Andrey Platonov. Magic ring. Download audiobook Andrey Platonov. In a beautiful and furious world. Magic Ring Listen in a beautiful and furious world

Andrey Platonov. In a beautiful and furious world. magic ring

There are writers who correspond to their time, coinciding in level with their contemporaries ... And there are those who are ahead of their time, to which one still has to reach out ... ”Andrei Platonovich Platonov belongs to such writers.

The originality and integrity of his works, deep penetration into the human psyche, the importance of the problems involved, the uniqueness of style make the works of A. Platonov especially interesting for the modern reader.

“The main artistic discovery of Platonov,” the researcher writes, “is a new hero, who had not been in literature before him. For myself, I defined this hero as follows: “The people are an orphan, deprived of whom? God? Mother Earth? Or even more disastrous - both, complete orphan? ""

Perhaps this idea, to some extent, refers to A. Platonov's story “In a beautiful and furious world”, but it seems that the teacher does not need to focus the attention of students on it.
At this stage, when studying the story “In a Beautiful and Furious World”, it is enough for the students to understand that the words “beautiful” and “furious” in the world of Platonic creativity are not opposite. “The world should also remain in the future not tame, but “furious”, tense, mysterious, disturbingly enticing. But at the same time, a sense of unity with other people, unity in a great goal, must be strengthened in a person. Orphanhood, loneliness must be overcome, the feeling “without me the people are incomplete” must be established.

This is the value of Platonov's story, its moral and ideological meaning. The task of the lesson is to reveal the artistic expression of the writer's thoughts, the figurative system of the story, that is, the thoughts and feelings of the main characters, as well as the author's attitude to the depicted.

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Audiobook Andrey Platonov. In a beautiful and furious world. The Magic Ring is read by Nikolai Sedov

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(Machinist Maltsev)

In the Tolubeevsky depot, Alexander Vasilyevich Maltsev was considered the best locomotive driver.

He was about thirty years old, but he already had the qualifications of a first class driver and had long driven fast trains. When the first powerful passenger steam locomotive of the IS series arrived at our depot, Maltsev was assigned to work on this machine, which was quite reasonable and correct. An elderly man from the depot locksmiths named Fyodor Petrovich Drabanov worked as an assistant to Maltsev, but he soon passed the exam for a driver and went to work on another machine, and I, instead of Drabanov, was assigned to work in Maltsev's brigade as an assistant; before that, I also worked as a mechanic's assistant, but only on an old, low-powered machine.

I was pleased with my appointment. The IS machine, the only one in our traction section at that time, by its very appearance evoked a feeling of inspiration in me; I could look at her for a long time, and a special touched joy awakened in me - as beautiful as in childhood when I read Pushkin's poems for the first time. In addition, I wanted to work in the crew of a first-class mechanic in order to learn from him the art of driving heavy high-speed trains.

Alexander Vasilievich accepted my appointment to his brigade calmly and indifferently; he apparently did not care who he would have as assistants.

Before the trip, as usual, I checked all the components of the car, tested all its service and auxiliary mechanisms, and calmed down, considering the car ready for the trip. Alexander Vasilievich saw my work, he followed it, but after me, he checked the condition of the machine again with his own hands, as if he did not trust me.

This was repeated later, and I was already used to the fact that Alexander Vasilyevich constantly interfered in my duties, although he was silently upset. But usually, as soon as we were on the move, I forgot about my chagrin. Distracting my attention from the instruments monitoring the state of the running engine, from observing the operation of the left engine and the path ahead, I looked at Maltsev. He led the cast with the courageous confidence of a great master, with the concentration of an inspired artist who absorbed the entire external world into his inner experience and therefore dominated it. Alexander Vasilyevich's eyes looked ahead abstractly, as if empty, but I knew that he saw with them the whole road ahead and all nature rushing towards us - even a sparrow swept away from the ballast slope by the wind of a car piercing into space, even this sparrow attracted Maltsev's gaze, and for a moment he turned his head after the sparrow: what will become of him after us, where he flew.

It was our fault that we were never late; on the contrary, we were often delayed at intermediate stations, which we had to follow on the move, because we were going with a surge of time and we were brought back into the schedule by means of delays.

Usually we worked in silence; only occasionally Alexander Vasilyevich, without turning in my direction, banged the key on the boiler, wishing that I would turn my attention to some disorder in the mode of operation of the machine, or preparing me for a sharp change in this mode so that I would be vigilant. I always understood the silent instructions of my older comrade and worked with full diligence, however, the mechanic still treated me, as well as the oiler-fireman, aloofly and constantly checked the grease fittings in the parking lots, the tightness of the bolts in the drawbar assemblies, tried the axle boxes on the drive axles and so on. If I had just examined and lubricated some working rubbing part, then Maltsev, following me, examined it again and lubricated it, as if not considering my work to be valid.

I, Alexander Vasilyevich, have already checked this crosshead, - I told him once, when he began to check this part after me.

And I myself want to, ”Maltsev answered with a smile, and in his smile there was sadness that struck me.

Later I understood the meaning of his sadness and the reason for his constant indifference to us. He felt his superiority over us, because he understood the car more precisely than we did, and he did not believe that I or anyone else could learn the secret of his talent, the secret of seeing at the same time a passing sparrow and a signal ahead, feeling at the same moment the path, the weight of the train and the effort of the car. Maltsev understood, of course, that in diligence, in diligence, we could even overcome him, but he could not imagine that we loved the steam locomotive more than him and drove trains better than him - better, he thought, it was impossible. And therefore Maltsev was sad with us; he missed his talent as from loneliness, not knowing how we should express it so that we would understand.

And we, however, could not understand his skills. I once asked to be allowed to lead the composition myself; Alexander Vasilyevich allowed me to drive forty kilometers and sat down in the place of an assistant. I led the train, and after twenty kilometers I was already four minutes late, and I overcame exits from long climbs at a speed of no more than thirty kilometers per hour. Maltsev drove the car after me; he took climbs at a speed of fifty kilometers, and on curves he did not throw the car like me, and he soon made up for my lost time.

For about a year I worked as an assistant to Maltsev, from August to July, and on July 5 Maltsev made his last trip as an courier train driver ...

We took a train with eighty passenger axles, which was four hours late on the way to us. The dispatcher went out to the locomotive and specifically asked Alexander Vasilievich to shorten the delay of the train as much as possible, to reduce this delay to at least three hours, otherwise it would be difficult for him to give an empty load to the neighboring road. Maltsev promised him to catch up with time, and we moved forward.

It was eight o'clock in the afternoon, but the summer day was still long, and the sun shone with the solemn morning force. Alexander Vasilyevich demanded that I keep the steam pressure in the boiler only half an atmosphere below the limit all the time.

Half an hour later we went out into the steppe, onto a calm, soft profile. Maltsev brought the speed to ninety kilometers and did not give up lower, on the contrary, on horizontal lines and small slopes he brought the speed up to one hundred kilometers. On the ascents, I forced the firebox to the limit and forced the stoker to manually load the fur coat, to help the stoker machine, because the steam was sinking.

Maltsev drove the car forward, pulling the regulator to the full arc and giving the reverse to the full cutoff. We were now walking towards a powerful cloud that appeared from behind the horizon. From our side, the sun illuminated the cloud, and from within it was torn by fierce, irritated lightning, and we saw how swords of lightning pierced vertically into the silent distant land, and we rushed furiously to that distant land, as if hastening to protect it. Alexander Vasilyevich was apparently carried away by this sight: he leaned far out the window, looking ahead, and his eyes, accustomed to smoke, fire and space, now shone with enthusiasm. He understood that the work and power of our machine could be compared with the work of a thunderstorm, and, perhaps, he was proud of this idea.

Soon we noticed a dusty whirlwind rushing across the steppe towards us. This means that the thundercloud was also carried by the storm in our forehead. The light darkened around us; dry earth and steppe sand whistled and creaked over the iron body of the locomotive; there was no visibility, and I started the turbodynamo for illumination and turned on the headlight in front of the locomotive. It was now difficult for us to breathe from the hot, dusty whirlwind, which was hammering into the cab and doubled in its strength by the oncoming movement of the car, from the flue gases and the early dusk that surrounded us. With a howl, the locomotive made its way forward, into the vague, stuffy darkness - into the gap of light created by the frontal searchlight. The speed dropped to sixty kilometers; we worked and looked ahead as in a dream.

Suddenly a large drop hit the windshield - and immediately dried up, drunk by the hot wind. Then a momentary blue light flashed at my eyelashes and penetrated me to my trembling heart; I grabbed the injector tap, but the pain in my heart had already left me, and I immediately looked in the direction of Maltsev - he looked ahead and drove the car without changing his face.

What was it? I asked the stoker.

Lightning, he said. - She wanted to hit us, but she missed a little.

Maltsev heard our words.

What lightning? he asked loudly.

Now it was, - said the stoker.

I didn't see, - said Maltsev and again turned his face outside.

Did not see! - the stoker was surprised. - I thought - the boiler exploded, how it lit up, but he did not see.

I also doubted that it was lightning.

Where is the thunder? I asked.

Thunder we drove, - explained the stoker. - Thunder always strikes after. While he hit, while the air shook, while back and forth, we already flew away from him. Passengers may have heard - they are behind.

It got dark, and a quiet night fell. We felt the smell of damp earth, the fragrance of herbs and bread, saturated with rain and thunderstorms, and rushed forward, catching up with time.

I noticed that Maltsev began to drive a car worse - we were thrown on curves, the speed sometimes reached more than a hundred kilometers, then decreased to forty. I decided that Alexander Vasilyevich was probably very tired, and therefore did not say anything to him, although it was very difficult for me to keep the furnace and boiler in the best possible mode with such behavior of the mechanic. However, in half an hour we must stop to collect water, and there, at the bus stop, Alexander Vasilyevich will eat and rest a little. We have already gained forty minutes, and before the end of our traction section we will gain at least another hour.

Nevertheless, I was worried about Maltsev's fatigue and began to carefully look ahead - at the path and at the signals. On my side, above the left machine, an electric lamp burned in the air, illuminating the waving, drawbar mechanism. I clearly saw the tense, confident work of the left machine, but then the lamp above it went out and began to burn poorly, like a single candle. I turned to the cockpit. There, too, all the lamps now burned at a quarter glow, barely illuminating the instruments. It is strange that Alexander Vasilyevich did not knock the key on me at that moment to point out such a mess. It was clear that the turbodynamo did not give the calculated speed and the voltage dropped. I began to regulate the turbodynamo through the steam line and fiddled with this device for a long time, but the voltage did not rise.

At this time, a hazy cloud of red light passed over the instrument dials and the cabin ceiling. I looked outside.

Ahead, in the darkness, near or far, it was impossible to tell, a red streak of light wavered across our path. I did not understand what it was, but I understood what to do.

Alexander Vasilyevich! - I shouted and gave three beeps to stop.

There were explosions of firecrackers under the tires of our wheels. I rushed to Maltsev; he turned his face towards me and looked at me with empty, calm eyes. The arrow on the dial of the tachometer showed a speed of sixty kilometers.

Maltsev! I shouted. - We crush firecrackers! - and extended his hand to the controls.

Away! - exclaimed Maltsev, and his eyes shone, reflecting the light of a dim lamp above the tachometer.

He immediately gave emergency braking and moved the reverse back.

I was pressed against the cauldron, I heard the howling of the wheel bandages, the planing of the rails.

Maltsev! - I said. - It is necessary to open the cylinder valves, we will break the car.

No need! We won't break! - answered Maltsev.

We stopped. I pumped water into the boiler with an injector and looked out. Ahead of us, about ten meters away, stood on our line a locomotive, tender in our direction. There was a man on the tender; in his hands he had a long poker, red-hot at the end; he waved it, wishing to stop the courier train. This steam locomotive was the pusher of the freight train that stopped on the haul.

So, while I was setting up the turbodynamo and not looking ahead, we passed a yellow traffic light, and then a red one, and probably more than one lineman warning signal. But why didn't Maltsev notice these signals?

Kostya! - Alexander Vasilyevich called me.

I approached him.

Kostya! What's ahead of us?

The next day, I brought the return train to my station and handed over the locomotive to the depot, because the tires on its two slopes were slightly displaced. Having reported to the head of the depot about the incident, I led Maltsev by the arm to his place of residence; Maltsev himself was severely depressed and did not go to the head of the depot.

We had not yet reached the house on the grassy street where Maltsev lived, when he asked me to leave him alone.

You can't, I replied. - You, Alexander Vasilyevich, are a blind man.

He looked at me with clear, thoughtful eyes.

Now I see, go home ... I see everything - my wife came out to meet me.

At the gate of the house where Maltsev lived, a woman, the wife of Alexander Vasilyevich, was really waiting, and her open black hair shone in the sun.

Does she have a head covered or without anything? I asked.

Without, - answered Maltsev. - Who is blind - you or me?

Well, if you see, then look, - I decided and moved away from Maltsev.

Maltsev was put on trial, and an investigation began. The investigator called me and asked me what I thought about the incident with the courier train. I replied that I thought that Maltsev was not to blame.

He was blind from a close discharge, from a lightning strike, - I told the investigator. - He was shell-shocked, and the nerves that control vision were damaged ... I do not know how to say this exactly.

I understand you, - said the investigator, - you speak exactly. This is all possible, but not certain. After all, Maltsev himself testified that he did not see lightning.

And I saw her, and the greaser saw her too.

This means that the lightning struck closer to you than to Maltsev, the investigator reasoned. - Why are you and the oiler not shell-shocked, not blind, but the machinist Maltsev received a concussion of the optic nerves and went blind? How do you think?

I became stumped, and then thought.

Maltsev couldn't see the lightning, I said.

The investigator listened to me in surprise.

He couldn't see her. He was blinded instantly - from the impact of an electromagnetic wave that goes ahead of the lightning light. The lightning light is a consequence of the discharge, not the cause of the lightning. Maltsev was already blind when the lightning flashed, and the blind man could not see the light.

Interesting, - the investigator smiled. - I would stop the case of Maltsev, if he was still blind. But you know, now he sees the same way as we do.

See, I confirmed.

Was he blind, - continued the investigator, - when he drove the courier train at the tail of the freight train at high speed?

It was, I confirmed.

The investigator looked at me carefully.

Why didn't he hand over control of the locomotive to you, or at least order you to stop the train?

I don't know, I said.

You see, the investigator said. - An adult conscientious person drives a courier train, carries hundreds of people to certain death, accidentally avoids a catastrophe, and then justifies himself by saying that he was blind. What it is?

But he himself would have died! I say.

Probably. However, I am more interested in the lives of hundreds of people than the life of one person. Maybe he had his own reasons for dying.

It wasn't, I said.

The investigator became indifferent; he already got bored of me like a fool.

You know everything except the main thing, - he said in slow reflection. - You can go.

From the investigator I went to Maltsev's apartment.

Alexander Vasilyevich, - I said to him, - why didn't you call me for help when you were blind?

I saw it, he replied. - Why did I need you?

What did you saw?

Everything: the line, signals, wheat in the steppe, the work of the right machine - I saw everything ...

I was puzzled.

And how did it happen to you? You passed all the warnings, you went straight to the tail of another train...

The former first-class mechanic thought sadly and answered me quietly, as if to himself:

I was used to seeing light, and I thought I saw it, but I saw it then only in my mind, in my imagination. Actually I was blind, but I didn't know it. I did not believe in firecrackers, although I heard them: I thought that I had misheard. And when you gave the stop beeps and shouted to me, I saw a green signal ahead, I did not immediately guess.

Now I understood Maltsev, but I didn’t know why he wouldn’t tell the investigator about this - that after he went blind, he saw the world in his imagination for a long time and believed in its reality. And I asked Alexander Vasilyevich about this.

And I told him, - answered Maltsev.

What is he?

- "This, he says, was your imagination; maybe you are imagining something now, I don’t know. I, he says, need to establish the facts, and not your imagination or suspiciousness. Your imagination - whether it was or not - I can’t check I can, it was only in your head; these are your words, and the collapse that almost happened is an action.

He's right, I said.

I'm right, I know it myself, - the driver agreed. And I'm right too, not wrong. What will happen now?

You will be in jail, I told him.

Maltsev was sent to prison. I still drove as an assistant, but only with another driver - a cautious old man who slowed down the train a kilometer before the yellow traffic light, and when we drove up to it, the signal changed to green, and the old man again began to drag the train forward. It was not work: I missed Maltsev.

In winter, I was in a regional city and visited my brother, a student who lived in a university dormitory. My brother told me in the middle of a conversation that they, at the university, have a Tesla installation in the physical laboratory for obtaining artificial lightning. A thought occurred to me, uncertain and not yet clear to me.

Returning home, I thought about my guess about the Tesla installation and decided that my thought was correct. I wrote a letter to the investigator who at one time was in charge of the Maltsev case, asking him to test the prisoner Maltsev for his susceptibility to electrical discharges. In the event that the susceptibility of Maltsev's psyche or his visual organs to the action of nearby sudden electrical discharges is proved, then Maltsev's case should be reconsidered. I pointed out to the investigator where the Tesla installation was located and how to make an experiment on a person.

The investigator did not answer me for a long time, but then he informed me that the regional prosecutor had agreed to carry out the examination I had proposed in the university physics laboratory.

A few days later, the investigator summoned me with a summons. I came to him excited, confident in advance that the Maltsev case had been successfully resolved.

The investigator greeted me, but was silent for a long time, slowly reading some paper with sad eyes; I was losing hope.

You let your friend down,” the investigator then said.

And what? Does the verdict stay the same?

No. We will release Maltsev. The order has already been given - perhaps Maltsev is already at home.

Thank you. - I got to my feet in front of the investigator.

And we won't thank you. You gave bad advice: Maltsev is blind again...

I sat down on a chair in exhaustion, my soul instantly burned out, and I was thirsty.

Experts, without warning, in the dark, held Maltsev under the Tesla installation, the investigator told me. - The current was turned on, lightning occurred, and a sharp blow was heard. Maltsev passed quietly, but now he does not see the light again - this has been established objectively, by a forensic medical examination.

Now he sees the world again only in his imagination... You are his comrade, help him.

Maybe his eyesight will return to him again, - I expressed hope, as it was then, after the steam locomotive ...

The investigator thought.

Hardly ... Then there was the first injury, now the second. The wound was inflicted on the wounded place.

And, no longer restraining himself, the investigator got up and began to pace the room in agitation.

It's my fault ... Why did I listen to you and, like a fool, insisted on an examination! I risked a man, and he could not bear the risk.

You are not to blame, you did not risk anything, - I consoled the investigator. What is better - a free blind person or a sighted, but innocently imprisoned?

I did not know that I would have to prove the innocence of a person through his misfortune, - said the investigator. - It's too high a price.

You are an investigator, I explained to him. - You must know everything about a person, and even what he does not know about himself ...

I understand you, you are right,” the investigator said quietly.

Don't worry, Comrade Investigator... Facts were at work here inside the person, while you were looking for them only outside. But you managed to understand your shortcoming and acted with Maltsev as a noble person. I respect you.

I love you too,” confessed the investigator. - You know, an assistant investigator could come out of you ...

Thank you, but I'm busy: I'm an assistant driver on a courier engine.

I left. I was not a friend of Maltsev, and he always treated me without attention and care. But I wanted to protect him from the grief of fate, I was bitter against the fatal forces that accidentally and indifferently destroy a person; I felt the secret, elusive calculation of these forces - in the fact that they ruined precisely Maltsev, and, say, not me. I understood that in nature there is no such calculation in our human, mathematical sense, but I saw that there are facts that prove the existence of hostile, disastrous circumstances for human life, and these disastrous forces crush the chosen, exalted people. I decided not to give up, because I felt in myself something that could not be in the external forces of nature and in our destiny - I felt my own peculiarity as a person. And I became embittered and decided to oppose myself, not yet knowing how to do it.

The following summer, I passed the exam for the title of a machinist and began to drive independently on a steam locomotive of the SU series, working on a passenger local service. And almost always, when I brought the locomotive under the train, which was standing at the station platform, I saw Maltsev sitting on a painted bench. Leaning his hand on a cane placed between his legs, he turned his passionate, sensitive face with empty, blind eyes towards the engine, and greedily breathed the smell of burning and lubricating oil, and attentively listened to the rhythmic work of the steam-air pump. I had nothing to console him with, and I left, and he stayed.

It was summer; I worked on a steam locomotive and often saw Alexander Vasilyevich - not only on the station platform, but also met him on the street when he walked slowly, feeling the road with his cane. He has grown haggard and aged lately; he lived in abundance - he was given a pension, his wife worked, they had no children, but longing, a lifeless fate ate Alexander Vasilyevich, and his body grew thin from constant grief. I sometimes talked to him, but I saw that it was boring for him to talk about trifles and be content with my kind consolation that a blind man is also a completely full-fledged, full-fledged person.

Away! he said after listening to my kind words.

But I, too, was an angry man, and when, according to custom, he once ordered me to go away, I said to him:

Tomorrow at ten-thirty I will lead the train. If you sit quietly, I'll take you to the car.

Maltsev agreed.

OK. I will be humble. Give me something in my hands - let me hold the reverse: I will not turn it.

You won't spin it! I confirmed. - If you twist, I will give you a piece of coal in your hands and I will never take it on a steam locomotive again.

The blind man was silent; he so wanted to be on a steam locomotive again that he humbled himself before me.

The next day I invited him from the painted bench to the locomotive and went down to meet him to help him into the cab.

When we moved forward, I put Alexander Vasilyevich in my driver's seat, I put one of his hands on the reverse and the other on the brake machine and put my hands on top of his hands. I drove with my hands, as it should, and his hands also worked. Maltsev sat silently and obeyed me, enjoying the movement of the car, the wind in the face and work. He concentrated, forgot his grief as a blind man, and mild joy lit up the haggard face of this man, for whom the feeling of a machine was bliss.

We drove to the opposite end in a similar way: Maltsev was sitting in the mechanic's place, and I was standing, bending over, near him and holding my hands on his hands. Maltsev had already adapted himself to work in such a way that a light pressure on his hand was enough for me, and he accurately felt my demand. The former, perfect master of the machine sought to overcome his lack of vision and feel the world by other means in order to work and justify his life.

On quiet sections, I completely moved away from Maltsev and looked ahead from the side of the assistant.

We were already on the way to Tolubeev; our regular flight ended safely, and we went on time. But on the last stage, a yellow traffic light shone towards us. I did not prematurely shorten the course and went to the traffic light with an open steam. Maltsev sat quietly, keeping his left hand on the reverse; I looked at my teacher with a secret expectation...

Close steam! Maltsev told me.

I remained silent, worried with all my heart.

Then Maltsev stood up, extended his hand to the regulator and turned off the steam.

I see a yellow light, - he said and pulled the brake handle towards himself.

Or maybe you are only imagining that you see the light again! I said to Maltsev.

He turned his face towards me and wept. I walked over to him and kissed him back.

Drive the car to the end, Alexander Vasilyevich: now you see the whole world!

He brought the car to Tolubeev without my help. After work, I went with Maltsev to his apartment, and we sat together with him all evening and all night.

I was afraid to leave him alone, like his own son, without protection against the sudden and hostile forces of our beautiful and violent world.

Books enlighten the soul, uplift and strengthen a person, awaken the best aspirations in him, sharpen his mind and soften his heart.

William Thackeray, English satirist

The book is a great power.

Vladimir Ilyich Lenin, Soviet revolutionary

Without books, we now can neither live, nor fight, nor suffer, nor rejoice and win, nor confidently move towards that reasonable and wonderful future in which we unshakably believe.

Many thousands of years ago, in the hands of the best representatives of mankind, the book became one of the main weapons of their struggle for truth and justice, and it was this weapon that gave these people terrible strength.

Nikolai Rubakin, Russian bibliologist, bibliographer.

The book is a tool. But not only. It introduces people to the life and struggle of other people, makes it possible to understand their experiences, their thoughts, their aspirations; it makes it possible to compare, understand the environment and transform it.

Stanislav Strumilin, Academician of the USSR Academy of Sciences

There is no better remedy for refreshing the mind than reading the ancient classics; as soon as you take one of them in your hands, even if for half an hour, you immediately feel refreshed, lightened and cleansed, uplifted and strengthened, as if refreshed by bathing in a pure spring.

Arthur Schopenhauer, German philosopher

Those who were not familiar with the creations of the ancients lived without knowing beauty.

Georg Hegel, German philosopher

No failures of history and deaf spaces of time are able to destroy human thought, fixed in hundreds, thousands and millions of manuscripts and books.

Konstantin Paustovsky, Russian Soviet writer

The book is magic. The book changed the world. It contains the memory of the human race, it is the mouthpiece of human thought. A world without a book is a world of savages.

Nikolai Morozov, creator of modern scientific chronology

Books are the spiritual testament of one generation to another, the advice of a dying old man to a young man who begins to live, an order transmitted by sentries going on vacation to sentries who take his place.

Without books, human life is empty. The book is not only our friend, but also our constant, eternal companion.

Demyan Bedny, Russian Soviet writer, poet, publicist

The book is a powerful tool of communication, labor, struggle. It equips man with the experience of the life and struggle of mankind, expands his horizon, gives him knowledge with which he can make the forces of nature serve him.

Nadezhda Krupskaya, Russian revolutionary, Soviet party, public and cultural figure.

Reading good books is a conversation with the best people of the past, and, moreover, such a conversation when they tell us only their best thoughts.

René Descartes, French philosopher, mathematician, physicist and physiologist

Reading is one of the sources of thinking and mental development.

Vasily Sukhomlinsky, an outstanding Soviet teacher and innovator.

Reading is to the mind what exercise is to the body.

Joseph Addison, English poet and satirist

A good book is like a conversation with an intelligent person. The reader receives from her knowledge and generalization of reality, the ability to understand life.

Alexei Tolstoy, Russian Soviet writer and public figure

Don't forget that the most colossal tool of all-round education is reading.

Alexander Herzen, Russian publicist, writer, philosopher

Without reading there is no real education, there is not and cannot be any taste, or a word, or a multilateral breadth of understanding; Goethe and Shakespeare are equal to the whole university. Reading man survives centuries.

Alexander Herzen, Russian publicist, writer, philosopher

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