brush to paper.

Perhaps at a certain effort from under my hand at the end would be something like an abstract painting, but even at eight-nine children have the intelligence and insight to understand: it's not for me. I have not made any abstraktsionistskih smear and in the future continued drawing exclusively in a lurid naive style...

Some time later I bought a baby kit, oil, explained how to use it, and since I don't care, what techniques work. In any case, get something worked out in the seventies.

Then came the era of drawing on the run-sea stones, but it was already the middle and senior school age. From Odessa every time we carried considerable bag “naked”. The theme was the same - gay multicolored animals. Dogs, cats, pigs, rats, and many others. Somehow I never painted horses and monkeys.

I'm glad bright and colorful my childhood stones, cardboard boxes and boards found a place in my “adult” work. But this was still far away.





On matters of eternity, sense of life and inevitability of death I at an early age thought only insofar as this was written in the books. Funny that in my childhood as a reference book was... magnificent edition of Dante's “Inferno” with heartbreaking prints.

But, I confess, I “life after life a little worried, but in God I do not believe it. No, the historicity and the essence of the mission of Jesus Christ, despite the Soviet atheistic propaganda, I was always understandable, but that's to really something to think about... somehow did not succeed.

I remember that I (and probably all children) was a moment of fear that sooner or later I will die. This happened either in pre-school, or elementary school age, and I vaguely remember that my grandfather Mikhail N. grandmother, Lydia me together waved his arms and pretty tough explained that there is nothing to worry shit, the way life is, nothing wrong with that and take it easy. I think something similar to me later and told my mother and father, after which I am quite relaxed.

Atheism, by the way, is one of the ironies of intellectual education. When parents consider it beneath their dignity to lead a child to Church and show the finger at the “dear God”, and soon the child begins to read it below his dignity to something to believe in, in addition to the purely “intelligentsia” values, honor, conscience, morality, art...

The concept of heaven and hell, sin and morality of modern humans, too, are perceived very blurry. These are the costs (or achieve?) the spiritual development of humanity - is constantly growing faith in yourself. Indeed, the vast majority of “spiritual” people alone that his spirit and recognizes. And then each individual perceives the world either objective or subjective, whether real or unreal...

I personally before the beginning of the nineties perceive the world in absolute accordance with the everyday common sense. Indeed, everyone, if you drop it on your foot hammer, will onnet, because it hurts. Is this a simple proof of the objectivity of the world?





No, I'm in no case did not deny the necessity of spiritual life, and even more creativity. And in childhood and youth, I almost always painted, and poetic “bowl” I was not passed. To illustrate the latter will bring one of its relatively successful poems end of 1987:


There is an endless autumn rain,

Erosion snow

let long.

This October was similar

At the hospital window


At the dead ships,


After the end of the navigation

in hotels.

Those same friends with her friends,

with women,

Individuals and families with long lists.


And time is running out,

as this autumn,

And the world is compressed to the metro and the room.

You, friends living “without question”,

About me barely remember


As, however, as I have for you,

After retiring, finally,

from the usual cliches,

From women's eyes imploring,

From the room with green light,



in the surrounding houses

Looking strange, sad look

On the highway,

radiating fear

And fake links

a concrete wall.


Autumn beating on the walls of high-rise buildings,

Knocking on glass

recent downpour.

Cars are flying down the highway,

as the years

Between the dividing lines.


Note that in this verse, unlike most of the rest of my poetic samples, at least there are some “wedge” type of hospital window (it was the peak of disease and deaths in our family), highway (Leningrad, which came out my window), green lamp in my room she was really) and huge sand dunes (highway was the Northern river port).

But, in General, especially whole vision of the world and the more lyrical depth in this poem is not observed. No, of course it is not a set of stamps (I did at one time preparing for the literary and know what they can and cannot do), but no depth, no originality in it.

In order to more fully delineate then my world view, will result in a purely informative purposes another poem, written in the mid-eighties. The reason for it was that my mother at that time was active in different houses of culture and libraries with his poems, she gave flowers everywhere, and she let them put me into the room. And why me - also explain: my room in the absence of surplus housing serve as a “living room”. So:


Flowers are yellow - the only thing

Living among all those

What makes your home life,

What remains with those who inspire

For him, this can only rabble


Jackets, notebooks, tables and lamps,

And with them go through life somehow.

All the rest is junk,

And it, like a dried geranium,

Forget about it.


And let the wide staircase

Forever - infinite interval

Time, but still too bold

He who does not remember those useless

Short and unhappy wavelets


Life among the dead walls of the apartment,

The living among the dead love communication.

Go for the memory of gray shadows,

All new branches in a vase lilac

Standing as a symbol of the immense world.





Philosophical categories - the cognition of the world, “substance”, “monad”, “thing in itself”, - all this, of course, was curious, but not more. Philosophy I, like most of the companions of “literacy”, took place alongside the arts and literature as only one component of a system of spiritual values. Kant said that, Berkeley...

Somewhere there was also a religion, moreover, in that aspect, she attractiveness undoubtedly lost philosophy. It seemed that what was “rustic” and axiomatic Gospels with their many contradictions to the elegant systems Hegel or Heidegger!

And, of course, the Christian doctrine was seen primarily in the interpretation of Dostoevsky or Tolstoy - remember textbook “spiritual quest” Raskolnikov, Ivan Karamazov, Prince Andrei Bolkonsky?

Well, a lot of “biblical motifs” in Russian poetry. For example, the Bloc:


When the leaves wet and rusty

Rowan will zhaleet bunch,

When the executioner with his bony hand

Tack in the palm of the last nail,


When the ripples of rivers lead,

In the empty gray and height

Before the face of harsh homeland

I swung on the cross...




And all around - all empty and mute,

In the sleep of death - enemies and friends.

And lit the star of Bethlehem

As light as my love.





Generally speaking, nothing very terrible in an atheistic world view no, if there is a powerful incentive to the domestic intelligentsia - the service of art, science, humanity...

This seems to be quite enough. Man knows that after death he will live in his works, writings and the like, and it supports it.

However, not all so simple. Remember:

“Vanity of vanities, saith the preacher, vanity of vanities all is vanity.

What profit a man of all his labour which he taketh under the sun?

One generation passeth away, and another generation cometh : but the earth abideth for ever...”

Mind you can understand that when the old Testament the preacher said this, he was wrong not only from the point of view of the Orthodox Jewish and Christian religions, but also from the point of view of any intelligent person: we read the book of Ecclesiastes already three thousand years old, so not “vanity” was a life of its author.

But the mind can understand a lot, but more...

This position has one serious flaw: to answer the question, “vanity of vanities” do your own spiritual life, have only to himself.

And like you know what you need to do art, to create something eternal, but to convince myself: now will wait to write, just wait to draw, work there, then and there, earn money, and then I'll show you all!

And then (with age) gradually begin to think: who is it all for? Who needs my pictures (books, poems and so on)? Nobody seems to be no tear to see them, all under the door for an autograph is not worth it - so why should I? For whom will I spend a lot of forces on “penetration”, running through the galleries and the editors? For the sake indifferent contemporaries and unpredictable descendants?

And here is far to ekklesiastovoy “vanity of vanities.” Think: that's good Preacher, he was found in the Bible was placed, and suddenly I was something contemporaries and do not recognize? And if the descendants do not recognize? Or just don't stumble on my “masterpieces”? Then that life could not?

After understanding the above, depending on the storage card there are two ways.

The first is the continuation of creativity, but continuous reflection, suffering, doubt, that there is a charge for the art of self-destruction. Frankly, I am more sorry for the people themselves do not like a warehouse, and their wives and mothers. However, some heroic ladies type Nadezhda Yakovlevna Mandelshtam adapt and become the real “battle friends”, and even continuer of the case, but, unfortunately, not enough.

Or the second way, in fact far more dangerous: it is better I earn a lot of money and spend a respected and respectable person, but we'll see...

Wives and mothers in this case can sleep peacefully, but “respected and solid” person really threatens creative death. After gradually start to think: not all be prophets, and to go to the cross, and it seems so bad... to Track when a creative intellectual into a cultural Philistine, very hard, and stop the process even more difficult.





You have probably understood that I went to the youth on the second way - in fact, except for intellectual “starter” from the father and the mother, was in me Oh how strong practical grasp of grandmother“of detdomovci” Lydia Victorovna! Yes, and I myself wanted to win top children's and youth centers...

Complexes... I Wonder what Freud would say, or any good psychoanalyst, digging into my biography? I never ask for a personal conversation with these gentlemen, considering all mankind as patients, but if one of them decides to understand anything of my books - I will try to facilitate his task.

The complexes are known, are hereditary and acquired. The latter are divided into acquired in childhood (which happens often) and in adulthood.

About their ancestral complexes I said - the camp's childhood my father was not in vain. But I must admit that the subconscious fear of German shepherds and a militiaman from me - a huge guy who looks like a “new Russian” - rather a curious thing, and little touches any psychological basis of personality.

And I bought all sorts of “real” complexes in childhood.

Perhaps it all started with a violent “family scene” between my father and the parents of the mother when the child tried not to make trouble, but still occasionally worked. I remember the hysterical cries of the father, mother, grandmother, Lydia Victorovna and own sobs...

Now imagine the terms of my psyche in the preschool years: constant nervousness, plus spoiled (the only grandson all grandparents), plus poor health... In the end, I, according to eyewitnesses, five-six years of age was quite capable because of some rubbish lying on the floor and yell wildly foaming at the mouth. Mother told me that once I had done something similar in the presence of guests, then the last stop of our communication.

In primary schools, of course, from me “nonsense” quickly kicked out. Soviet teachers are able to do great and, as they say, not so blunt. In addition, my earnest Granny Lidia Viktorovna, and the combined efforts of the third-fourth grade, I was already quite “disciplined”. Not completely, of course, “good boy”, but to behave in society,” I more or less learned.

But the “company” and “group” - the concept is not identical, and soon began a much more serious problems. This time with peers.





The fact that British special school ¹ 40 (now, it seems, ¹ 1250), where I studied, was an elitist by Soviet standards, i.e. for children “diplomatic corps”. I have this wonderful institution has got, because he lived next to his old buildings and just had to be there on a territorial basis. When I went to the second class, the school moved into a new building close to the underground Vojkovsky, near the district of “the Swan”and I moved behind her.

In a sense, this school was the undoubted success - great teachers and profound study of the English language, that my time is rare. More I never language is not taught, but still it relatively fluent.

Less was one very serious: what the children of the Soviet diplomats, imagine yourself. Proletarian rudeness, combined with the lordly arrogance. There were a few decent guys, but they were few.

A Jew (albeit not absolute) I was the only one. With all the ensuing consequences.

I was very weak physically. Continuously ill - used, did not go to school for weeks. I had very fragile bones - in the eighth grade, for example, I fell and broke both hands. And in the ninth grade I broke my leg, too, jumping from a height of funny. Naturally, sitting for months in plaster.

A really worth anything “wrong” to eat or, God forbid, freeze - all week two of bed rest were provided. Parents did not think it necessary to harden me, and Lydia V. purely “Babushkinskaya” I tried to wrap stronger than the situation only worse.

And I had terrible diathesis, slowly passed in atopic dermatitis (the latter is present to this day). And... I Hate to list sores. Many of them were. I was to the tenth grade, when I took over dumbbell - scared to say when growth 185 cm - 44-th size of the shoulders. For comparison: now have with the growth of 190 cm the size 58-60.

In short, I was a frail intellectual.

About my nervousness, I have already said. It is not too bad, but I was individualistic nature - and his father, and mother (remember what I was talking about her College years?) I was not just a “acompanantes”, I defiantly despised.

Now tell me, how could such a child peers not to beat? The natural instinct of the pack, seeking to wrest from its members and destroy the weak specimen in children is much stronger than in adults. Perhaps the latter simply fewer opportunities for the implementation of the instinct distract the official hierarchy, change occupations and jobs, money...

And in the classroom all were initially equal to, at the time, money (and even social status) parents have not played a comprehensive role, as now. As it was still psychologically assert strong leader, if not by the weak single?

We had in class, such a leader. He was one of the proletarian family, in the school got the same chance as I do, but it has repeatedly won the Championships of Moscow on weightlifting among juniors. It was ruled “depdate”. He I never did touch, considering it below his dignity, for it could easily kill in one hit, but his many friends hard tried him and to please, and be seen...

The most interesting is that all this had the character of an ideological war that lasted for a class that way from the fifth to tenth, that is, almost to the prom. “Ideological disputes” were similar to the following: several diplomatic children I “explained”I heal “the new guy” and should be silent, and I, standing in front of a semicircle grinning faces and continuously receiving “punches” and “cuffs”, proudly said something about universal values and humanism.

There were times I was desperate, and incidents such as familiarity in the face with a dirty broom or donning a head box, threw on some of the enemies. But I was even a crowd never beaten - each “ideological enemy” in isolation was stronger, and soon I was lying on the ground with ordinary bruises. However, still shouting something “loving”.

Can't say that I felt in those moments Christian Martyr, thrown to the wolves, lions, but there is no doubt that many read on the subject of books gave me some courage to bear it all and never to complain to the parents.

The fate of the Russian intelligentsia in the mirror one single teenager...





However, relatively tineydzherstva will not compile. This concept, as it is known, includes the age of 13 - “thirteen” to 19 - “nineteen”. A bacchanalia of the 40-th special school started somewhere in the 12 years and over by close to 17 together with obtaining “Abitur” - certificate of secondary education.

In “Autobiography of a happy man, I wrote that all the bullying stopped in the middle of the tenth grade (prom, it is now eleven classes), when I one of offenders nearly killed, leaving him with a brick. By the way, remember this shot very well, and, indeed, would - could kill, because it was aiming in the face.

At the same time I started pumping and muscles, and nature began to take their toll: the father-the man healthy...

But after a throw bricks “the persecution has not stopped immediately, because, apart from my native class “B”, was still a class “a”, and there are a harmonious company of several of the guys, much stronger, both physically and mentally, than most of my foes in the class “B”.

“A policeman” my growing resistance initially only whet. But gradually their attitude towards me has changed, too, because of the fights and they have to go with some no, but the bruises. They, unlike me, after school to go to dinner with his girlfriend, and they began to think: “what if I was this lousy Jew “spoil a portrait? And suddenly I am because of him, I remember a freshly ironed trousers”?

And by the end of tenth grade was significantly easier. I had nothing to lose: I have weeks of calm “light blue eyes” (which happened frequently), for a meeting with the girls I “does not Shine” from any side.

It's only in books, as “it” all the hurt and she felt sorry for him, loved, warmed, fed... actually female (it was at least half of the class) took it for granted, and the sympathies of those young ladies were, of course, on the side of the strong and handsome guys, not frail little intellectual, with hedgehog character.

What is there to say, if my friend (the only school for all times), when I was beaten up, walked away and looked blankly at what is happening? Him, thank God, never beaten, because he was engaged in some kind of judo. And thanks anyway Mitya Mukhina and judo - he at least was not afraid to communicate with me. However, a class “b” have merged with our “B” only in the ninth, and before that with me no one “friendly”.

Funny that I burst into tears and snot”and recalled school vocabulary - “friendly”. Remember the Soviet refreshing song: “I torrential rain, when my friends with me”... Real friends I was not. In the yard of the peers felt on me “mark of Cain rogue”, and the exchange of information worked - some of my classmates lived nearby. In the end, I talked with the guys of three or four years younger than me - even if the difference in age helped me to feel with them on an equal...

Can't say that I particularly suffered from the foregoing. People suffer when there is an alternative, and in another child, I did not see and did not know whether she could have me to be.

No additional sources complexes - such as abuse of a minor child experienced a high school or middle-aged neighbor - thank God, was not. My first sexual experience, and even kiss belongs to the Institute times, and at school - could I imagine that I was someone can fall in love? He could not, and was unfortunately right.

So without a purely sexual complexes I still treated, although, of course, the General subconscious “integrated” background included and some sexual frustration. But that's subtlety.

However, with sex, as I consider myself lucky. Everything has its time, and in eighteen years is much more likely that the boy was not ale to love the soil and everything will be fine.

But with the school childhood... Oh no, too lucky - it was a School with a capital letter! After many years of life surrounded by two dozen enemies, but still a fragile child psyche me any problems in human relationships seemed childish prattle. I, as they say, “early experienced human injustice, malice and deceit,” and to me that would be in life no matter what happens, never been worse than at school # 40.

A good conditioning, complain.





There is no doubt that the complexes acquired in school days, was a powerful inner motor a couple of years later, while studying at the Institute.

Forgive me and the human, and God's judgment, that at the first opportunity I wanted to become so “a respected and respectable person”to, as they say, no dog dared to bark. Someone finds it by force, some weakness, but since I first took up the work of the Komsomol, then science, then Commerce...

As a result, work for a long time has given way to the “social activity”.

I fought on all fronts: the muscles pumped and Boxing were doing, and the money earned as possible. So somewhere in the early nineties, and formed the same image, with which I live to this day: full mental “impenetrability”considerable size, red-fed face, short hair...

But we can say that the complexes have been exhausted, if they eliminate all possible. Let's just say the complex frail intellectual” has become a complex called “tank-34”. That is, you can break through and tank, but it is very difficult, because not every shell - piercing.

Seriously, sometimes I go down the street and suddenly feel that I sort of armor, and the dubious company banditocracy young people shun jowly, huge “new Russian”. By the way, it's not so bad. And business is also a great help.

But if the armor is not only on the body (in the form of expensive suits and powerful muscles), but at heart, there are no less serious disadvantages. For example, accustomed to see in people first of all enemies and thus unconsciously alienate many potential friends. Anyway, should I explain what a “callous and heartless?

No wonder I as “illustration” to this Chapter, led a brilliant, but, strangely enough, a little-known poem Okudzhava “Tin soldier my son.” Bulat Shalvovich for some reason it did not write the music and, perhaps, it is because of this little-known.

But then, what has become of my youth centers in adulthood, it is better not to Express.


The ground shakes under the nightingales

Under the may basked rain,

But the tin soldier

In the eternal feat convicted...


...And in the change of holidays and weekdays,

In discordant March centuries

People laugh, cry,people

And he is still waiting for his enemies.


He waits and stubbornly biased,

When you are fighting, pipe...

Ask him, “are You afraid?”

And he took aim at you.


That this soldier and I began to turn. Anyway, this trend emerged and developed.





But for all, as you know, you have to pay.

In my youth I actively drawing, not less actively writing poetry - complexes were looking for an outlet in the works. And drove all the complexes under armor - ended, and a powerful engine of creativity, and new, I found not at once.

And so it happened that in the late eighties, age about twenty-five, I began to draw less and less.

If we reject psychoanalysis and easier to reason, then, on the one hand, there was a certain “crisis of the genre”. Those colorful little animals, which I drew from childhood on run-sea stones were tired - very Souvenirs they look, I gave them to friends and acquaintances, everyone was very pleased, " well, what next? No more or less serious art about these stones would not say anything, except: “Very cute and funny.”

On the other hand, where I had to take them, these serious art? Artistic life at this time was up, but I was involved in many other cases and could not imagine that somewhere we should go and “break” as an artist. In order for this to “ripen”, took many years.

Besides, my first machine landscape “Forest lake”, written in 1989 on a large cutting Board, was branded some of my intelligent friends (including parents) as “dead - end” - they're used to the animals on the stones. And with professional art critics, I was a stranger, so that “easel” scored another three years. Sometimes painted stones, spoons, boards, Easter eggs. Daryl parents gave friends...

Also in the late eighties, I almost stopped writing poetry, has less to read, and in the early nineties was relatively successful Director of a small firm programmer by engineers when standards are educated and intelligent, but not more.

And why yet started my “apostasy”?


Chapter 6. Lenin, Party, Komsomol


© Sergey Zagraevsky


Chapter 1. “Soviet burgers”

Chapter 2. Vorkuta

Chapter 3. Sixties

Chapter 4: “Stagnation”

Chapter 5. Psychoanalysis

Chapter 6. Lenin, Party, Komsomol

Chapter 7. “Scientific career”

Chapter 8. Euphoria of epochs changing

Chapter 9. Arkady

Chapter 10. Commerce

Chapter 11. The loss of the bank

Chapter 12. Christianity



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