people who support trump and are more conservative, populists, then this is very significant, because if these forces within the republican party become stronger, this will affect the real foreign policy of the united states. it was a great game, we'll see you on the air tomorrow. at birth, the lord punished me, live long, i live, a person should live long, very long. how the biblical elders lived, 300, 600

years, then he lives to the moment when the world opens its covers, and he sees the face of the world, its true essence and content, to him the meaning of being is revealed, the meaning of the creation of the world, the meaning of its own creation, and it becomes the world, becomes. his unraveled secret, the young years of the monk father philadelph , schema father moses, invited me to his cell, to the trinity-sergoev lavra, he was lying on his bed, huge, mute, he had heavy muscles, almost devoid of flesh, only his face was shining wonderful, loving eyes. and he

explained to me why the lord in the garden of gethsemane begged his father to carry this cup past his lips. jesus wasn't afraid crucifix, whips, iron nails, he was not afraid of the torment of the cross, he was afraid to drink a cup full of human sins, human filth, human darkness of destruction, he was afraid to take on himself all the darkness of the world.

what i want to tell you about, what of what i experienced, deserves attention. mikhail sholkhov, a young writer, singling me out from the rest, invited me to his birth, his estate veshenskoye, fragile, thin, weak, not like that dashing cossack, he sat at the table and held a tiny crystal glass of cognac in his hand. they raged around him powerful secretaries of the central committee of the party, nobles of the writers' union, secretaries of regional and regional committees, commanders of military districts, directors of giant factories, they all dreamed of approaching him, clinking glasses with him, bowing to him, and seeing how these huge, powerful people with admiration and admiration relate to the writer who...

and the rumblings of our heated time. at the baikanur gasmodrome, i saw the launch of our great space rocket energia. the cosmic hawk moth clung to her like a butterfly. shuttle, buran. and this rocket and this buran, in a whirlwind of fire, in a menacing roaring flame , ascended into the heavens, tormented into space. muran flew around the earth. during the flight

, he somersaulted there like a dove during his heavenly soars, and then returned to the ground and with roaring braking parachutes swept along... the landing strip stopped, cooling down, i approached this buran, i touched his scaly, white of these plates, back , stroked him, first along the fur, and then against the grain, and i inhaled his smell, inhaled the smell of this gavia, it seemed to me that there was a snowstorm it smells like bread, and now i think that space smells like bread, in afghanistan during the war... i saw how a division of the line army besieged the rebellious village of musakol. in this village lived a gang of the rebellious, brave and cruel mujahideen mula nasim. i looked from afar at this village, at its

captivating white mosques, at its green subs, at its pink and blue fogs. it turned out that there are palaces in this village, amazing beauties and women live, musicians play their instruments, and there is prosperity and grace in this village. fabulous eastern life, and then the planes flew, they dropped bombs of these bombs on the village, black explosions on thin legs rose like swaying giants in the village, and then the helicopters rushed, piercing the harpoons of their rockets into this village, and then the artillery began to work, began ... sweep away the lands into the village, it was no longer visible, but there was a huge, dark, cloudy cloud of smoke in which the sunrises were blazing, then there was silence and everything fell silent, the village was not visible, only this darkness stood, and then dogs ran out of the karshlak, i

, being at the checkpoints, saw a dog run past me with a scalded, scorched side, it stopped or... covered its bloody wound, and then a dog ran on three legs, and its front leg was torn off by an explosion and there were no people, only wounded, half-dead dogs, on the fifth mediterranean squadron, where our ships were sailing against the sixth american fleet, i plunged into a submarine and we went into the depths of the terensky... sea, which is not far from italy, on walked in these depths hid american strategic submarines, submarines with ballistic missiles, which in case of war were supposed to strike moscow, leningrad,

sevastopol bases, and were inside this boat among metallic smells, smells of some metals, flasks, separate from... i came into the gilded office of yugoslav president milosevic at a time when belgrade was all in flowers, it was easter, american cruise missiles were bursting into these blooming gardens,

and milosevic told me that he would give battle to the americans on the ground, the americans would drown in this ground operation, i looked at him...

the organizers of these regional party organizations, at a time when berezovsky was making plans for kremlin coups on the streets of london

and i rushed into the water, i began to snatch this chick out of the water, i began to hug her , i tried to lift her head above the water so that it would not be flooded, but i was unlucky, she was too heavy, she drowned, she lay down on the bottom not far from the shore on the squirrel channel, and i became exhausted and looked at her through the running water. ... unhappy and sobbed at bank of this unknown altai river, from powerlessness, from grief, from the inability to preserve this amazing, unique animal life. it was given to me to be a participant in the great achievements that my country was experiencing. on a dry cargo ship i moved along the abi to the north,

along with caravans of ships, to where great construction projects were planned, whole cities moved disassembled on these ships , moored here to the muddy banks, these disassembled cities were unloaded, they were glued together, welded, bulldozers thundered, these hands flowed red-hot welding, and many , many years later...

my flight to a new land, together with members of the future state emergency committee, where under the unfading polar summer sky the details of the future conspiracy were already discussed, a conspiracy unknown to me, but in the air, in 93 in the house of soviets . already without electricity, without water, without heat, in

a huge house that resembled a frozen iceberg in white, i sat in vladislav ochalov’s dark office, by candlelight, we drank vodka with him, talked, he left from time to time, went into the next room , where met with officers who came from military units who were ready to go over to the side of the supreme council. imagine that someone is sick at your home, that’s how viruses begin to spread around the house, what to do if someone in the house is sick, it is very important for you to be healthy, about this, much more in the program to live healthy, tomorrow on the first , in the patagonian fjords of chile there are hundreds of kilometers of coastline where no human has ever set foot before, machu picchu is a city of soaring. above the clouds, we can be transported to another time, feel the genius, greatness

of the real american cultures that were destroyed by europeans, from all points of view, the incas and otecs were head and shoulders above in a cultural, civilizational sense. today , every brazilian is a little indian, a little european and a little african, and this is what enriches our people. the cuban revolution is one of the most important events of the 20th century, it was led by. modern and future world order, is there a separate latin american civilization? some people think that no, others are sure that there is a latin american civilization, so she, civilization premiere, film four, latin america, on thursday, on the first. fire and ice, two elements at the junction of which

real, great art is born. “emotions are running high, the atmosphere is tense to the limit, but for victory it is important to maintain icy calm, splashes of ice from under the skates are like sparks of hot metal, and the ice melts like steel, hot ice , the spartakiad of the strongest, live broadcasts from magnitogorsk,

what seemed to be a witness, not always a participant, but at least a witness, seventeen or eighteen warriors, and god knows what strength made me, an intelligent moscow boy, a singer of war chariots? my childhood was spent in moscow, in tikhinsky lane, i was raised by my mother and grandmother, two divine women who surrounded me with endless love, this love saved me not just from death, from illness, from hunger, it saved me

from many atrocities that i could have committed during my... here in this life i meet friends, hug women, write books, receive royalties, and there on that christmas night my father came out of the dugout, received it in his hands three-ruler, ran across the huge black night

stalingrad steppe among the red explosions and fell to death. it was impossible to talk about my father with my mother; at the mere mention of his name, his lips began to tremble and tears flowed, and i could not bear my mother’s suffering. once, when i was a schoolboy, i think in my forties, my mother took me to a trophy exhibition, which... was set up in the park of culture and recreation on the embankment, captured german guns, terrible guns, huge tanks, clanging all-terrain vehicles were displayed here, went out among these monsters and stopped at a huge trophy tiger, in its turret

next to the mealy white cross there was a hole caused... by a shell fired from some huge armor-piercing russian cannon, the shell, flying in the turret, melted the armor, i remember the silvery light of this melted armor, then looking at this hole, i, a boy, instinctively felt that there was a force in the world that was capable of avenging the death of my father, a force that was capable of protecting me. mother and grandmother, and now many years later, when i try to analyze this feeling, i i understand that in the child’s mind it was an idea of ​​existence.

one day, a grandmother brought two soldiers from the market to our house, they must have received

leave, wandered around moscow, not knowing where to hide, she brought them to our house, they liked our cozy apartment, our beautiful furniture, they were fed dinner, they they were grateful for the treat, and after finishing the meal, one of them took one out of his pocket. the one who killed my father. these were trophy awards brought by soldiers from the battlefield. and they gave these awards to me, and this cross before

is still in my family. in kronstatt, the magnificent naval cathedral, where the names of the crews of ships lost in the german war are inscribed on marble plaques. there is a monument near this amazing cathedral. wonderful admiral, on the stones there are sayings, remember the war, perhaps the one that the admiral said before setting off on his last campaign from chalev from piers, port arthur, remember the war, i remember the war. the war did not let me go and is letting me go throughout all my years, as a boy in a festive demonstration i moved along

red square, people were noisy around me, greetings were heard, banners, slogans, balloons flashed, suddenly the column opened up, for one moment i saw novzaley, on mazaley stalin. he was in a white dress jacket, he was surrounded by something pink, blue, foggy, he seemed like a mirage, he appeared to me for just a few seconds, but these seconds were huge, exorbitant, which later determined the course of my life, they say stalin kissed children who went up to his mausoleum with flowers, i felt that from stalin flew to me...

they were afraid that i would die, now i think that maybe then stalin wanted to take me with him, later at night. when on the wall of our

room there was a green spot of light from the lantern that was swinging outside, in this spot the shadows of the trees moved, like antlered deer, my mother told me the fate of my family, this huge, populous tribe, which was exterminated by the era in... warriors , during transfers, in camps, in executions, fled with the retreating white army abroad, died on the battlefields in a famine besieged leningrad , it was a revelation for me, it was terrible, on the orders of stalin, who at that time in teflis, together with como, carried out expropriation, took money from rich people, then

my great-grandfather was hacked to death with an ax...

the creator of the great orthodox russian state, having been baptized fersansi, he returned to kiev. he destroyed pagan temples, cut down sacred groves, threw perun into the dnieper and cruelly, bloodily suppressed the uprising of the magi, when rafts floated across the river and the volga, impaled on them, the exhausted and tormented sorcerers

all names, movements, many literary works, they were cut off from me and did not penetrate to me, this curtain, in the present , red ideology, red culture, red idea of ​​​​man, of his life and death, dominated, but this gap in times, the gap in history was not absolute, it was surmountable, the past seeped through. our bookcase with the family library was the hole through which the past seeped into the present into my life. in the closet there were binders of the apollo scales magazine. in these magazines, as a boy, without fully understanding, i read amazing articles, the sixth berdyaev, father sergius bulgakov, pavel

florendsky, the poet’s poems. silver age, these old magazines had a unique smell, the smell of glue, varnishes, paper itself, leather bindings, and these smells were not in the new books, new textbooks, in the newspapers that surrounded me. many years later, i caught this smell, being in the house of the voloshino museum, in kokttybeli, when i entered these bright sunny rooms i saw a closet where they stood libra magazine files, i suddenly... caught this wonderful, almond, slightly bitter smell. one day, an old teacher, from whom i took english lessons at home, took out of the closet a dirty notebook, where she

had written poems by nikolai gumilyov. gumilyov, who was shot, whose name was crossed out from the mothers of christ. and his books left the shelves, they were not in bookstores, they were sealed in secret soviet book depositories, then, among the acrid smoke of her cigarette, i heard gumelev’s poems, word, memory, sixth sense, a lost tram, my acquaintance with the great russian was amazing and seemed terrible...

his teaching about a luminous person, transparent to the light, which, in combination with the latest achievements of science, is capable... of creating a world where death is overcome and russian immortality is present. this teaching fits into the philosophy of the russian dream that i am developing today. three fat hamsters. ford, carnegie and rocksever foundations. we are determined to play our part in building a better world. like large american funds trying to seize control of the whole world. they prepare a mass of people, which then ends up in the white house. everything is managed by a fund of 11 billion, passes through itself up to one and a half trillion, you can’t just have the cia take and give money to the opposition, russian interference in internal affairs, a ploy , an intermediary who provides intelligence services, tries to misinform the society where they go, in russia they failed

to do this, but let’s say in ukraine they succeeded. the carnegie foundation, which worked in moscow, was declared an agent and ceased his activities. the main thing of their tasks is to move on to global depopulation, and this is precisely work with public consciousness, transgender work. bandage: the creation of genetically modified nutrition, golden rice was supposed to feed everyone, and now it turns out that everyone has to be reduced, that they imagine themselves as celestials, and this is why they are dangerous. foundations, the real masters of the west, dolls, the heir to tutti, tomorrow on the first, see how happy i am, because i finally have time for myself, super breakthrough the idea, because no one in the world has done this, to create an online constructor. cosmetics , i feel like a sorceress who creates an incredible elixir of youth, most of our formulas are unique and effective, so we create our own unique product, in 2013

we released the first sneokhot of our production, after that we began to expand our model range, starting from squirrel cubes and ending with 800 cc. in the production of our snowmobiles , we try to localize russian production as much as possible. yours is very big assortment of snow. they are preparing a large-scale operation in tigeran , dear gevorg, all six umbrellas that you ordered for your father’s confectionery are ready, six umbrellas meant six paratroopers, whether they were germans or not, then i saw an army boot,

they don’t wear those in iran, i’ve been working for four years now , during this time i didn’t ask you for anything, and we found these six german radio operators, and someone else will take them, drink some water, comrade stalin grinned, we got excited about the six germans we found, hurray, for the centenary of george vartanyan, february 17 on the first. and 64 years after the tehran events , churchel’s granddaughter came to moscow, she thanked me for saving her grandfather’s life, i studied at moscow school 204, not far from the milskoye cemetery, on lands that once belonged to the all-sorrowful. in the spring, after classes, we

left the classrooms, took shovels in the schoolyard, planted an apple orchard, we dug holes , came across burials, in these burials the old-fashioned uniforms with green buttons were rotting, the bones of unknown russian townspeople, officials, rapists of the monastery, from the grave pit... they took out a skull, yellow, toothy, full of earth, and began to play football with this skull, excitedly, passionately, passing each other, throwing air, kicking it, this was not fun for us, the pioneers. seemed brutal, later, looking at the map of the cemetery of the sosarbyachen monastery, i discovered that fedorov’s grave was somewhere here, in the courtyard of my 204. school and the skull in which we played football may

have belonged to nikolai fedorov, then on a may morning nikolai fedorov looked like this taught in a way my first lesson, i looked at his bones, not knowing that he was the bearer of a worldview according to which these bones would someday be clothed with flesh. then, as a child, driving through kiev, i entered the territory. kiev-pechersk lavra and i was led to the grave of an unknown deceased, there was no monument on the grave, there was no cross, there was no name of the deceased, but there remained a large tombstone, on this slab the inscription: we need a great russia, you need great upheavals, only later i found out that this saying belongs to stalypin, he said shortly before his death. it was stalypin’s grave, so names,

events, poems sealed in the past, my childhood seeped through, revealing to me a delightful, divine past, then in childhood i experienced a mysterious attraction, a mysterious illness, i felt the need, watching the world of the cross, transfer this world to ... paper, capture it, describe it, transfer the real world into the non-existent world, create the illusion of the real world. i wanted to immerse myself in this illusory world, together with the external world, and there in this world oneself become illusory and find oneself among a new, unprecedented life. as a child, someone dropped this sweet, poisonous liquid into me.

the authorities do not see any use in it. until recently

, the authorities saw no use in rocket scientists, chemists, and engineers. the government's disdain for the rocket scientists has ended. the rocket scientists were returned to their laboratories, where they are creating their own unique and unprecedented technology, their own hypersonic weapons. i have no doubt that someday the authorities will wake up and call the writer to their aid, and again entrust the writer. enormous work to create a new society, a new, an enlightened person. the texts of russian writers are prophetic. russian writer. russian literature is not a funny adventure, not a fascinating story. russian literature is the parietal eye that opens in the people, with the help of which the people see their future. this is the same sixth sense that gumilyov spoke about. if the courtiers had carefully

read leo tolstoy, they would have seen in him, as in a mirror, the maturing, coming...

which are maturing future social movements, parties, future cabinet members, troublemakers, future martyrs, future russian miracle workers. my room in tikhinsky lane overlooked the destroyed church of the tikhinskaya mother of god and the destroyed bell tower of this church looked out of my window. she looked at me for months, years. decades, she was pink in spring bloom, she was steel in severe frosts, she looked at me at night in the morning during the days of my sorrows, my jubilations, i saw her in the rain, in the snow, in the fogs, i saw her in the summer, when her roof was covered with tiny greenery birches, i saw when i woke up

at night, she looked at me through the night window , intently and mysteriously, as if she was watching me. she knew all my thoughts, sinful, ambitious, creative. she knew about my motives, she knew about my first youthful crushes. she looked into my children's notebooks when i was sitting at my grandfather's old table and wrote my first ridiculous scribbles in the notebooks and when my dead grandmother lay on this table. i cried over her, the bell tower looked at the handmade blanket with scarlet poppies that my grandmother came out with. bell tower was a mentor for me, perhaps arina radionovna, to whom i read my first literary works. she nurtured me,

destroyed, trampled, with her eyes gouged out, she endowed me with luminous, wonderful energies. and perhaps many of the good deeds that i did during my life, i did on the inspiration of this bell tower, and many of the atrocities that i could have committed passed me by, because it looked sad and tender, all my childhood, adolescence and youth years, several generations of soviet people grew up. among these destroyed bell towers, they stood in cities, cramped by constructive buildings, rose in noisy state farms and collective farms, ruined sad, they looked at travelers from the hills, from the banks of deep

russian rivers. these bell towers spoke of great sorrows, of great upheavals that had come over russia, but they did not call to... in severodvinsk, at the giant sev mash plant, where a grandiose underwater bar is launched, i saw a tiny exotic workshop. this is a church that survived from the monastery, on the territory of which a grandiose

soviet factory. the temples and cells of the monastery were destroyed, the monks, some elected, some shot, and all that was left of the entire monastery was this small tiny slice, this miraculously survived church. for many years it was a warehouse at the factory for some metal products, materials, and all sorts of handicrafts. but in modern times this church was restored, the wonderful frescoes were cleaned of soot and defilement, lamps burn in it, services take place, the monastery secretly turned into a factory, and giant boats entering the abyss are russian monasteries and the crew of submariners are monastery brothers, faithful, all service to russia, and the priest from this small surviving church speckles the submarine leaving for the voyage. at this

plant i saw a wonderful reconciliation, when the revived church became related to the great stalinist plant. the russian people are mysterious, they destroyed all russian shrines in one fell swoop and built great churches. stalin's factories, and then destroyed to the ground all the great stalinist factories and revived all the previously destroyed churches. and now, restoring great factories, the people are protecting their temples, and both serve the same thing, the defense of russia. military factories produce weapons, protecting the earthly borders of russia, temples and altars protect from darkness. the sky's the limit.

hello, i'm dmitry bak, we have another episode of a literary podcast, let them not talk, let them read. we are talking about what needs to be read, but there are texts that you cannot read, you can only hear them. these are folklore legends, these are fairy tales and so on, in russian literature there is a person, there is a writer who specifically addressed the topic of folklore, the topic of folk legends, this pavel petrovich bozhov, who was born exactly 145 years ago, in the working village of sissert, in the current sverdlovsk region, and not far from yekaterinburg, today we will talk about this wonderful author with... with my interlocutors, with our guests, this is darya mikhailovna beglova, head of the house of creativity in the writers' village of peredelkina

near moscow. hello, dasha, let’s do it by name, just like in life. and this is nikita petrov, head of the folklore laboratory in ronkhix, at the russian academy of national economy and civil service, as well as an employee of the russian state university, a russian state university for the humanities. good afternoon, nikita, i’m glad to see you, i’m sure that our conversation will be interesting and meaningful, after all, suddenly around us in recent decades, and maybe a little earlier than recent decades, texts have appeared again that do not have an author, well as if these are internet memes, they have no author, but literally everyone knows these phrases, or - shouts, chants, football fans, it is hardly possible to establish their authorship.

it gets onto the internet and spreads and is replicated in absolutely similar ways, gaining and losing contexts and acquiring some new meanings, as for example, memes work much faster, and, probably, the life cycle of such... texts is faster, well, sometimes we we call, for example, urban legends, yes, internet memes can also develop into entire narratives, the recent covid era has gone through a whole spectrum of about 300 plots of urban legends, amazing, they are described directly, of course, we have written several articles about this, they live according to the principles of real folklore, but they live a little less, yes, that is, they burst into flames in a moment, on the wave of moral panic

they exist for a certain time and then disappear into some oblivion. it is clear that this information, in general, in theory , seems to be unreliable, yes, but at the same time a person disseminates it, he creates for himself some symbolic authority, and the goal turns out to be to protect his loved ones, but here there is a very the thin gap between legend and truth is called terrible ostension, when people, knowing the legend, transform it into reality, for example, when someone dresses up as a ghost, and fadeeva and someone else and scare new people, on the one hand, they convey tradition. well , in our minds it somehow borders on traditional folklore, and he has a very difficult fate, we know about this, he was born into a working-class family, then he traveled a lot, taught, was

subjected to repression several times to one degree or another , but still...

peredelkina dsk michurinets, peredelkina writers' village, mcd what, two, three, that's all joke, peredelkina station , peredelkina station, yes, every year in winter, we just address this from a professional point of view, and at the same time we do an event for children, that is, we also share within the event such a children’s side, to teach a little adventure.

some kind of fairy-tale narrative is already coming -