a word about nature, entertaining facts about the world around us (preparatory group) on the topic

Trees in captivity

The tree, with its upper whorl, like a palm, took up the falling snow, and from this a lump grew so large that the top of the birch began to bend. And it happened that during the thaw, snow fell again and stuck to the lump, and the upper branch with the lump bent the entire tree like an arch, until, finally, the top with that huge lump was plunged into the snow on the ground and was thus secured until spring. Animals and people, occasionally on skis, passed under this arch all winter. Nearby, proud spruces looked down at the bent birch tree, as people born to command look at their subordinates.

In the spring, the birch returned to those spruce trees, and if it had not bent over during this especially snowy winter, then both winter and summer it would have remained among the spruce trees, but since it had bent, now with the slightest snow it bent and in the end, without fail, every for a year it bent like an arch over the path.

It can be scary to enter a young forest in a snowy winter: indeed, it is impossible to enter. Where in the summer I walked along a wide path, now bent trees lie across this path, and so low that only a hare could run under them...

Prishvin's Unified State Examination text about nature, purpose, time. Approximate range of problems.

(1) If you want to understand the soul of the forest, find a forest stream and go up or down its bank. (2) I am walking along the bank of my favorite stream in early spring. (3) And this is what I see, and hear, and think here. (4) I see how, in a shallow place, flowing water meets a barrier in the roots of spruce trees and this makes it gurgle against the roots and release bubbles. (5) When these bubbles are born, they quickly rush and immediately burst, but most of them get knocked down further at a new obstacle into a far-visible snow-white lump.

(6) The water encounters new and new obstacles, and this does nothing for it, it only gathers into streams, as if squeezing its muscles in an inevitable struggle.

(7) The trembling of water from the sun casts a shadow on the trunk of the tree, on the grass, and the shadows run along the trunks, on the grass, and in this trembling a sound is born, and it seems as if the grass is growing to the music, and you see the harmony of the shadows.

(8) From the shallow, wide reach, the water rushes into the narrow depths, and from this silent rush it seems as if the water has squeezed its muscles. (9) The ripples on the water, captured by the sun, and the shadow, like smoke, forever runs across the trees and grasses, and to the sound of the stream, resinous buds open, and grasses rise from under the water and on the banks.

(10) And here is a quiet pool with a tree fallen inside it; here shiny spinning bugs send ripples on the calm water. (11) Under the restrained murmur of water, the streams roll confidently and cannot help but call to each other in joy: powerful streams converge into one large one and, meeting, merge, speak and call to each other: this is a roll call of all the arriving and diverging streams.

(12) Water touches the buds of newborn yellow flowers, and this is how water trembling from flowers is born. (13) So the life of a stream passes sometimes in bubbles and foam, and sometimes in a joyful roll call among flowers and dancing shadows.

(14) The tree had long been lying tightly on the stream and even turned green with time, but the stream found its way out under the tree and quickly, with tremulous shadows it beats and gurgles.

(15) Some grasses have long since emerged from under the water and now in the stream they constantly bow and respond together to the trembling of the shadows and the flow of the stream.

(16) And then there’s a big blockage, and the water seems to be murmuring, and this murmur and splashing can be heard far away. (17) But this is not weakness, not complaint, not despair - the water does not know these human feelings at all; every stream is confident that it will run to free water, and then, if it encounters a mountain, even one like Elbrus, it will cut Elbrus in half, and sooner or later, it will still run.

(18) Let there be a blockage on the way, let it be! (19) Obstacles make life: without them, the water would immediately go lifeless into the ocean, just as an incomprehensible life leaves a lifeless body.

(20) A wide depression appeared on the way. (21) The stream, sparing no water, filled it and ran on, leaving this creek to live its own life.

(22) The wide bush bent under the pressure of the winter snows and now dropped many branches into the stream, like a spider, and, still gray, settled on the stream and moved all its long legs.

(23) The seeds of fir trees and aspens float.

(24) The entire passage of the stream through the forest is a path of long struggle, and this is how time is created here.

(25) And so the struggle continues, and in this duration life and my consciousness manage to arise.

(26) Yes, if it weren’t for these obstacles at every step, the water would immediately go away and there would be no life-time at all.

(27) In its struggle, the stream has an effort, the streams, like muscles, twist, but there is no doubt that sooner or later it will fall into the ocean to free water, and this is “sooner or later” and there is the very, very time, the very, very life. (28) The jets echo, straining against the compressed shores, uttering their own words: “Is it sooner or later?” (29) And so all day and all night this “it’s sooner or later” murmurs.

(30) And until the last drop runs away, until the spring stream dries up, the water will tirelessly repeat: “Sooner or later we will end up in the ocean.”

(31) The spring water was cut off along the banks by a round lagoon, and a pike was left in captivity from the spill.

(32) And then suddenly you come to such a quiet place in the stream that you can hear the bullfinch purring throughout the forest and the chaffinch rustling the old leaves. (33) And then powerful jets, the whole stream converges into two jets at an oblique angle and with all its strength hits the steep, fortified by many powerful spruce roots.

(34) It was so good that I sat down on the roots and, resting, heard the mighty jets confidently calling to each other down there, under the steep slope. (35) The stream has tied me to itself, and I cannot move aside...

(36) I went out onto the forest road - on the youngest birch trees the buds were turning green and shining brightly with fragrant resin, but the forest was not yet clothed. (37) A stream ran out of the deep forest into a clearing and, in the open warm rays of the sun, spread into a wide reach. (38) Half of the water went in a separate stream to one side, the other half - to the other. (39) Perhaps, in their struggle for faith in their “sooner or later,” the water divided: one water said that this path would lead to the goal sooner, the other on the other side saw a short path, and so they parted, and They ran around a large circle, and enclosed a large island between themselves, and again joyfully came together and understood: there are no different roads for water, all paths, sooner or later, will certainly lead it to the ocean.

(40) And my eye is caressed, and my ear hears all the time: “is it sooner, is it too late,” and the aroma of resin and birch bud - everything came together into one, and I felt so that it could not have been better, and I had nowhere to go strive more. (41) I sank down between the roots of the tree, pressed myself against the trunk, turned my face to the warm sun, and then my desired moment came.

(42) My stream came to the ocean.

(According to M. M. Prishvin*)

* Mikhail Mikhailovich Prishvin (1873-1954) - Russian writer, prose writer and publicist.
Approximate range of problems: 1. The problem of the impact of nature on humans.
(What impact does nature have on humans?) Author's position: By observing the life of nature, a person understands himself better, because there is much in common between the life of nature and the life of man. Seeing how nature overcomes difficulties, how everything in nature is filled with life, a person experiences a feeling of relaxation and achieves inner harmony.

2. The problem of overcoming difficulties on the way to achieving the goal. (What gives you strength in overcoming difficulties?)

Author's position: The desire for a goal, the belief that sooner or later you will achieve your cherished goal, gives strength in overcoming obstacles on the path of life.

3. The problem of perception of time and life. (What creates the sense of time and life?)

Author's position: The sense of time arises through overcoming obstacles: life is born in a long struggle. Without obstacles at every step, “there would be no life-time at all.” In an effort to overcome difficulties - “the best time, the best life.”

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• Preparation for the Unified State Exam in Russian

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Nature / The meaning of life / Time / Moral and material

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Fox bread

One day I walked in the forest all day and in the evening I returned home with rich booty. He took the heavy bag off his shoulders and began to lay out his belongings on the table.

- What kind of bird is this? - Zinochka asked.

“Terenty,” I answered.

And he told her about the black grouse: how it lives in the forest, how it mutters in the spring, how it pecks at birch buds, collects berries in the swamps in the fall, and warms itself from the wind under the snow in winter. He also told her about the hazel grouse, showed her that it was gray with a tuft, and whistled into the pipe in the hazel grouse style and let her whistle. I also poured a lot of porcini mushrooms, both red and black, onto the table. I also had a bloody boneberry in my pocket, and a blue blueberry, and a red lingonberry. I also brought with me a fragrant lump of pine resin, gave it to the girl to smell and said that trees are treated with this resin.

- Who treats them there? - Zinochka asked.

“They are treating themselves,” I answered. “Sometimes a hunter comes and wants to rest, he’ll stick an ax into a tree and hang his bag on the ax, and lie down under the tree.” He'll sleep and rest. He takes an ax out of the tree, puts on a bag, and leaves. And from the wound from the wood ax this fragrant resin will run and heal the wound.

Also on purpose for Zinochka, I brought various wonderful herbs, one leaf at a time, a root at a time, a flower at a time: cuckoo’s tears, valerian, Peter’s cross, hare’s cabbage. And just under the hare cabbage I had a piece of black bread: it always happens to me that when I don’t take bread into the forest, I’m hungry, but if I take it, I forget to eat it and bring it back. And Zinochka, when she saw black bread under my hare cabbage, was stunned:

-Where did the bread come from in the forest?

- What's surprising here? After all, there is cabbage there!

- Hare...

- And the bread is chanterelle bread. Taste it. I tasted it carefully and started eating:

- Good chanterelle bread!

And she ate all my black bread clean. And so it went with us: Zinochka, such a copula, often won’t even take white bread, but when I bring fox bread from the forest, she will always eat it all and praise it:

- Fox bread is much better than ours!

Mikhail Prishvin: man needs nature

Mikhail Mikhailovich Prishvin is remembered by the world for his prose works. His works are imbued with love for his homeland. The author wrote short stories, essays and stories, which were illustrated by the artist O.G. Vereisky. His works are part of the school curriculum, which indicates a high level of skill.

“Pure poetry” - this is how Prishvin’s stories can be called. Every word he wrote is a hint of something that cannot be seen with a superficial glance. Prishvin should not just be read, you should enjoy it, try to grasp the subtle meaning of seemingly simple phrases. Edification? They are of no use here, the author understands this very well. Special attention to every little detail is what is really important, that’s what Prishvin’s stories teach.

The nature of his native land occupies first place in the writer’s work. The heroes of the stories are not only people, but animals and birds. It is all this that makes up the beauty of life. Incredible kindness and cordiality characterize every work of Mikhail Mikhailovich. The secret of such success lies in the connection of creativity with one’s own observations and impressions.

A subtle understanding and inextricable connection between nature and the homeland permeate all of Prishvin’s stories. “For fish - water, for birds - air, for animals - forest, steppes, mountains. But a person needs a homeland. And to protect nature means to protect the homeland,” we read and understand how relevant his thoughts are today! Prishvin and Maxim Gorky note amazing harmony and love for the Earth. The classic writes: “...the world you have known is amazingly rich and wide...”.

Prishvin's stories about nature, which include such timeless works as “The Golden Meadow”, “Our Garden”, “A Sip of Milk”, “Dead Tree”, “The First Song of Water” and many, many others have been with us since childhood. They teach what school teachers do not teach - to appreciate and cherish everything that heaven has given us. Prishvin was a true naturalist. Unsurpassed knowledge of forests and swamps, the ability to catch their every movement - all this was in his power. Add to this virtuoso mastery of the pen - what more does a true master of words need? Reading his books, we hear the sound of the wind and the rustling of leaves, smell the smells of the forest and observe the behavior of forest inhabitants. How could it be otherwise if instead of the usual word “plants” we find in him bloody drupes, porcini mushrooms, blue blueberries and red lingonberries, hare cabbage and cuckoo tears?

Prishvin's stories about animals deserve special attention. It seems that the entire flora and fauna of central Russia is contained in them! There are only two works - “Guests” and “Fox Bread”, and so many names: crow, wagtail, crane, heron, shrew, fox, viper, bumblebee, bunting, goose... But this is not enough for the writer, every inhabitant of the forest and swamps is his has its own special character, its own habits and habits, voice and even gait. Animals appear before us as intelligent and quick-witted creatures (“Blue Bast Shot”, “Inventor”), they can not only think, but also speak (“Chicken on Pillars”, “Terrible Meeting”). It is interesting that this applies not only to animals, but also to plants: the whisper of the forest is barely noticeable in the story “Whisper in the Forest”, in “Golden Meadow” dandelions fall asleep in the evenings and wake up early in the morning, and a mushroom makes its way from under the leaves in "Strong Man".

Often Prishvin's stories tell us how indifferent people are to all the beauty that is next to them. The purer and richer a person is spiritually, the more secrets of nature are revealed to him, the more he can see in it. So why do we forget this simple wisdom today? And when will we realize this? Will it be too late? Who knows…

Zhurka

Once we had it - we caught a young crane and gave it a frog. He swallowed it. They gave me another and I swallowed it. The third, fourth, fifth, and then we didn’t have any more frogs at hand.

- Good girl! - my wife said and asked me; - How many of them can he eat? Ten maybe?

“Ten,” I say, “maybe.”

- What if it’s twenty?

“Twenty,” I say, “hardly...

We clipped the wings of this crane, and he began to follow his wife everywhere. She milks the cow - and Zhurka is with her, she goes to the garden - and Zhurka needs to be there... The wife is used to him... and without him she is already bored, she can’t live without him. But only if it happens - he’s not there, only one thing will shout: “Fru-fru!”, and he runs to her. So smart!

This is how the crane lives with us, and its clipped wings keep growing and growing.

Once the wife went down to the swamp to fetch water, and Zhurka followed her. A small frog sat by the well and jumped from Zhurka into the swamp. The frog is behind him, and the water is deep, and you can’t reach the frog from the shore. Zhurk flapped his wings and suddenly flew away. His wife gasped and followed him. He swings his arms, but he can’t get up. And in tears, and to us: “Oh, oh, what grief! Ahah!" We all ran to the well. We see Zhurka sitting far away, in the middle of our swamp.

- Fru-fru! - I shout.

And all the guys behind me also shout:

- Fru-fru!

And so smart! As soon as he heard our “fru-fru”, he immediately flapped his wings and flew in. At this point the wife can’t remember herself with joy and tells the kids to run quickly after the frogs. This year there were a lot of frogs, the guys soon collected two caps. The guys brought frogs and began giving and counting. They gave me five - I swallowed them, they gave me ten - I swallowed them, twenty and thirty - and so I swallowed forty-three frogs at one time.

SPADILO.RU

Role and place in literature

The name of Mikhail Mikhailovich Prishvin is associated primarily with Russian nature, which was the central theme of his work.
His hunting stories, novellas, and works for children, written in a unique philosophical and naturalistic style, have replenished the golden fund of children's literature and are published in many languages ​​of the world. Misha Prishvin

The author's works are imbued with a call to love and protect nature. When reading his stories, children develop the best qualities needed in life and their horizons expand. Prishvin's stories contain situations that could very well happen in real life. Therefore, in addition to caring for nature, it is necessary to study and understand it, hence his own approach to it not only as a writer, but also as a scientist.

The writer’s love for his native nature grew in him out of love for the fatherland both as a whole and for its indispensable components - the people and the land on which he was born, lived and worked. The kindness that permeates his works speaks of a person who is inherent in unity with nature, since this quality is a prerequisite for this phenomenon.

Origin and early years

Mikhail Prishvin was born on February 4, 1873 in the Oryol province, on the Khrushchevo-Levshino estate, which previously belonged to his grandfather, a very rich, noble merchant. His mother, Maria Ivanovna, was an adherent of the Old Believer faith, was distinguished by a quiet, calm disposition and took care of the house and raising five children. Everyone knew their father, Mikhail Dmitrievich, as an avid horse racing player and a passionate hunter.

The writer's mother Maria Ivanovna

The irresistible habit of the head of the family to place bets ultimately led to the complete bankruptcy of the family - the stud farm, all the fortune and family estate of the grandfather were lost. Realizing everything that had happened, the father fell ill, overtaken by paralysis. He soon died, leaving his wife with five children and problems associated with a complete lack of funds. It is difficult to imagine how a bankrupt widow coped with the situation, but she was able not only to overcome it, but also to give her children a good education.

Education

Misha received his primary education in a simple village school. A year later, in 1883, he entered the Yeletsk classical gymnasium. Unlike his successful brothers, he studied poorly and repeated the second year several times. In addition, he had a conflictual nature, which led to quarrels with teachers. As a result, in 1889, after six years, Mikhail was still a fourth grader. A decision was made to expel him from school.

With young readers

After this, Mikhail was sent to Tyumen, to his childless uncle on his mother’s side. Uncle Misha was a merchant, a man of word and deed, so he resolutely took up the task of re-educating his nephew. Under his control, Prishvin graduated from the Tyumen Alexander Real School. On the advice of the same uncle, who decided to introduce Mikhail to commerce, the young man entered the Riga Polytechnic. During his studies, he became interested in the ideas of Marxism and joined a student circle, for which he received a year of arrest and two years of exile.

After all the misadventures, Mikhail, in 1902, finally managed to obtain the profession of land surveyor at the University of Leipzig. This was followed by a return to Russia and marriage to Efrosinya Pavlovna. In this first marriage, Prishvin had three children.

Prishvin Estate

Until 1905, Prishvin worked as an agronomist in Luga. At the same time, he began to write notes and articles with a scientific bias, gradually making the transition to an artistic direction. His first story, “Sashok,” was published already in 1906.

Creation

Impressed by his first success, Prishvin decides to devote all his time to creativity. He stops agronomic activities and becomes a newspaper correspondent. But his love for nature haunts the aspiring writer, and he sets off on a trip to the North. As a result of this trip, his “Stories and Tales about Nature” appeared on the shores of the Arctic Ocean and the White Sea.

Soon the name Prishvin becomes known to the literary community. He meets Merezhkovsky and Gorky. Relations with Blok did not work out as a result of diverging views on politics.

With his wife Valeria

During the entire period of upheaval caused by the First World War, the revolution and the Civil War, Prishvin worked as a war correspondent. He described with deep accuracy everything that happened at the front. After the war, he got a job as a teacher in a rural school. A sudden fascination with cars prompted him to buy his own van, which he used to travel again.

In the early 1930s, Prishvin decided to visit the Far East. There he wrote the book “Dear Animals.” Impressed by the construction of the White Sea-Baltic Canal, Mikhail Mikhailovich writes a fairy tale novel “Osudareva Road”. In 1935, Prishvin and his son made another trip to the North. After this long journey, the essays “Berendey's Thicket” and the fairy tale “The Ship Thicket” appeared.

In 1940, at the age of sixty-seven, Prishvina was visited by love. He married Valeria Liorko, who until the end of his days was his faithful assistant, friend and muse. Subsequently, she devoted a lot of time to the writer’s archives, published several books about his life and work, and headed the Prishvin Museum for many years.

Monument in Sergiev Posad

From 1941 to 1943, the writer lived in evacuation in the Yaroslavl region. Here he participated in a company protesting against the destruction of forests by peat miners. Returning to Moscow, he provided the Soviet Writer publishing house with his stories “Phacelia” and “Forest Drops,” which were immediately published. His famous story “The Pantry of the Sun” was published in 1945. From 1946 to 1953, the writer lived and worked at his summer dacha in the village of Dunino, located in the Zvenigorod district of the Moscow region. Nowadays there is a museum of M.M. Prishvina.

Major works

“Pantry of the Sun” was defined by Prishvin himself as a fairy tale. It tells the story of two children orphaned during wartime. The main theme of the work is friendship and mutual assistance. Symbolic in the fairy tale are the images of an enemy, personified by an elusive wolf, and a friend - a faithful and devoted dog who took part in saving the boy.

Prishvin Museum in Dunino

Just as in other works, Prishvin pays great attention to the inextricable connection between man and nature, skillfully drawing the smallest details that children can understand even on an intuitive level.

In the story “The Birch Bark Tube,” the author calls to show attention to nature, to treat it the same as any other living creature, which is clearly shown in the example of a birch tree with torn birch bark. Despite its length, this small, easy-to-read story carries a huge educational message.

Tombstone at Prishvin's grave

The story “Ginseng” was written by Prishvin after visiting the Urals and the Far East. The title of the work corresponds to its theme – man’s search for the root of life. Despite the fact that a significant part of the narrative is devoted to descriptions of nature, it also contains the theme of war, death, and the search for the meaning of life. Based on this, the work can be considered as a philosophical tale about a man and his path from war to “a new, better life for people on earth.”

Last years

In the last years of his life, Prishvin, as always, worked very hard. He never saw his last work, “Eyes of the Snake,” published. It was published three years after his death, in 1957.

On the threshold of his eightieth birthday, the writer was diagnosed with stomach cancer. He had only six months to live. Mikhail Mikhailovich died on January 16, 1954. The writer's funeral took place at the Vvedenskoye Cemetery in Moscow.

Chronological table (by date)

Interesting Facts

• the writer did very poorly at school, was impudent with teachers and twice repeated the year;
• Prishvin's father lost his entire fortune;
• Prishvin was imprisoned for participation in Marxist circles;
• changed his place of residence very often;
• made a great contribution to the development of domestic agronomy;
• was fond of cars, this continued until his death;
• in addition to writing, he was interested in photography;
• Prishvin's ancestral estate was confiscated by the Bolsheviks.

Memory of the writer

In October 1982, an asteroid named after the writer was discovered.

In 2015, a monument to Prishvin was unveiled in Sergiev Posad.

Prishvin Peak is located in the spurs of the Main Caucasus Range.

On one of the islands of the Kuril ridge there is Cape Prishvina.

Many streets in different Russian cities are named after him.

The Oryol Regional Children's Library is named after M. Prishvin.

Links

https://lookmytrips.com/574434afff936770cc036bb0/pamiatnik-mikhailu-prishvinu-ff9367 Skete Ponds Park. Monument

https://prishvin.ru/ House-museum in Dunino

https://prishvin.lit-info.ru/ Website about M.M. Prishvin

Squirrel Memory

Today, looking at the tracks of animals and birds in the snow, this is what I read from these tracks: a squirrel made its way through the snow into the moss, took out two nuts hidden there since the fall, ate them right away - I found the shells. Then she ran ten meters away, dived again, again left a shell on the snow and after a few meters made a third climb.

What kind of miracle? It’s impossible to think that she could smell the nut through a thick layer of snow and ice. This means that since the fall I remembered about my nuts and the exact distance between them.

But the most amazing thing is that she could not measure centimeters like we did, but directly by eye she determined with precision, dived and reached. Well, how could one not envy the squirrel’s memory and ingenuity!

Forest Doctor

We wandered in the forest in the spring and observed the life of hollow birds: woodpeckers, owls. Suddenly, in the direction where we had previously identified an interesting tree, we heard the sound of a saw. It was, as we were told, the collection of firewood from dead wood for a glass factory. We were afraid for our tree, hurried to the sound of the saw, but it was too late: our aspen lay, and there were many empty fir cones around its stump. The woodpecker peeled all this off over the long winter, collected it, carried it to this aspen tree, laid it between two branches of his workshop and hammered it. Near the stump, on our cut aspen, two boys were doing nothing but cutting down the wood.

- Oh, you pranksters! - we said and pointed them to the cut aspen. “You were told to remove dead trees, but what did you do?”

“The woodpecker made a hole,” the guys answered. “We took a look and, of course, we cut it down.” It will still be lost.

Everyone began to examine the tree together. It was completely fresh, and only in a small space, no more than a meter in length, did a worm pass inside the trunk. The woodpecker obviously listened to the aspen like a doctor: he tapped it with his beak, realized the emptiness left by the worm, and began the operation of extracting the worm. And the second time, and the third, and the fourth... The thin trunk of the aspen looked like a pipe with valves. The “surgeon” made seven holes and only on the eighth he caught the worm, pulled out and saved the aspen.

We cut this piece out as a wonderful exhibit for a museum.

“You see,” we told the guys, “the woodpecker is a forest doctor, he saved the aspen, and it would live and live, and you cut it down.”

The boys were amazed.

Prishvin: “Russia is destined to say a new word about peace”

The 60th anniversary of the death of Mikhail Prishvin actually coincided with the nationwide celebration of the 70th anniversary of the lifting of the Leningrad blockade, which became a symbol of both a great tragedy and a great example of the resilience of the Russian character. The famous writer wrote in his diaries about the Fatherland, about the Great Patriotic War: “I have mine, you have yours, he has... And together - this is the Motherland. We learned to feel “ours” together during the war.”

We are accustomed from school that Prishvin is a wonderful story about Russian nature, such as “Fox Bread”, “Blue Bast Shoes”, “How Romka Crossed the Stream”, “How I Taught My Dogs to Eat Peas”, “Grandfather’s Felt Boots” and many, many others. We read his volumes “Pantry of the Sun”, “In the Land of Unfrightened Birds”, “Forest Bowl”, “Green Noise”, “Kashcheev’s Chain”, “Pigeon Book”. But little did they know that Mikhail Prishvin was not only an observer, whom the leader of the people “allowed” to write about “birds,” but also a thinker with unusual aphorism. Mikhail Mikhailovich kept diaries for many years, the publication of which in different, not so long ago years and on various occasions, revealed to us the secrets of his heart and mind, continued and expanded for us the Russian tradition of secret notes and thoughts.

Mikhail Mikhailovich Prishvin. Photo 1946

100 years ago he predicted that sooner or later a “second nature” created by human hands would emerge. His poem “Ginseng” is about this. The writer argued that, having destroyed virgin nature, a person will begin to plant new plants - just to survive. “Our homeland is beginning to go bald,” Prishvin wrote with alarm. Today he is put on a par with the author of the doctrine of the noosphere Vernadsky, the physiologist Ukhtomsky - thinkers who discussed the topic “man - Earth” at the global level.

Prishvin has many opinions about the living environment, but also about the nature and essence of man, about Russian life, about specific people, about the era, about history, which an honest writer is always a witness to.

Prishvin argued that without knowledge, the homeland “can never be a fatherland for us.” “The homeland is the place where we were born, the fatherland is the homeland that I have recognized” (1919)

His diaries invariably read as topical because they include timeless constants. At first glance, there is no novelty in this, because we are familiar with the diaries and statements of the best Russian minds, which always hit the nail on the head and the essence of social, personal, and spiritual problems. However, you read Prishvin and not so much discover a new writer, renewed like the world in spring, as you see his revelations about ourselves, about the Universe, about the era, about our life.

In 1951, Prishvin will say self-definingly: “There was water and clay, now I have my spirit and the word, and I make a form from the word...”

Prishvin is sometimes compared to the philosopher V.V. Rozanov. And here’s an interesting fact: 4th grade student Misha Prishvin was expelled from the Yeletsk classical gymnasium in 1887 “for insolence to the teacher.” This teacher is geography! — was Rozanov, who would soon become an all-Russian and world-famous writer. There is no doubt: Rozanov is a brilliant writer and thinker, but it seems to us that in the amount of love allotted to his heart, he is inferior to his “impudent” student.

M. Prishvin kept a diary throughout the first half of the twentieth century - from 1905 to 1954, in fact until his death. We have reached 25 volumes of this unprecedented diary, which began to appear in parts in print - in books and magazines - since the early 1990s.

Incomprehensible to Soviet people and to us today, this is a striking statement: “God loves everyone, but each one more.” Oh, it's a pity no one could read this back then, in the fifties! And even in the “thaw” sixties, which gave rise to various, sometimes contradictory, shoots. The activity of many of these “sprouts”, unfortunately, subsequently led to the collapse of the Russian Empire already in its Soviet form.

Perhaps, if this amazing and grandiose formula “God loves everyone, but each one more” had settled in the minds of Soviet people, the fate of the great country, which had won the Great Victory six years before this statement, could have developed differently. But then, alas, they began to “severely forget” about God again, remembering Him briefly only in difficult times of trials, when, as they say, things got hot.

A naturalist, a naturalist, in fact, a lover of “birds” (of course, dogs and all other living creatures - there are many amazing photos of Mikhail Mikhailovich with his “dogs” over the years), he wrote: “What miracles there, in the depths the nature from which I came! No science can reveal the secret that is revealed from the memories of childhood and love. You just need to experience intense grief, you need to almost die. And so, the birth takes place. Unknown forces send consolation and great joy" (1907). Or like this: “I hear the breathing of a purple bell. I love him. He is connected to the rock. And through my love for a flower I am connected with the whole great world" (1909). It’s good - “I hear the breathing of a purple bell”!

And this was said in the terrible year of 1918: “In Russian nature, the floods of rivers are most dear to me, in the Russian people - their rise to a common cause.” Then, it seems, I wanted to see the light even in what would later turn into darkness. But, interestingly, this idea has not lost its correctness. It would be tempting to clarify: the rise to a good common cause. But Russian truth tells us much more.

Therefore, here we will add Prishvin’s general philosophical conclusion, already in 1926, made by a writer who listened to the thundering steps of the proletariat behind the wall, imagining the construction of paradise on earth and the curbing of nature: “If a person achieves control of the Universe, then he himself will become the same worker mechanism, like all these empty worlds.”

In 1926-1937 Prishvin lived on Komsomolskaya Street (now Vifanskaya again) in the city of Zagorsk (read: Sergiev Posad). From the Sergiev Posad years, in particular 1929-1930, he left us bitter diary entries about the death of the famous bells of the Trinity-Sergius Lavra: “January 8. Yesterday the languages ​​were removed from “Godunov” and “Karnaukhoy”. "Karnaukhiy" on jacks. On Friday he will be thrown at the Tsar with the aim of breaking it. They say that the old bell-ringer came here, kissed the bell, said goodbye to it: “Farewell, my friend!”; "28 January. The fall of "Godunov" (1600-1930) at 11 am. And it is true that “Tsar”, “Godunov” and “Karnaukhiy” hung nearby and were broken by falling one onto the other. So the Russian state was broken by discord...”

Defeated bells of the cathedral in Sergiev Posad. Photo by M.M. Prishvina

It’s amazing: more than 200 negatives with images of fragments of bells, as well as whole large and small Lavra bells standing on the ground, filmed in those frosty and tragic days, were left to us by the photographic eye of a witness of the Prishvin era. Prishvin’s amateur photography turned out to be invaluable: in order to restore the destroyed bells, in modern times these negatives were scanned with high resolution.

But here is the fateful 1937 in the writer’s notebooks, which the author, of course, hid, did not show to anyone except his wife (he joked bitterly: “For every line of my diary - ten years of execution”): “The curse of life is not in the one thing that is people who do evil, but also because people who are frightened by them have prepared for evil, become very suspicious and are no longer able to meet a person who is unfamiliar with trust.” It is clear why in those years Prishvin filled his small notebooks with the smallest handwriting, and it is now possible to read what was written only with the help of magnifying glasses.

Two years later, having glimpsed the great trials of the Second World War, Prishvin would write: “The best thing in the Russian tradition is modesty with a secret consciousness of strength, like the fact that when I’m going, I won’t whistle, but if I’m too full, I won’t let go.” This turned out to be true in 1945. Let’s hope that even now, in this time of global challenges, the Russian world will respond to them adequately.

The writer understood perfectly well that his notes for half a century were not only snapshots of the state of his soul, but also evidence of the era. The author saved them - a whole suitcase with manuscripts - both in the fall of 1941, leaving Moscow, and a little later, in the village of Usolye in the Yaroslavl region, when he had to seal the diaries in an old rubber boat with the intention of burying them in the forest in the event of occupation. The writer said the scriptural words about this burden of his: “I carried these notebooks, this storehouse of fireproof words with me everywhere... My notebooks are my justification, the judgment of my conscience over the work of life.”

Let us remember the words of Mikhail Prishvin, a native of the Khrushchevo-Levshino estate, near Yelets, who lived on his native land for almost 81 years: “In my struggle, my people, my mother’s language, my sense of homeland carried me through. I grow from the ground like grass, I bloom like grass, I am mowed down, horses eat me, and I again turn green in spring and summer, blooming on Peter’s Day. ...You can’t do anything about it, and I will be destroyed only if the Russian people ends, but it won’t end, and maybe it’s just beginning.”

___________

Photo - https://www.prishvin.org.ru/; I.Ushakova

https://tpbf.ru/novosti/item/113-o-divnyy-novyy-mir

White necklace

I heard in Siberia, near Lake Baikal, from one citizen about a bear and, I admit, I didn’t believe it. But he assured me that in the old days this case was even published in a Siberian magazine under the title: “A man with a bear against wolves.”

There lived a watchman on the shore of Lake Baikal, he caught fish and shot squirrels. And then one day the watchman seemed to see through the window - a big bear was running straight to the hut, and a pack of wolves was chasing him. That would be the end of the bear. He, this bear, don’t be bad, is in the hallway, the door closed behind him, and he still leaned on it with his paw. The old man, realizing this matter, took the rifle off the wall and said:

- Misha, Misha, hold it!

The wolves climb on the door, and the old man aims the wolf at the window and repeats:

- Misha, Misha, hold it!

So he killed one wolf, and another, and a third, all the time saying:

- Misha, Misha, hold it!

After the third, the pack scattered, and the bear remained in the hut to spend the winter under the guard of the old man. In the spring, when the bears come out of their dens, the old man allegedly put a white necklace on this bear and ordered all the hunters not to shoot this bear with the white necklace: this bear is his friend.

About Prishvin again

M. Pakhomova, M. M. Prishvin, “Enlightenment”, L. 1970, 128 pp.

Prishvin once said that the seeds sown by his books in the reader’s soul are alive and germinating. Once on fertile soil, they are able to develop and grow, attracting attention for a long time. This observation can rightfully be attributed to the author of the work on Prishvin, since before us is not just a reader, but a reader-researcher. Having discovered the unusually unique world of Prishvin, he no longer wants to part with it. And it is not surprising that the literary critic from Karelia M. Pakhomova, who in 1960 published a study on Prishvin’s connections with her northern republic, is now coming out with a new book about this writer, this time covering the artist’s creative path as a whole.

It should be noted that M. Pakhomova’s book is intended for the widest audience, which, by the way, is indicated by the huge circulation for literary work (100,000 copies). The book is conceived as a kind of comprehensive reference book, as a short encyclopedic volume for a literature teacher who simply does not have time to go through Prishvin’s six volumes in detail, especially since the books of Mikhail Mikhailovich, as K. Paustovsky noted (and this remark of his is given in the book) , one must not just read, but “write it out for oneself in treasured notebooks, re-read it from time to time, discovering new treasures in every line of his prose-poetry.”

The author of the study more than once manages to draw the reader’s attention to the wonderful details of the writer’s stories and miniatures, demonstrate the originality of Prishvin’s artistic means, show how, developing the best classical traditions (Turgenev, Tyutchev), the artist in his poems, notes, sketches gave an original and deep image of man and the world, native nature, saw and conveyed in its (nature’s) phenomena “a meaning that a person would understand as his own human.”

A reader interested in the creative biography of Prishvin can glean from M. Pakhomova’s book the maximum of useful and necessary information. The pre-revolutionary period of the artist’s work, his travels to Karelia and Kazakhstan are concisely and clearly outlined, the nature and features of his books “In the Land of Unfrightened Birds”, “Behind the Magic Kolobok”, “Black Arab” are examined. Prishvin of the Soviet period appears more fully from the pages of the book, and this is understandable, because it was precisely in the post-October years that Prishvin’s interest in a broad understanding of “problems of a philosophical and aesthetic nature” deepened significantly, and Prishvin’s talent was most fully and multifacetedly revealed.

Nine chapters of the book recreate the life of the writer and talk about the implementation of his artistic plans. Apparently, in this story, in this analysis, almost all fairly significant facts are taken into account; the reader sees how in the post-October years Prishvin taught, worked in small local museums, how the uplifting, bright “Springs of Berendey”, written in the 20s, were born during a local history expedition. The whole chapter “There were hunters. Travels” reveals to the reader another side of Prishvin’s creativity – the hunter’s stories. Among them, stories about Lenin occupy an important place. As an artist, “Prishvin was attracted by the caring attitude of ordinary people towards Ilyich, their faith in Lenin as the living embodiment of the highest humanity, and the special attractive simplicity in the way this brilliant man treated ordinary people.”

The analysis reveals different facets of Prishvin's talent, different aspects of his artistic and genre searches. M. Pakhomova examines the features of the figurative structure of Prishvin’s Far Eastern poem “Ginseng,” where the writer’s philosophical views and a deep understanding of the cultural significance of socialist transformations are reflected in an unusually original way. She convincingly shows that, while following his own path in art, mastering, as the artist liked to say, “his own path,” Prishvin at the same time traversed the path of great Soviet art. His work reflected in its own way those processes of formation of an active personality in a new society that worried Gaidar and Malyshkin, Leonov and Tvardovsky.

It is in this regard that the book examines Prishvin’s later works - “Stories about a Beautiful Mother”, “The Tale of Our Time”, “Ship Thicket”, “Osudar’s Road”. Moreover, the author does not miss the opportunity to draw our attention to the features of the form, to Prishvin’s constant interest in folklore, to the role of philosophical miniatures in his work.

M. Pakhomova’s analysis is always quite specific; it is based on the text, on the judgments and statements of the writer and his critics and commentators. Sources of quotes are included in a special section printed on the final ten pages of the book. Such a broad reliance on facts gives the book weight and, so to speak, documentary authority. But one of the paradoxes of studying Prishvin is that the writer in his diaries, notes, miniatures himself tried to interpret what he wrote in such detail and repeatedly that the researcher, who often quotes Prishvin’s introspections, receives ready-made “nodes”, points of view, ready-made trains of thought and thereby, as it were, abandoning his own work of thought, from independent, free and detailed comprehension of Prishvin’s internal quests at the turn of two eras, from the awareness of their strength and weakness.

And the further we read the book, where a competent literary analysis is given, extending right up to commenting on individual Prishvin phrases and figurative solutions, the more persistently the desire arises for a larger, consistent synthesis - a more thorough “prescription” of those places of work that could more closely connect the analyzes, fuse them into the overall bright focus of a seamless creative portrait. Moreover, the portrait is formed not so much from the external moments of the creative path, but rather reveals the deep features of the artist-thinker, which in turn will help explain a lot in the creative movement of the writer.

The artist’s internal biography, interpreted creatively and broadly, is what I want to see in the work on a larger scale, more holistically, more powerfully. M. Pakhomova speaks about Prishvin - a thinker, moralist, philosopher - more than once, but most often for reference, nominatively, and not in detail. Meanwhile, Prishvin certainly deserves more attention as an interesting phenomenon of socio-ethical and artistic thought.

The spiritual need for beauty, moral maximalism, characteristic of Russian classics, from the very beginning determined the nature of Prishvin’s creative aspirations. The writer was worried about the ideal of a free person, natural in his thoughts and feelings. Like Chekhov, Prishvin could rightfully say: “Everything in a person should be beautiful.” And even the writer’s very participation in the revolutionary movement was largely due to the search for this moral ideal. For the early Prishvin, a free, wonderful person is a child or a person who has retained a child within himself. That is why the writer with such excitement, with such bated breath, peered into the childish, trusting souls of the Vygozero peasants, that an external biographical fact - a trip to Karelia - coincided with internal moral searches. That’s probably why he went to Lapland, into the depths of the Kazakh steppes: there people did not lose their natural, nature-given traits.

However, even then Prishvin quite clearly understood the illusory nature of such searches. M. Pakhomova quite rightly provides interesting evidence that Prishvin, who arrived in Karelia, even in this “land of undeterred birds,” was met with a secret order from the authorities to secretly monitor his actions. The researcher reasonably examines in the chapter “Black Arab” Prishvin’s travel essays on the Kazakh steppes, “Adam and Eve,” which are harsh in their social truth. In them, according to the researcher’s observation, Russia is depicted “as a huge, unsettled country, inhabited by large and small talented peoples, who, under the existing order, are equally disadvantaged and doomed to poverty.”

The dream of a free, harmonious person dramatically collided with reality, Prishvin’s artistic consciousness lost its integrity; The gap between ideal and reality in Prishvin’s work turned into an aesthetic “splitting” into a realistic essay, newspaper correspondence (“Zavoroshka”) and a romantic poem (“Black Arab”, “Ginseng”, “Phacelia”).

The new reality radically changed the social situation, and accordingly, although not immediately, this affected Prishvin’s entire system of spiritual and aesthetic quests. The very development of the new life suggested to the artist that his desire to discover the best in man and merge this best with the pictures of nature now has a real social basis. In this case, poetry and prose are no longer divided into two irreconcilable aesthetic opposites; the essay and the poem come closer together. This is clear from the book’s examination of the poem “Ginseng” and the essays “The Golden Horn”, the basis of which, despite the differences in genre, is the same - the confidence that the new reality opens up before a person unprecedented opportunities for spiritual development and moral improvement.

The book shows the genre and aesthetic searches of the late Prishvin. “...The writer,” notes M. Pakhomova, “wanted to create a work of a new genre, which is a “fairy tale contained in the category of space and time,” with modern heroes, ordinary Soviet people.” “A work based on modern material, similar to a folk tale, was the poetic ideal to the creation of which the writer devoted his entire life.” The poetic ideal here turned out to be inseparable from the moral ideal, and in this case, again, I would like to connect the movement of internal biography more fully and energetically with the artistic search.

The fairy tale story and the fairy tale novel aesthetically corresponded to the new quality of Prishvin’s consciousness, which absorbed the main features of the worldview of the integral personality of the builder of a new society, which are depicted in the artist’s works by Masha Ulanova and Sergeant Veselkin.

Undoubtedly, Prishvin's fairy tale books contribute a lot of valuable things to the development of our literature. One cannot but agree with the researcher on this. At the same time, one cannot underestimate the difficulties of this path and the degree of its effectiveness. Prishvin was most successful in “fairy tales” where children were the heroes. The Sun's Pantry is the best of this kind of stuff. The story-fairy tale “The Thicket of the Ship” and especially the novel-fairy tale “Osudareva Road”, where the children’s world expands to the scale of “adult” reality, are noticeably inferior to “The Pantry of the Sun” in artistic integrity. It is no coincidence that the fairy tale novel “Osudareva Road” remained unfinished.

But the matter was not only difficulties of a purely aesthetic nature. Along with “adult” reality, acute contradictions and conflicts came into the works, which did not always fit into the fairy tale; characters appeared that did not in all respects meet the requirements of Prishvin’s new genre. Prishvin's strength turned into weakness. The artist tries to overcome the selectivity of his approach, predetermined by the specifics of the genre. In “Osudareva Road” there are people who are not of a “fairytale” type - the leader of the criminals Rudolf, the former entrepreneur Volkov, the head of the construction security officer Sutulov. But they are precisely the ones who seem to be the weakest artistically. And one can hardly agree with M. Pakhomova that the heroes of “Osudareva Road” (Sutulov is named among them), although “devoid of portrait and psychological detail” ... “turned out to be “alive, whole.”

Prishvin's path to success was more difficult than is sometimes presented in the book. M. Prishvin’s path to a correct understanding of the revolution was much more complicated than shown in the work under review. This question is simply removed by the researcher’s statement that “Prishvin was among those Russian writers who accepted the revolution.” This kind of “adaptation,” perhaps conditioned by the uniquely understood task of creating a popular, mass book, sometimes prevents one from feeling the depth of Prishvin’s creative evolution, the significance of the inner work, hesitations, and thoughts that the artist went through when setting out on the right path.

“While maintaining his artistic individuality,” the researcher writes in the last chapter of his book, “Prishvin developed new principles for displaying and artistic embodiment of reality in images of art, which do not contradict, but correspond to the principles of socialist realism.” One cannot but agree with this.

Belyak

All night long in the forest, straight wet snow pressed on the twigs, broke off, fell, rustled.

The rustle drove the white hare out of the forest, and he probably realized that by morning the black field would turn white and he, completely white, could lie peacefully. And he lay down in a field not far from the forest, and not far from him, also like a hare, lay the skull of a horse, weathered over the summer and whitened by the sun’s rays.

By dawn the whole field was covered, and both the white hare and the white skull had disappeared into the white immensity.

We were a little late, and by the time we released the hound, the tracks had already begun to blur.

When Osman began to disassemble the fat, it was still difficult to distinguish the shape of the hare's paw from the hare's: he was walking along the hare. But before Osman had time to straighten the trail, everything completely melted away on the white path, and then there was neither sight nor smell left on the black one.

We gave up on hunting and began to return home at the edge of the forest.

“Look through binoculars,” I said to my friend, “that it’s white there on the black field and so bright.”

“Horse skull, head,” he answered.

I took the binoculars from him and also saw the skull.

“There’s something still white there,” said the comrade, “look further to the left.”

I looked there, and there, also like a skull, bright white, lay a hare, and through prismatic binoculars you could even see black eyes on the white. He was in a desperate situation: lying down meant being in full view of everyone, running meant leaving a print on the soft wet ground for the dog. We stopped his hesitation: we lifted him up, and at the same moment Osman, having seen him again, set off with a wild roar towards the sighted man.

Swamp

I know that few people sat in the swamps in early spring waiting for the grouse current, and I have few words to even hint at all the splendor of the bird concert in the swamps before sunrise. I have often noticed that the first note in this concert, far before the very first hint of light, is taken by a curlew. This is a very thin trill, completely different from the well-known whistle. Afterwards, when the white partridges cry, the black grouse begin to chuff, and the lek, sometimes right next to the hut, begins its muttering, there is no time for the curlew, but then at sunrise, at the most solemn moment, you will certainly pay attention to the new song of the curlew, very cheerful and similar to dance: this dance is as necessary for meeting the sun as the cry of a crane.

Once I saw from the hut how, among the black mass of cocks, a gray curlew, a female, settled on a hummock; The male flew to her and, supporting himself in the air with the flapping of his large wings, touched the female’s back with his feet and sang his dance song. Here, of course, the whole air trembled with the singing of all the marsh birds, and I remember that the puddle, in complete calm, was all agitated by the many insects that had awakened in it.

The sight of a very long and crooked beak of a curlew always transports my imagination to a time long past, when there was no man on earth. And everything in the swamps is so strange, the swamps have been little studied, they have not been touched at all by artists, in them you always feel as if man has not yet begun on earth.

One evening I went out into the swamps to wash the dogs. It was very steamy after the rain before the new rain. The dogs, sticking out their tongues, ran and from time to time lay down, like pigs, on their bellies in the swamp puddles. Apparently, the young people had not yet hatched and got out of the supports into the open, and in our places, overflowing with swamp game, now the dogs could not smell anything and, when idle, were even worried about flying crows. Suddenly a large bird appeared, began to scream anxiously and describe large circles around us. Another curlew flew in and also began to circle around screaming, the third, obviously from another family, crossed the circle of these two, calmed down and disappeared. I needed to get a curlew egg for my collection, and, counting that the circles of birds would certainly decrease if I approached the nest, and increase if I moved away, I began to wander through the swamp, as if in a game blindfolded. So little by little, when the low sun became huge and red in the warm, abundant swamp vapors, I felt the proximity of the nest: the birds screamed unbearably and rushed so close to me that in the red sun I clearly saw their long, crooked, open for constant alarm screaming noses. Finally, both dogs, grabbing with their upper instincts, made a stance. I walked in the direction of their eyes and noses and saw two large eggs lying right on a yellow dry strip of moss, near a tiny bush, without any devices or cover. Having told the dogs to lie down, I looked around me with joy; the mosquitoes bit me hard, but I got used to them.

How good it was for me in the inaccessible swamps and how far away the earth was from these large birds with long crooked noses, crossing the disk of the red sun on curved wings!

I was about to bend down to the ground to take one of these large beautiful eggs for myself, when I suddenly noticed that in the distance, across the swamp, a man was walking straight towards me. He had neither a gun, nor a dog, nor even a stick in his hand, there was no way for anyone to go anywhere from here, and I did not know people like me who, like me, could happily wander through the swamp under a swarm of mosquitoes. I felt as unpleasant as if, while combing my hair in front of the mirror and making some special face at the same time, I suddenly noticed someone else’s examining eye in the mirror. I even moved away from the nest and did not take the eggs, so that this man would not frighten me with his questions, I felt it, an expensive moment of my life. I told the dogs to stand up and led them to the hump. There I sat down on a gray stone, so covered with yellow lichens on top that it was not cold. The birds, as soon as I walked away, increased their circles, but I could no longer watch them with joy. Anxiety was born in my soul at the approach of a stranger. I could already see him: an elderly man, very thin, walking slowly, carefully watching the flight of the birds. I felt better when I noticed that he changed direction and went to another hill, where he sat down on a stone and also turned to stone. I even felt pleased that someone like me was sitting there, reverently listening to the evening. It seemed that without any words we understood each other perfectly, and there were no words for this. I watched with redoubled attention as the birds crossed the red disk of the sun; At the same time, my thoughts were strange about the timing of the earth and about such a short history of mankind; How, however, everything soon passed.

The sun has set. I looked back at my friend, but he was no longer there. The birds calmed down, apparently sat on their nests. Then, ordering the dogs to go back and stealthily, I began to approach the nest with silent steps: whether, I thought, I might be able to see interesting birds up close. From the bush I knew exactly where the nest was, and I was very surprised how close the birds would let me. Finally, I got to the bush itself and froze in surprise: behind the bush everything was empty. I touched the moss with my palm: it was still warm from the warm eggs lying on it.

I just looked at the eggs, and the birds, afraid of the human eye, hastened to hide them away.

a word about nature, entertaining facts about the world around us (preparatory group) on the topic

• Good nature took care of everything so much,

that everywhere you find something to learn.Leonardo
da Vinci

“Nature has endowed man with the desire to discover the truth.”

(Marcus Tulius Cicero)

“Birds are given wings, fish are given fins, and people who live in nature are given the study and knowledge of nature; these are their wings." (H. Marty)

“What we cultivate in the soul grows—this is the eternal law of nature.”

(Johann Wolfgang Goethe)

All the best in nature belongs to everyone together. (Petronius)

Protecting nature means protecting the Motherland. (Prishvin M. M.)

He who does not love nature does not love man, is not a citizen. (Dostoevsky F. M.)

All the best in nature belongs to everyone together. (Petronius)

The power of nature is great. (Cicero)

Nature perfects everything. (Lucretius)

Established by nature itself. (Seneca)

The woman who gives birth is closest to nature: on one side she is even nature itself, and on the other hand, she is man himself. (Prishvin M. M.)

Great things are done with great means. Nature alone does great things for nothing. (Herzen A.I.)

In nature, everything is wisely thought out and arranged, everyone should mind their own business, and in this wisdom lies the highest justice of life. (Leonardo da Vinci)

The study and observation of nature gave birth to science. (Cicero)

There is nothing useless in nature. (Michel Montaigne)

Nature has taken care of everything so much that everywhere you find something to learn. (Leonardo da Vinci)

For others, nature is firewood, coal, ore, or a dacha, or just a landscape. For me, nature is the environment from which, like flowers, all our human talents grew. (Prishvin M. M.)

Nature provides enough to satisfy natural needs. (Seneca)

Let us not... be too deluded by our victories over nature. For every such victory she takes revenge on us. (Engels F.)

There is nothing more inventive than nature. The wisdom of nature is amazing, which, with such endless diversity, managed to equalize everyone! (Erasmus of Rotterdam)

This means that it is not the rays of the sun or the radiance of daylight that must drive out this fear from the soul and dispel the darkness, but nature itself with its appearance and internal structure. As a basis here we take the following proposition: Nothing is created from nothing according to the divine will. This means that death means nothing and does not matter to us at all, If the nature of the spirit must certainly be mortal. (Lucretius)

Nature itself has it that way. (Livy)

Progress is a law of nature. (Voltaire)

All the aspirations and efforts of nature are completed by man; They strive towards it, they fall into it, like into the ocean. (Herzen A.I.)

There is nothing more orderly than nature. (Cicero)

Nature can be conquered only by obeying its laws. (Bacon F.)

Nature is like a woman who, showing from under her clothes first one part of her body, then another, gives persistent admirers some hope of someday recognizing all of her. (Diderot D.)

There is nothing more beautiful than a well-cultivated field. (Cicero)

All nature strives for self-preservation. (Cicero)

Nature is never mistaken... Nature hates any counterfeit, and the best thing is that which is not distorted by either science or art.) (Erasmus of Rotterdam)

Custom could not overcome nature, for it always remains undefeated. (Cicero)

The tenderness and delight that we experience from contemplating nature is a memory of the time when we were animals, trees, flowers, earth. More precisely: this is the consciousness of unity with everything, hidden from us by time. (Tolstoy L.N.)

A valley, a little quiet water and a ray of sunset - the simplest things, the most ordinary, the most precious. (Ruskin D.)

That’s why we rejoice when we find ourselves in nature, because here we come to our senses. (Prishvin M. M.)

Nature and art, material and creation. Even beauty must be helped: even beauty will appear as ugliness if it is not decorated with art, which removes flaws and polishes virtues. Nature leaves us to the mercy of fate - let's resort to art! Without it, even an excellent nature will remain imperfect. He who has no culture has half the merits. A person who has not gone through a good school always smacks of rudeness; he needs to polish himself, striving for perfection in everything. (Gracian y Morales)

It seems that as humanity subjugates nature, man becomes a slave of other people or a slave of his own meanness. (Marx K.)

Nature will act on us with all its strength only when we bring our human element into the feeling of it, when our state of mind, our love, our joy or sadness comes into full harmony with nature and it will no longer be possible to separate the freshness of the morning from the light of our loved ones eyes and the measured noise of the forest from thinking about the life lived. (Paustovsky K. G.)

Nature does not accept jokes; she is always truthful, always serious, always strict; she is always right; mistakes and delusions come from people. (Goethe I.)

Contact with nature is the very last word of all progress, science, reason, common sense, taste and excellent manners. (Dostoevsky F. M.)

Man's natural inclination is directed toward what is in accordance with nature. (Cicero)

Heaven and earth are durable. Heaven and earth are durable because they do not exist for themselves. This is why they can be durable. (Lao Tzu, Tao Te Ching)

Heaven and Earth are separate, but they do the same thing. (Confucius)

- Why sit like that for nothing? Nobody will feed you for free. Water does not flow under a lying stone. (G.P. Danilevsky “The Ninth Wave”)

- Reader, loving the truth, I will add a fable to the fable, and not on my own - It is not in vain that people say: Don’t spit in the well, it will be useful to drink the water. (I.A. Krylov. “The Lion and the Mouse”)

Sayings about nature.

“Our world is as complex and vulnerable as a spider’s web. Touch one web, and all the others will tremble. And we don't just touch the web, we leave gaping holes in it. Plants and animals have no one to write to, no one to stand up for them except us, people who inhabit this planet with them, but are not its owners.” (Gerald Durrell)

“Water!... You are not just necessary for life, you are life... You do not tolerate impurities, you cannot stand anything alien, you are a deity that is so easy to frighten...” (Antoine de Saint-Exupéry)

“The laws of nature are harsh, inexorable forces that know neither morality nor adaptation.” (K. Vogt)

“Nature gave birth and created us for some bigger (more significant) things.” (Marcus Tulius Cicero)

“Nature has endowed man with the desire to discover the truth.” (Marcus Tulius Cicero)

“There is nothing more contrary to reason and nature than chance.” (Marcus Tulius Cicero)

“Nature never makes mistakes. Nature hates any kind of counterfeit, and the best thing is that which is not distorted by either science or art.” (Erasmus of Rotterdam)

“Nature never makes mistakes. Nature hates any kind of counterfeit, and the best thing is that which is not distorted by either science or art.” (Erasmus of Rotterdam)

“The wisdom of nature is amazing, which, with such endless diversity, managed to equalize everyone!” (Erasmus of Rotterdam)

“Birds are given wings, fish are given fins, and people who live in nature are given the study and knowledge of nature; these are their wings." (H. Marty)

“People obey the laws of nature, even when they fight against them.” (I. Goethe)

“Nature is the creator of all creators.” (I. Goethe)

“What we cultivate in the soul grows—this is the eternal law of nature.” (Johann Wolfgang Goethe)

“Nature knows no stop in its movement and punishes all inactivity.” (I. Goethe)

“Nature is the only book that contains deep content in all its pages.” (I. Goethe)

“Nature is a book that must be read and understood correctly...” (M. Nalbandyan)

“There is nothing useless in nature.” (M. Montaigne)

“From communication with nature you will get as much light as you want, and as much courage and strength as you need.” (I. Zeime)

“The highest prudence is to make the difficult decision to leave this world as we found it.” (B. Gracian)

“Knowing that nature is the same for everyone, you will understand that there are no others, no “I”, no death, no life.” (Guan Yin Zi)

“Nature says this: “Either study my laws and benefit, or I will enslave you and, without giving you any benefit, I will also cause deprivation.” (M. Nalbandyan)

“We know the effects of many causes, but we do not know the causes of many effects.” (Charles Caleb Colton)

“In nature, nothing arises instantly and nothing comes into light in a completely ready-made form.” (Alexander Ivanovich Herzen)

“Not a single thing arises without a cause, but everything arises for some reason and due to necessity.” (Democritus)

“Each of us truly makes himself what he is in the eyes of the other.” (K. Marx)

“Let us not be too deluded by our victories over nature. For every such victory she takes revenge on us.” (Friedrich Engels)

“In nature there is a world of truth: it wonderfully attracts us, as a pleasant contrast to the world of ghosts and lies in which we usually revolve, creating it ourselves.” (G. Lindner)

“Nature has given us everything - if only we knew how to understand life!” (Luule Viilma)

“Nature has taken care of everything so much that everywhere you find something to learn.” (Leonardo da Vinci)

“How could nature be so bright and beautiful if man’s destiny were not the same? " (Henry David Thoreau)

“Nature is the creator of all creators.” (I. Goethe)

“The voices of nature are heard by those who enter into it with an open heart.” (Nicholas Roerich)

“A person can develop only in contact with nature, and not in spite of it” (Bianchi Vitaly).

“Only two things are infinite - the Universe and human stupidity, and I am not entirely sure about the first...” (Albert Einstein)

“The surest sign that intelligent life exists somewhere in the Universe is that no one has ever tried to contact us.” Calvin and Hobbes (Bill Watterson)

"My theology, in short, is the assumption that the universe was dictated - but not signed" (Christopher Morley)

“There is a theory that as soon as someone discovers the great secret - how the Universe really works - the Universe we know will immediately disappear and will immediately be replaced by something completely different - bizarre and inexplicable... There is also another theory that explains that this is already happened..." (Douglas Adams)

“In answer to the question of how this all happened, I offer the humble suggestion that our Universe is simply one of those things that happens from time to time...” (Edward P. Tryon)

“There is a strictly consistent scheme for the structure of the Universe, although I don’t know what the scheme is” (Fred Hoyle)

“Technology is the arrangement of the Universe in such a way that man does not understand anything” (Max Frisch)

“Programming today is a competition between programmers trying to create programs that are even more foolproof and the Universe trying to produce dumber idiots... The Universe is winning so far.” (Rich Cook)

“Strength is given to a person by nature, the ability to speak for the good of the homeland is given by the soul and mind, and wealth for many comes from chance.” (Biant around 590-530 BC)

“Whatever is done according to nature should be considered happy.” (Marcus Tullius Cicero 106-43 BC)

“A truly noble man is not born with a great soul, but makes himself one through his magnificent deeds.” (Francesco Petrarch 1304-1374)

“Nature can only be conquered by obeying its laws.” (Francis Bacon 1561-1626)

“Nature always acts slowly and in its own economical way.” (Charles Louis de Secondat Montesquieu, Baron de la Brede 1689-1755)

“Good is beautiful in action.” (Jean Jacques Rousseau 1712-1778)

“Nature is an ever-changing cloud; never remaining the same, she always remains herself.” (Ralph Waldo Emerson 1803-1882)

“Nature does not tolerate inaccuracies and does not forgive mistakes.” (Ralph Waldo Emerson 1803-1882)

“Nature cannot be caught sloppy and half-naked; she is always beautiful.” (Ralph Waldo Emerson 1803-1882)

Verkhoplavka

A golden network of sunbeams trembles on the water. Dark blue dragonflies in reeds and horsetail trees. And each dragonfly has its own horsetail tree or reed: it flies off and will certainly return to it.

The crazy crows brought out the chicks and are now sitting and resting.

The leaf, the smallest one, went down to the river on a spider’s web and is spinning, spinning.

So I ride quietly down the river in my boat, and my boat is a little heavier than this leaf, made of fifty-two sticks and covered with canvas. There is only one paddle for it - a long stick, and at the ends there is a spatula. Dip each spatula alternately from one side to the other. The boat is so light that no effort is needed: you touch the water with a spatula, and the boat floats, and it floats so silently that the fish are not at all afraid.

What, what can you see when you quietly ride on such a boat along the river!

Here a rook, flying over the river, dropped a drop into the water, and this lime-white drop, hitting the water, immediately attracted the attention of small topwater fish. In an instant, a real market of high-flying boats gathered around the rook drop. Noticing this gathering, a large predator - a shelesper fish - swam up and smacked its tail across the water with such force that the stunned top swimmers turned upside down. They would have come to life in a minute, but the shelesper is not some kind of fool, he knows that it doesn’t happen very often that a rook will drop a drop and so many fools will gather around one drop: grab one, grab another - he ate a lot, and some managed to get away , from now on they will live like scientists, and if something good drops on them from above, they will keep their eyes open to see if anything bad comes to them from below.

Talking rook

I’ll tell you an incident that happened to me during the hungry year. A young yellow-throated rook got into the habit of flying onto my windowsill. Apparently he was an orphan. And at that time I had a whole bag of buckwheat stored. I ate buckwheat porridge all the time. It used to be that a little rook would fly in, I would sprinkle cereals on it and ask:

- Do you want some porridge, fool?

It will bite and fly away. And so every day, all month. I want to ensure that in response to my question: “Do you want some porridge, fool?”, he would say: “I want it.”

And he only opens his yellow nose and shows his red tongue.

“Okay,” I got angry and abandoned my studies.

By autumn, trouble happened to me. I reached into the chest for some cereal, but there was nothing there. This is how the thieves cleaned it: half a cucumber was on the plate, and they took it away. I went to bed hungry. Spun all night. In the morning I looked in the mirror, my face was all green.

"Knock, knock!" - someone is in the window.

On the windowsill, a rook is hammering at the glass.

“Here comes the meat!” — a thought occurred to me.

I open the window and grab it! And he jumped from me onto a tree. I'm through the window behind him to the knot. He's taller. I'm climbing. He is taller and to the very top of his head. I can't go there; very swaying. He, the scoundrel, looks at me from above and says:

- Do you want, kash-ki, do-rush-ka?

Hedgehog

Once I was walking along the bank of our stream and noticed a hedgehog under a bush. He also noticed me, curled up and began to sound: knock-knock-knock. It was very similar, as if a car was walking in the distance. I touched him with the tip of my boot - he snorted terribly and pushed his needles into the boot.

- Oh, you do this to me! - I said and pushed him into the stream with the tip of my boot.

Instantly, the hedgehog turned around in the water and swam to the shore, like a small pig, only instead of bristles there were needles on its back. I took a stick, rolled the hedgehog into my hat and took it home.

I had a lot of mice. I heard that the hedgehog was catching them, and I decided: let him live with me and catch mice.

So I put this prickly lump in the middle of the floor and sat down to write, while I kept looking at the hedgehog out of the corner of my eye. He did not lie motionless for long: as soon as I quieted down at the table, the hedgehog turned around, looked around, tried to go this way, that way, finally chose a place under the bed and became completely quiet there.

When it got dark, I lit the lamp, and - hello! — the hedgehog ran out from under the bed. He, of course, thought to the lamp that the moon had risen in the forest: when there is a moon, hedgehogs love to run through forest clearings.

And so he started running around the room, imagining that it was a forest clearing.

I took the pipe, lit a cigarette and blew a cloud near the moon. It became just like in the forest: both the moon and the cloud, and my legs were like tree trunks and, probably, the hedgehog really liked them: he darted between them, sniffing and scratching the backs of my boots with needles.

After reading the newspaper, I dropped it on the floor, went to bed and fell asleep.

I always sleep very lightly. I hear some rustling in my room. He struck a match, lit the candle and only noticed how the hedgehog flashed under the bed. And the newspaper was no longer lying near the table, but in the middle of the room. So I left the candle burning and I myself did not sleep, thinking:

“Why did the hedgehog need the newspaper?” Soon my tenant ran out from under the bed - and straight to the newspaper; he spun around around her, made noise, made noise, and finally managed to: somehow put a corner of a newspaper on his thorns and dragged it, huge, into the corner.

That’s when I understood him: the newspaper was like dry leaves in the forest to him, he was dragging it for his nest. And it turned out to be true: soon the hedgehog wrapped himself in newspaper and made himself a real nest out of it. Having finished this important task, he left his home and stood opposite the bed, looking at the moon candle.

I let the clouds in and ask:

- What else do you need? The hedgehog was not afraid.

- Do you want something to drink?

I wake up. The hedgehog doesn't run.

I took a plate, put it on the floor, brought a bucket of water and then poured water into the plate, then poured it into the bucket again, and made such a noise as if it was a stream splashing.

“Well, go, go,” I say. “You see, I made the moon for you, and sent up the clouds, and here is water for you...”

I look: it’s like he’s moved forward. And I also moved my lake a little towards it. He will move, and I will move, and that’s how we agreed.

“Drink,” I say finally. He began to cry. And I ran my hand over the thorns so lightly, as if I was stroking them, and I kept saying:

- You’re a good guy, you’re a good one! The hedgehog got drunk, I say:

- Let's sleep. He lay down and blew out the candle.

I don’t know how long I slept, but I hear: I have work in my room again.

I light a candle, and what do you think? A hedgehog is running around the room, and there is an apple on its thorns. He ran to the nest, put it there and ran to the corner after another, and in the corner there was a bag of apples and it fell over. So the hedgehog ran up, curled up near the apples, twitched and ran again, dragging another apple on the thorns into the nest.

So the hedgehog settled down to live with me. And now, when drinking tea, I will certainly bring it to my table and either pour milk into a saucer for him to drink, or give him some buns for him to eat.

Mikhail Prishvin. Life, quotes

The book “Our House” by V. Prishvina ends with these lines:

...The light of wisdom and freedom, that is, the ability to see the world in many ways and at the same time holistically, pours upon us from the pages of Prishvin’s prose. Mikhail Mikhailovich seems to be telling us: “With logic alone, like with a net in the sea, you will not catch the truth, because the truth is not a goldfish, but the ocean itself.”

Prishvin trusts the very power of life, the power of the current time, which, combined with the good will of man, form history. This force is similar to the force of countless small streams that erode the soil and flow into the ocean. Prishvin feels like such a small stream: “Sooner or later, my stream will wash away the rock and, moreover, turn it into fertile land... There are no different roads for water, all paths, sooner or later, will certainly lead it to the ocean.” .

An individual person is like the song of a small bird in the general choir of spring life... Let us remember once again: “The nightingale bird sings - everyone hears it, but the singer is not visible. And even if you see it in the light, what will the sight of a gray bird add to the song?”

This is an image of yourself. This is how he becomes dear and significant to us.

When we arrived in Dunino, in our first spring we heard nightingales - not one, not two - it was a whole kingdom of nightingales! They sang in the bird cherry thickets right next to our fence, and all along the high slope, and in the bushes across the river.

Many years have passed since then. Human life grows all around... But every spring, very close by, the same nightingales sing...

* * *

Such lines call to open the pages - for starters, at least the diaries of Mikhail Prishvin. Moreover, in them he reveals himself to the reader from completely new sides. The image of the Russian writer becomes even more multifaceted, brighter, closer.

* * *

From a later diary:

“...I’m dissatisfied with myself: I’m all in a mood, there’s no courage, no directness, no sufficient guile. My God! how I lived, how I live! One thing, only one thing is true - this is my path, my path is winding, deceptive, disappearing ... "

This entry was made during the days of moving to... my last home.

Who didn't think so? The great Tolstoy was faced with a similar task; in his old age he rushed to accomplish it, but could not stand it and died. And Prishvin, one of his most modest students in art, writes about the same thing, standing on the threshold of old age, but writes almost with a smile. It is clear to us that this stood before him all his life as a secret task, and at the same time something else is clear: he found a WAY OUT, or in other words, a certain overcoming was accomplished in him, which Tolstoy did not live to see.

March 21, 1931: “...I absolutely need...a room in which I could work comfortably and leave...without fear for the integrity of my archive. I need a room now, I need it..."

“... An artist can and should shut himself off from noise, from interference, but you cannot shut yourself off from life - you must constantly hear the flow... You paint in solitude, but you feel the flowing river... Nowadays, idle solitude is shameful...”

... About Dostoevsky’s thought that a person can most likely be judged by his laughter, who he is - laughter most likely reveals the ESSENCE of a person.

Prishvin never laughs at ANYTHING, he always laughs at SOMETHING, and something certainly good. He thus comprehends the very essence of laughter as pure joy... That’s who - Pushkin, a whole person, laid the foundation for this!

“...My house above the river... is a miracle. It is made to the last nail from the money received for my fairy tales or dreams ... "

“...Yesterday I spent the night in my house for the first time. I am beginning to reap the harvest of my spring sowing: I sowed it, struggled all summer, grew it - and now my house, like an apple, like a thought, ripens, and the stars of heaven, like the furnishings of my soul, appear above my canopy.

...from the veranda I saw the Big Dipper and other stars, so familiar and dear to me since childhood.

And all the heavenly furnishings of my house were like the furniture of my own soul, and even the soul itself seemed to have been inherited from the first shepherds...”

This entry will become clear if the reader finds out that the house in which Prishvin then spent the night still stood without floors, Mikhail Mikhailovich slept on a hastily put together trestle bed, covered with fresh hay. Instead of furniture, there were tree stumps all around. For Prishvin's work, the carpenters immediately put together the first rough table.

You also need to imagine the location of the house and the entire landscape: the veranda is pushed forward, located high and therefore open on all four sides. And the trans-river field stretching below the river to the horizon, and the wide sky above it, in the evenings with stars - they resurrected in Prishvin’s memory his long-ago journey to Kyrgyzstan, a wild country in those years, which reminded him of the first biblical Book of Genesis with its nomadic shepherds. Prishvin then merged with the soul of the desert land, rested by the fires and in yurts, was imbued with the poetry of the desert and the poetry of the sky above it...

A legend about him himself was then born in the steppe as a mysterious Black Arab traveling to Mecca. Over the years, the artist carried these images within himself. I hardly remembered them. But on a starry night, on a high veranda under an open and moonless night with such a close sky, these images come to life.

In his travel diary of 1909, the Black Arab writes:

“...Whoever saw the stars in the village, they will always accompany him... How many obstacles are there on the way to the stars!.. What is this desire for nature?

This old earth rises to the stars, to the stars. Or maybe the stars are descending towards her?.. And a simple path to the stars will open... And therefore one must value life: the star will come...”

When you read these old lines now, it comes to mind: only now the thought of a lonely man abandoned in the desert has entered our modern times entirely and has become universal. At the beginning of the twentieth century, for Prishvin these words were PURE poetry. At the end of his life, he already foresaw the real flight of man to the stars! I wrote about this.

He was only a few years away from fruition...

The words about striving for the stars can be understood both symbolically and at the same time in their vital simplicity: this is the desire to see “a familiar star above your canopy, like the furniture of your own soul.”

Prishvin has an entry in one of his diaries that sounds childishly naive:

“I don’t know how to explain it, but for some reason you start seeing the Big Dipper in the fall.”

The explanation for this is simple: in the fall it comes out from behind the forest and appears above our veranda precisely at the hours when Mikhail Mikhailovich comes out there in the evenings. It is not we who are her, but she who “begins to see” us in the fall, “descends” to us, as the Black Arab once dreamed of this, wandering in the desert...

And let us also remember in passing one entry in that old diary:

“The huge yellow stars caught up with the moon, opened low in their golden clothes, and if the boy had caught the stars with a net like butterflies, he would certainly have caught this open star... And maybe somewhere, in fact, where there is only yellow sand- yellow, and the air is clean, clean, and silence... And there, at special moments, at midnight, the stars descend to the very earth... and there, perhaps, very little clean children run around with a net in their hands and catch these stars, and let them go again. They catch you and let you go... And so on until the morning..."

Note: this was written HALF A CENTURY before the appearance of the Little Prince by Exupery!

* These notes are compiled from the book “Our House” by V. Prishvina.

* * *

“...Kapitsa has higher physics, which no one understands, but I have the art of words, few people understand it either, but everyone allows themselves to judge the author...

My situation is much more difficult, and it’s unlikely that at my age I will have enough strength to withstand the struggle...”

...All friendship is a value that turns into precious universal human ties of universality and high peace... (p. 124)

“...To the left in the west the river bloomed after sunset with October color with gold, in the east the river lay under the month in its full moon.

There were two rivers, like two souls: in one direction - a person at the end of his life, with his timid hope for the future, in the other - souls there, in the other world, where we will all someday be. Here and there, to the west and to the east, and turned around every minute, as if in search of a point of view from where he could look and see both...”

“...Severe clouds - and the river answers them: it lies cold, looking mysteriously, like a cat when it doesn’t need anything from a person. And you look at her and recognize her not from yourself, but from the outside: the cat and the cat are looking!..”

“...Yesterday the whole day was very thoughtful, the way a very kind person sometimes frowns. It was so dark and quiet that it is difficult to take your eyes off the river: it pulls you and pulls you into this silence and thoughtfulness..."

“...I will plant a garden generously, with the feeling of “this rye is about to die”*.

* this entry in the diary was made by Mikhail Mikhailovich, when he already realized that he did not have long to live: he was in his 75th year...

* * *

“...The beginning is certainly stupid, in the sense that it is stupid that it is an overcoming of the logical mind: you need to logically bring your thought to the last end, because to think logically means to grow old...

...And when this thought reaches its end and dies, then a young, living, meaningless initiative will crawl out of this old snake’s skin.

And in this sense, every beginning is STUPID. Often in fairy tales there is even deliberate stupidity: once upon a time there was a gray goat..."

“...and when I was tired, I felt the deception of the dream that lured me to make a garden. If I had the land at the time when this dream was born, and if I had started this job then, I would have been an excellent gardener. But I didn’t have a garden, I began to work on the word and grew a garden of words so large that thousands walk in it and millions will walk in it...”

“...she took care of the spoiled children, put things in order in the household, made her husband happy, he EVEN STOPED DRINKING, and gave birth to his son.

“Where did she come from,” I asked, “that she changed everyone, young and old, for good?”

“Everything is clear,” he answered, “first, that she did not eat white bread, second, that she was illiterate, and third, she did not travel by rail.”

From these words I began to understand even less. And the forester talked about how her old father, 90 years old, came with the old woman and liked it...

- What did you like?..

- I liked that you can buy white bread: two or three rubles - and a loaf. Sit, eat and be happy.

And I realized... it’s good for us that somewhere there are good people sitting on black bread, they themselves want good bread. And everyone who wants to give bread to people must solve the problem: how to make sure that when they switch to good bread, a person will also become better..."

“...Or maybe there has never been a time when people did not grab plants so passionately: everyone who can plants gardens. This means, firstly, that people live as immortals, despising their knowledge of death; secondly, this means that the best thing for a person is truly paradise (garden) ... "

“...It’s never too late to plant a tree: even if the fruits are not for yourself, but the joy of life for an old man begins with the opening of the bud of the planted plant...”

“...To live and love means to make discoveries in one’s neighbor again and again, but to form an opinion means to have finished and condemned life...”

“...of course, poetry is poetry, and life is life. But poetry can be condensed into life for a person, that is, that the essence of poetry and life is one, like the essence of volatile and condensed solid air...”

“...I traveled and searched for so long in my life, and in the end it turned out that I was looking for what I had in childhood and what I lost...”

“...What is it that attracts us in nature? Where does harmony come from? I think that co-creation, in which all living and inanimate creatures of the universe are located, attracts us... It seems to me that all of nature can be found in the human soul with all the meadows, flowers, wolves, doves... But it is impossible to fit the whole person into nature...

There is nothing special to be proud of here - all of nature, with its entire composition, cooperates with man in the creation of the word as the highest form. And in this sense, the human word is much more significant than the sun, from which all life on earth seems to be born..."

“...Every flower is a home, every green leaf was created to cover the flower when something happens to it... The soul hides in its house and quietly rejoices that there is a place to hide from the weather, and to come to its senses in silence, and wait until you want to go outside and run all over the fields and forests..."

“...When a person finds in nature a tree, a bird... - a living personal creature - he creates a myth about it and thereby affirms man in nature. I followed this path in my writing, and my readers understood my method of studying nature in this way as love...”

“...Was it really in vain that the nightingale sang in the spring garden?..”

“The first natural way out is always protest, struggle, revolution... Since the distant times of Pugachev and Razin, the revolution has been going on like a flood, tearing down the dams of state buildings. She came from the people’s resentment and drove people out, just as water drives animals out of their personal holes and nests...”

“...Life is based on trust, which is not always justified, that is, on heroic and sacrificial trust...”

...The child observes the world disinterestedly, that is, without substituting or imposing his tastes and assessments. The secondary process of formulations, generalizations, theorizing is alien to him... (p. 176)

“...Everyone treats fairy tales and poetry as something unimportant, serving a person’s recreation. But why, in the end, all that remains of life are only fairy tales, including so-called history?..”

“I suffered all my life to fit poetry into prose”

“...I'm screaming! But my cry in the golden desert comes back to me, and I, like... the most ancient man, make the first vessel out of clay and enclose in it for a friend... the running life force. And it’s all the same: there was water and clay, now I have my spirit and the word, and I make a form from the word...”

“The nightingale bird sings - everyone hears it, but the singer is not visible. And even if you see it in the light, what will the sight of a gray bird add to the song?”

“...But I hear the stars speak, and I go...”

* * *

“June 1953...How difficult life was, how you managed to survive! And I still want to present this life in my autobiography as a happy one. And I will do this because I touched nature in my creativity and knew that LIFE is HAPPINESS.”

“1950 September 24. I read a scathing of the Gray Owl in the Literaturnaya Gazeta... L. said that overnight I aged ten years... My defenselessness is connected with my profession.”

Prishvin had a hard time with the impossibility... to express himself as a writer to the end... And he either courageously straightens himself, or suffers hopelessly.

Record of those days:

“...Of course, our time is both the beginning and the end of something. I want to enter the beginning, but I don’t want to worry about the end either: let it end without me, but I will enter the beginning. Little of! It seems to me that I was born without the opportunity to tell anyone about this, and that’s why I want to cry and complain in my old age, like a child...”

1949?.. “Now they began to record our voices, and in a hundred years we will be seen, heard, and all this from us will be left to people, but we ourselves will still not exist. So everything that we spent on - say, Chaliapin sang, Prishvin wrote, Ulanova danced - all this will remain ours, and we ourselves... but what is this “ourselves”. This is all that we could not reveal to people...”

The man is 77 years old - and he is still an attractive secret for himself, which must be revealed in order to GIVE something of his own to EVERYONE, and hence the persistent desire, moreover, the demand for himself: “to REVEAL to people.”

“...The heart began to squeeze, and walking became very difficult...”

...We need to do it quickly, quickly—to have time to “reveal it to people”!

He throws off all failures and obstacles like ballast. Here are Prishvin’s notes made on New Year’s Eve (1948 and 1949):

“...The intended achievements have not been successful: neither the novel has yet been completed, nor the collected works. And even my beloved dog is sick, and perhaps will not live. But on the other hand, I exist, yes, I change life with my words to the best of my ability, I create - that means I exist.”

“Life is terribly scary, but we’re probably getting better.”

Back in the summer, Prishvin compiled the collection “Spring of Light” for the publishing house “Young Guard” with new introductions to each section. Book editor G.A. Ershov (knowing about Mikhail Mikhailovich’s state of health) made sure that the book came out as quickly as possible and was elegant. Three days before the New Year, he brought Prishvin a signal copy. The beautifully designed book was a gift for Mikhail Mikhailovich. He writes:

“...You never know what was broken in our lives, but I saved and brought a spring of light to people...”

And also: “...if this is true, then this is my happiness.”

Power over yourself, over time, over life itself. So he soon left us, as if of his own free will, slowly, he ordered himself and left time and entered eternity - into the mysterious cycle of his beloved nature...

...A few minutes before his death (his heart was failing) he was choking - he would rise up, then lie down, and I (ed. - Valeria Dmitrievna completes the chapter about her husband’s life) helplessly, powerlessly, in mental anguish asked: “Be patient!”, with something tried to help... He sternly, almost angrily, and not to me, but rather to himself or somewhere in space, said:

“We have to deal with this ourselves...”

With an energetic movement, he turned to the wall, lay down on his right side, put his palm under his cheek - a peaceful gesture of falling asleep. A few moments later he was gone...

* * *

“...That small house in which we are born is destroyed over time, like a bird’s nest: birds fly out into a wide open space, leaving the nest to rain and storms, and a person must certainly achieve such open space that he can feel his body along with the whole earth, its air, light, water, fire and the entire population, like your own home..."

M. M. Prishvin

Golden Meadow

My brother and I always had fun with them when dandelions ripened. It used to be that we would go somewhere on our business - he was in front, I was at the heel.

Seryozha! - I’ll call him in a businesslike manner. He will look back, and I will blow a dandelion right in his face. For this, he begins to watch for me and, like a gape, he also makes a fuss. And so we picked these uninteresting flowers just for fun. But once I managed to make a discovery.

We lived in a village, in front of our window there was a meadow, all golden with many blooming dandelions. It was very beautiful. Everyone said: Very beautiful! The meadow is golden.

One day I got up early to fish and noticed that the meadow was not golden, but green. When I returned home around noon, the meadow was again all golden. I began to observe. By evening the meadow turned green again. Then I went and found a dandelion, and it turned out that he squeezed his petals, as if your fingers on the side of your palm were yellow and, clenching into a fist, we would close the yellow one. In the morning, when the sun rose, I saw the dandelions opening their palms, and this made the meadow turn golden again.

Since then, dandelion has become one of the most interesting flowers for us, because dandelions went to bed with us children and got up with us.