Review of fairy tales by Evgeny Klyuev. Klyuev Evgeniy Vasilievich: biography, creativity and best works Love for the Motherland

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The shoe who wrote poetry

B Ashmak was born into a wonderful family of Bashmak. They were all hard workers - and each couple was ready to honestly pay off their miles: mile after mile - stamp, stamp, stamp, stamp... The Old Shoemaker gave them everything they needed for this: and a thick sole, stitched with good quality resinous grit, and an excellent comfortable last, and soft durable leather...

And our Shoe was no worse than the others: bright brown, with a wonderful blunt toe and a red and white twisted lace with sparkling silver caps. The Old Shoemaker also gave him a brother: as beautiful as the Shoe himself, and repeating him as if in a mirror image. The Old Shoemaker arranged this so that our Shoe would not be lonely on the roads of his life. “Eh, yes, not so, two shoes in a pair!” – the Old Shoemaker liked to repeat.

Eh, but not so... Either the Old Shoemaker was in a cheerful mood, or the day was especially sunny, only our Shoe came out of his hands not as an ordinary Shoe, but as an unusual Shoe: he wrote poetry. Or rather, he didn’t write - about poetry it’s just always said like this: “wrote” - our Shoe, of course, didn’t know how to write. And not a single Shoe can. But I was composing! And, having written it, he immediately read it to his brothers. The brothers liked the poems - perhaps because they had never heard poetry before. So, leaving the Old Shoemaker’s house, they remembered their talented relative for a long time.

But now his time has come.

“Not bad shoes,” said the one who was now supposed to become the owner of this pair, and counted out the money.

- Eh, yes, not so, two shoes in a pair! - The Old Shoemaker grinned into his mustache and parted with his shoes.

– Don’t write poetry now! - his brother quietly whispered to Shoe. “They only do this when they’re young.” And now that you have become an adult and have been bought, you need to forget about poetry.

Shoe quickly nodded in response: he did not hear his brother’s words. At that very moment he was writing poetry, and when Bashmak was writing poetry, he didn’t hear anything.

The next morning the owner put on his shoes and went to work. On the way, he tripped on his left foot about fifteen times, and this puzzled him greatly. “Why do I keep stumbling?” - he was perplexed, not even suspecting that one of his shoes was writing poetry all the way:

Top-top-top, top-top, top-top-top,
Top-top-top, top-top, top-top-top!

And in the evening, when I was walking home from work, I kept stumbling again. Even worse: I didn’t miss a single puddle along the way—I visited every one. I got my feet wet like... never wet before! What nonsense, really! Where could he have realized that Bashmak was again writing poetry all the way:

Top-top, top-top,
Top-top, top-top,
Top-top, top-top, top-top!

At home I had to carefully examine the shoes: everything seemed to be in order. The owner put them out to dry and sat down to dinner.

- Well, now I understand what the poems lead to? - Bashmak’s brother reproached him. – Quit this activity, you’re a shoe! You are destined to run your miles. Imagine what would happen if the Hat wanted to fly and the Coat wanted to dance!

- It would be great! - Shoe responded cheerfully and - again for poetry.

And what do you think? That's right: instead of drying out properly, it became all warped overnight.

It is clear that this could not continue for long - the day came when the owner said, looking at the shoes:

- Hmmm, this one wore out quickly... The other one is just like new, but this one - look: it’s time to throw it away. I’ll probably order new ones for myself... but why? I’ll order one: the second one will still serve me!

So our Shoe ended up in the trash heap. However, he didn’t even notice: he was writing poetry again. And when he came to his senses and looked around, he saw no one except an old torn galosh that was lying nearby.

Mrs. Kalosha, of course, understood shoe language - although not without difficulty. She listened to Bashmak’s poems with great reluctance and then said:

“I can’t understand, Shoe, how you could exchange everything for such nonsense!” I think you're just a fool. Your brother is still tramping around and doing good, but you have already been thrown out. It would be nice if someone else could read your poems... but, as far as I understand, you will die in obscurity? Otherwise I wouldn't be here! And besides, few people understand your language...

Old Galosh thought deeply - and suddenly, out of the blue, as often happens with galoshes, she said:

- You know, Shoe... I love you.

Sandwich Law

– IN“everything in life happens according to the law of the sandwich,” he said

Grandfather went for a walk with the Dog.

- It's clear? - Ham Sandwich asked sternly and looked around at those present, just like a prosecutor.

And those present immediately felt uneasy from this look, but... nothing can be done: since Grandfather Himself, leaving for a walk with the Dog Himself, said so, it means that this is exactly how it is. Therefore, Sandwich is a really important person - and we must obey him. (Although, between you and me, it’s somehow stupid to submit to a sandwich... and even more so to this Sandwich, because it’s thick, this Sandwich, and with ham, and unpleasant to look at.)

– It turns out that you are the leader among us? - Bun asked carefully, and a kind of blush filled her simple face with a zest on her cheek.

- Of course, chief, there’s nothing to say here! “Ham Sandwich answered, then he thought carefully and added, as if by chance: “I’ll note, by the way, that I’m not only the leader among you, but among everyone else too.” I'm the boss in the world. And everything that happens happens because I want it to.

- And that’s why morning comes? – Polmandarin was taken aback.

- What about it? – Ham Sandwich puzzled him.

“They just told me,” said Polmandarina, already out of a dead end, “that morning comes because the Earth turns towards the Sun...

Ham Sandwich laughed.

- Let's say! But think about it: why does the Earth turn towards the Sun? Have you thought about it?

“I was thinking,” Polmandarin did not argue. – But I thought in vain... well, nothing just comes to mind.

- Yes, because there is a Law for that! Hm... Sandwich Law. - And Ham Sandwich turned away from the stupid Half-Mandarin, turning back to the others.

“The Law of the Sandwich...” the Candy named “Krasnaya Presnya” repeated in fascination and tactlessly clarified: “...a Sandwich-with-Ham?”

“Don’t be distracted,” Ham Sandwich ordered and continued: “The laws that I establish will soon form the basis of Legislation.” It will be called "Sandwich Legislation."

After that, everyone just started thinking, because whether you like it or not, you’ll think about it! Even Ham Sandwich himself began to think...

By the way, when sandwiches are conceived, you can expect anything. Because it is absolutely impossible to predict how the thoughts of this or that sandwich will end.

The thoughts of our Sandwich ended with this. He jumped off the plate, on which he had been calmly lying all this time, and, walking around the table, awkwardly climbed onto the back of the chair to say:

– Right from this moment the Second Law of Sandwich comes into force. It reads: “From now on, it’s not people who eat food, but food that eats people!”

Hearing this, all the food that was on the table was dumbfounded for a long time. Coming out of this state only after a long time, Bun-with-a-raisin-on-the-cheek stammered:

– Sorry, I don’t understand what you mean. And I don’t understand how you mean this either.

- What is there not to understand? – Ham Sandwich was terribly surprised. - When Grandfather comes in, sits down at the table... then we’ll pounce on him. Let's eat it and that's the end of it. And we’ll eat the Dog... no, perhaps, I’ll eat the Dog myself, so that later they will say about me: “He ate the dog.” And you, after you eat Grandfather, proceed to the rest. When there are no more people here, we will go outside - there are others.

In the midst of general silence, Polmandarina said:

“Of course, you do as you wish, but I won’t attack Grandfather.” I don't like it and it seems stupid.

After such a speech, Polmandarin became embarrassed and froze, and everyone looked in fear, first at him, and then at Ham Sandwich. He, of course, became furious. He literally glared at the impudent Polmandarin and turned to the others:

– Who else refuses to obey my Laws?

“I,” said the Flower-in-a-Vase, who had been silent until now, indifferently. – I don’t know you at all and I don’t want to know you!

“And I, and I...” was heard from all over the table: no one wanted to eat Grandfather. And indeed, this is some kind of nonsense - there is a grandfather!

Then Ham Sandwich shouted:

He became so nervous that he suddenly began to fall off the back of his chair onto the floor. True, at that very moment Grandfather came in, picked him up and said:

-What did I say? The sandwich always lands butter side down. Even when it's without oil.

– Is this the Sandwich Law? - Polmandarin asked Grandfather, and Grandfather nodded, giving the sandwich to his cute Dog.

“What about other laws...” the Bun-with-a-Twist-on-Cheek spoke timidly. – Did he invent them too?

“No, he has come up with only one Law so far - the law of falling face down,” Grandfather laughed. “And now he’s unlikely to come up with other laws, because he’s been eaten.”

And thank God! - Everyone sighed with relief: they really didn’t like this sandwich, because it was thick, and with ham, and unpleasant in appearance...

Precious minute

– N Don't waste precious minutes! - someone said to someone, and one of the precious minutes, namely given, heard this and was terribly frightened: she did not imagine that she could be lost!.. It turned out that it was possible.

Then the Precious Minute, without hesitating for a second, began to think about what would happen if she was lost...

“It will be terrible!” – she decided. Firstly, the hour will then become incomplete: an hour without a minute is not an hour. Consequently, he will have to borrow a minute from another hour - and that next hour will also become incomplete - and will be forced to borrow a minute from the next hour following it... and so on. All this might not be a problem - but who will take up a minute of the Very Last Hour? The one called "Twelve Hours of Night". He will no doubt have to turn to the new day and borrow a minute from it. And the last day (which is sometimes called “Thirtieth”, sometimes “Thirty-First”) - refer to the new month, and the last month (it is called “December”) - to the new year, and the new year - to the new century, and the new century - to the new millennium... As for the new millennium, then it will have no choice but to take one minute from the history of all mankind... and then we will have the HISTORY OF ALL HUMANITY WITHOUT ONE MINUTE, and this is absolutely no good!

And, besides, it’s, of course, easy to borrow... but what should you give later?

And the Precious Minute decided to carefully monitor herself so that she would not be lost. But bad luck... as soon as she decided this, she immediately got the impression that she had been lost! Because the place in which she found herself looked too suspicious: it resembled a landfill... Here lay some crumpled Scrap of Newspaper, a Coin worn beyond recognition, a Pencil Stub and Old-as-the-World Candy. They all lay, generally speaking, silently... but that was precisely the most suspicious thing!

- Why are you silent, I beg your pardon? – Precious Minute addressed the entire society at once.

“We are in a quarrel,” answered Old-as-the-World-Candy.

– And... why didn’t you share it, if it’s not a secret? – asked Precious Minute.

“We didn’t divide the territory,” muttered Pencil Stub.

– Is there really that much territory here? – Precious Minute was surprised, looking around the cramped space around her.

Pencil Stub snorted:

– That’s the point, it’s not enough! That’s why they didn’t divide it... why are you so slow-witted!

- So... there won’t be enough for everyone anyway: what’s the point of dividing?

“And that’s the point,” Candy-as-Old-as-the-World suddenly made a noise, “so that they don’t stick to me!”

This statement of hers outraged the Newspaper Scrap:

“They stick to you,” he said clearly, “only because you’re sticky!”

- Exactly! - Coin responded.

Precious Minute looked at them carefully and said with a sigh:

– You want to quarrel... when we’ve all been lost anyway!

“They couldn’t lose me!” - said the Newspaper Scrap. – I have an important phone number on me.

“By the way, it was written down by me,” said Pencil Stub, “which means no one lost me either.”

“And you can eat me with pleasure,” said Old-as-the-World-Candy.

- You? - Coin was dumbfounded. - I wouldn’t do it for the life of me!

“Of course,” Candy-Old-as-the-World partially agreed, “if I have so much stuck on me...”

“It turns out that they only lost me alone...” Precious Minute became completely upset, but at that time something fell on top of her and began to throw her neighbors in different directions. A second later, strong fingers grabbed her and began to drag her to the surface. However, after the Precious Minute, which had already managed to stick to the World-Old Candy, the World-Old Candy itself and the Scrap of Newspaper, the Pencil Stub and the Coin, which had stuck to it, reached the surface.

“Stop, stop, stop,” they said from above, “not all at once!”

Having unstuck the Precious Minute from the rest, it was taken out of the pocket.

Now she was lying on the Wide Warm Palm - and the Wide Warm Palm was covered in paint.

- Why are you wearing paint? – Precious Minute asked sternly.

“I was painting the house,” they reported to her.

– Why do you need me... and even when I’m like this? – Precious Minute asked, feeling that the remnants of the World-Old Candy were sticking to the Wide Warm Palm...

- To enjoy! – the Wide Warm Palm said bluntly. – You see, I saved you... if you understand what I mean. I saved it and now I will enjoy you.

- How do you like me? saved? – Precious Minute still didn’t understand.

“I tried and finished the work a minute earlier,” answered the Wide Warm Palm.

Then, in order not to waste time on talking, she poured a cup of coffee from the Eternally Dissatisfied Coffee Pot and gladly took hold of the slightly scalding handle. And then, from somewhere completely above, a Sigh of Pleasure began to descend.

Precious Minute was unable to follow this sigh, because she immediately fell into thoughts about what happens when they save a minute... It can be wonderful, she decided. Firstly, the hour then becomes longer by one minute. Therefore, he can transfer the saved minute to another hour, and then that next hour will transfer this minute to the next hour following it... and so on. And the Very Last Hour - the one called “Twelve Hours of Night” - will transfer this minute to a new day! When the last day of the month ends (which is sometimes called “The Thirtieth”, sometimes “The Thirty-First”), he will transfer the minute to the new month, then the last month (it is called “December”) will transfer it to the new year, the new year to the new century, the new century - to the new millennium... As for the new millennium, it, of course, will add this minute to the history of all mankind... and then we will have THE HISTORY OF ALL HUMANITY A WHOLE MINUTE LONGER, and this is simply wonderful!

Here the Precious Minute smiled happily - with joy for all humanity - and in her heart sent greetings to her former neighbors in her pocket: she realized that they, too, were most likely saved - and for definitely great purposes!

All such an airy blouse

N The Pink Blouse must have been made of silk - otherwise it would not have seemed so airy. And she just seemed airy! No wonder this Pink Blouse constantly - literally without stopping - exclaimed:

- Oh, I’m all so airy, just some kind of nightmare!

In fact, she used the word “nightmare” in vain: after all, “nightmare” is said when you’re scared, and Pink Blouse, on the contrary, was very pleased that she was all so airy. By the way, it was precisely because of this airiness that she absolutely couldn’t stand it when she was washed. After all, when washing, any item is immersed in water (unless, of course, dry washing... but it’s not at all clear what dry washing is), and it’s quite difficult to maintain airiness in water. When you get all wet, there’s no time for airiness!

And this must happen - just before the holiday, just the day before, they took it and washed it! She, poor thing, wriggled so much, slipped out of her hands... but her hands were dexterous and knew their job well. As a result, the Pink Blouse, without even wrung out properly, was hung on a string to dry, but worst of all, it was attached to the string with clothespins! And who would like to be on clothespins just before the holiday?

- Good job! – Pink Blouse snorted, dangling on a string. - Not only were they washed, but also these clothespins! Yes, in such a creepy neighborhood... with some kind of panties, socks! Nothing more humiliating has ever happened in my life!

Hearing this, Cowards and Socks, of course, were terribly embarrassed - especially Cowards: they even wanted to crawl along the rope somewhere to the side, but they, too, were attached with clothespins, so you couldn’t really crawl away!

And the Pink Blouse became a little more indignant and suddenly declared:

- All. I'm flying away. The time has come.

The cowards were so stunned by this statement that, forgetting to be embarrassed, they exclaimed:

- How are you leaving? Where?

- It’s none of your business where you go. To distant distances, that's where! To distant places that you have never even dreamed of.

“We dreamed...” objected Socks. “The distant people do nothing but dream about us.”

- Oh, shut up, please! – Pink Blouse interrupted them. – I don’t want to listen to you: They are putting them on your feet! And I’m generally silent about the Panties: it’s just scary to even imagine where they are put on.

From such words of hers, the Cowards were completely embarrassed, and the Socks said:

– Everything that is put on somewhere is equally necessary – and there is no need for you to worry too much about it. Just think, a blouse! Well, it would be nice if there was some kind of gold hairpin, otherwise it’s just – ugh!..

- It’s me - ugh?! It’s me, then, in your opinion – ugh?!

Then they suddenly began to remove the Pink Blouse from the string, unhooking the clothespins one by one - in the wind she jerked with all her might: rrraz! - and, look, it really flew...

- Well, what do you say now - there, on a string? Pathetic rags with indecent names! I despise you! Goodbye, I am a bird. I...” here Pink Blouse’s throat even tightened: “... I’m the Firebird!” – And she flapped her short sleeves like wings.

However, this Firebird was immediately caught - however, she had managed to roll around in the mud and now looked more like a plucked chicken than a Firebird. And of course, they again put it in a basin of soapy water, where they began to wash it, and mercilessly. Panties and Socks looked at her with regret from their rope, where, by the way, a few minutes later the Pink Blouse was again placed - alas, in the same place as before!

- So you have already flown to where you were going? - the Cowards inquired innocently - so innocently that the Socks even shushed them, but the Cowards continued: - Apparently, there, in these distant distances, it’s quite dirty...

- None of your business! – Pink Blouse interrupted them. - Just give me time - and I’ll conquer the whole world! Moreover, it’s a piece of cake for me!

At her last words, the Panties and Socks suddenly completely dried out and were taken off the string. Together with them they tried to take off the Pink Blouse, but... a jerk - and here she was again in the mud. Well... that means it’s all over again: a bowl of soapy water, a long, long wash, the Pink Blouse wriggles, slips out of your hands, but your hands are dexterous and know their job well...

And here she is again hanging on the same rope, muttering something under her breath, and Panties and Socks are carried home, and Panties, as if by chance and even quite friendly, say at the last moment:

– Two or three more flights into the mud - and there, in the distant distances where you are so striving, no one will pay any attention to you. Think about it, dear Pink Blouse!

- Oh, leave it, please! - she bursts into tears. – I don’t want to listen to your stupid advice, don’t forget about who I am and who you are!

“Both we and you are clothes first,” Socks say quietly, but Pink Blouse doesn’t seem to hear them.

Conversations at the Christmas tree

M You can have no doubt: this middle-aged Spruce, cut down somewhere far away in the forest, knew what life was, and knew that life was beautiful. And therefore she was not at all flattered by the role of the chosen one, who was supposed to shine at the most magnificent of the holidays of the year. She calmly listened to the clinking of glass and the whispering of cardboard toys hanging on her branches: their constant boasting did not cause her anything but a smile.

The huge Lilac Ball slowly and ceremoniously turned on a cord - it reflected the room and the children dancing their simple dance.

- That's how many children I have! – the Lilac Ball exclaimed every minute. “Last year there were much fewer of them - and I remember they weren’t as beautifully dressed as they are now.” Last year, in general, everything was much worse. I was then rather poorly secured on the branch, and I simply forbade myself to rotate: I was terribly afraid of falling! It would be unforgivable stupidity to give up a life like mine: believe me, I don’t want to be like one-day balloons! Even though they are much larger and know how to fly, they still burst every minute... And for many years now I have held the highest position on the Christmas trees and must take care of myself: without me there will be no holiday!

- And it won’t happen without me! – picked up the Cardboard Cracker. – I have all seven colors of the rainbow – and I, of course, greatly decorate the holiday. Maybe my relatives, the confetti crackers, have a noisier life, but their life span is so short-lived! Poor guys: here one slammed, then another... bang, bang - and it was over. And then the children throw the empty cartridges into the trash can and forget about how the colored circles showered the guests. They hang me on the Christmas tree every single year - and I’ve already seen so many holidays in my lifetime that it’s just sickening!

Here the Cardboard Cracker danced on the string: it was completely empty inside and therefore very light.

- And I can’t even remember how many of them there were - these holidays! Since time immemorial I have been hung and hung on the Christmas tree. – The Glass Icicle looked down, as if in embarrassment. – Yesterday, when they changed the lace, they simply couldn’t get enough of me: how thin, long and silver I am! I’m very sorry for the real icicles on the street: they are, of course, larger and hang in more visible places... but they are melting! Can you imagine how terrible it is! If you melt, no one will remember you... Still, being made of glass is much, much safer.

- Of course, it’s more reliable! – responded the Mica Butterfly. “Even though I’m not made of glass, but only mica, I’m also glad that I don’t have to flutter from flower to flower in search of food.” It may be exciting to flit around, but there are so many dangers! Any minute now they'll catch him with a net... Last year, when they hung me next to a candle, I almost died of fear: I was still afraid of breaking out - but in the meadow... there, keep your eyes peeled! And then, real butterflies - how many of them are enough? For one summer. I remember those times when parents, whose children danced downstairs today, danced with all their might... mica is also a durable material.

Listening to this glass, cardboard and mica boast, Spruce only quietly swayed its branches. She knew what life was, and she knew that life was beautiful.

“Yes-ah,” the Glass Icicle drawled lazily, catching some random reflection of a candle, “and remember how many Christmas trees there have been in our lifetime, my friends!” And everyone crumbled, everyone disappeared, everyone disappeared.

“By the way,” said the Cardboard Cracker to nowhere, “nylon Christmas trees were invented a long time ago: they last a long time!” Every year this tree is disassembled and put into a box. And for the next holiday they take it out again - and then it again appears in the house in the place of honor.

- Dear El! – the Lilac Ball addressed Eli sympathetically. – Tell me, are you very unhappy?

At first the spruce wanted only to swing its branches, but unexpectedly for itself it said:

- Why are you unhappy? I'm happy!

The toys looked at each other in bewilderment, and she continued:

– You see, I know what life is, and I know that life is beautiful. She is beautiful precisely because she is so fragile, so short-lived... Soon, for example, this holiday, the most magnificent of the holidays of the year, will end, and with it my story will end. But the fact that my story has an end is what makes me happy. And I tell myself: remember this holiday, it is the only one in your life - this has never happened before and will never happen again. Remember every little thing: it is unique...

The toys looked at each other again: it still seemed to them that El was very unhappy.

“Now,” she sighed, “forgive me.” Unfortunately, I can’t talk anymore: every second is precious – I don’t want to miss a single one of them, even during a pleasant conversation. I wish you... I wish you to be treated carefully. – And El smiled, straightening the branches.

The holiday, meanwhile, ended for today. The children were sent to bed, and the adults were already nodding off.

And at night, from the large room where El stood, suddenly a light ringing sound was heard, which none of the sleeping people heard. This Lilac Ball, having gathered all its strength, rushed towards the ceiling, but did not reach it and, falling off, broke into pieces on the parquet floor with a laugh. The Cardboard Cracker, smiling like a fool, puffed up and slammed deafeningly, leaving a barely perceptible smell of gunpowder in the air. And the Glass Icicle began to melt and melted away, forming a tiny transparent puddle on the parquet floor below.

So the Mica Butterfly fluttered out of the open window with a happy laugh - and it was whirled and carried away somewhere by a blizzard...

Evgeniy Klyuev

From Tangle to Festive March

The ball that rolled

When some (not very well-mannered) citizens tell someone: “Get out of here!” - they, of course, do not imagine that their proposal will be accepted, it is too offensive, this proposal... Usually no one accepts such proposals, that is, they never go anywhere, but on the contrary, they remain in place and try come up with something worse in response than get out of here - and, oddly enough, most often he comes up with it! And then a quarrel arises, and a quarrel is absolutely the last thing.

As for Ball-Wool-Green-Threads, he didn’t like quarrels - and in response to someone’s (I don’t remember whose!) get out of here he really took it and rolled off, as he was asked to do. The witnesses to this scene even opened their mouths in amazement... I mean, of course, only those witnesses who had any mouths. But the Ball of Woolen-Green-Threads didn’t even look in their direction, intending to roll without looking back: he was so offended.

And you, of course, know what happens to any decent ball that is so offended and that intends to roll without looking back? Alas, he's gone crazy. That is, it even ceases to be a ball - although at first it is not very noticeable, but then it becomes very noticeable, and after a while it is very, very noticeable. When the ball ceases to be a ball, it, excuse me, dies. Moreover, it dies without return - turning simply into such a long thread of the corresponding color. And it’s impossible to look at all this without tears. If, of course, there is someone to watch. In our case, there was someone to look at.

- Hey-hey-hey, be careful, you're dying! - a random passer-by shouted after the rolling Ball of Woolen-Green-Threads and even ran after him to immediately stop this terrible death, but where is it! The Ball-of-Wool-Green-Threads rolled so fast that even forty random passers-by could not catch up with it! And then our one random passer-by had to stop and simply wipe a tear from his cheek, because, as we well remember, looking at the death of the balls without tears... and so on.

“Well, let me die!” – the Ball of Woolen-Green-Threads stubbornly thought, gradually turning into such a long thread of the corresponding (green) color. The thread was lost in the green grass - and gradually it became clear that our ball had decided to die forever, because no one could find a green thread in green grass!

- Why is this being done? - some kind of humane Thistle squealed. - He’ll unwind all over, and then remember his name!

“The Ball-of-Wool-Green-Threads, that’s the name!” - the ball thought gloomily, rolling and rolling further along the neatly trimmed grass. Of course, it was no longer quite a ball - it wasn’t even a ball at all, but just... a skein, a shapeless skein, and it became increasingly difficult for it to roll: round - for them, it’s easy for them to roll, but you try to roll when the roundness and there will be no trace left! The grass now seemed terribly tall to the ball, more and more strength had to be spent - even breathing became difficult, that’s how it is...

And the insult began to be forgotten - at first it became impossible to remember who exactly said get out of here, then doubts arose that this was even said... especially since you have to be completely wild to say such a thing! Maybe he just imagined all this in those distant times when he was still a ball?.. He remembered, albeit vaguely, a good company in which everyone was friends, they lived peacefully and cheerfully... True, he forgot the names of his friends - I also forgot what my friends looked like.

The tip of a green woolen thread flashed in the short grass - and with it the last memory of some completely trifle, pleasant and gratifying, flashed and faded away. So life has passed. It's over. Goodbye everything.

However, however, however...

Again the tip of a green woolen thread flashed in the short grass, and the woolen thread itself, at first slowly, and then faster and faster, crawled in the opposite direction. And first of all, I remembered some strange word “scarf”, but what the word “scarf” meant - the tip of a green woolen thread could not know: of course, a scarf is a long concept! And then I remembered two sisters - adult twin sisters, so sophisticated, so refined... And so brilliant - downright dazzlingly brilliant, although they were always at work. What were their names... oh yes, Knitting Needles! And I remembered the Velvet Pillow, cheerfully studded with the younger sisters of two adult twin sisters - the younger sisters were also twins, every one of them, and also brilliant! And each one has such a beautiful name - Needle... As for the Velvet Pillow itself, it is scarlet, tender scarlet!

And also... Well, of course: my best friend is the Satin Piece, who looks like a small flame - where is he? Yes, here he is, here - in our house, in a beautiful wicker basket, standing on the lap of the Snow White Old Lady, who is knitting a scarf - the longest concept in the world!

And the Ball of Woolen-Green-Threads happily plopped right into the very middle of this beautiful wicker basket - well, what a job he has done! For a long time I collected everything that came out of there into a basket: a whole family of laughing, squealing, little things in love with each other! Maybe sometimes, in a fit of love, someone stabbed someone... but that doesn’t happen between your own people!

Postcard with the sea

A Postcard-with-the-Sea was sent to one very small and completely non-seaside town. They sent it by mail - first, without any pity, stuffing it into a narrow slot in the mailbox, and then also tapping it with some kind of crooked thing, which caused a round ink stain with letters and numbers to form on the back of the Postcard-with-the-Sea.

“Be careful, there’s a sea on me!.. I’d like to hit you on the back,” grumbled Postcard-with-the-Sea and flew to where they were sent, thinking along the way about the following things:

“Where I was sent, no one even knows what the sea is... They don’t know and have no idea. And everyone will say: this postcard depicts some kind of blue nonsense! And then they will ask: what is it called, this blue nonsense? They will hear that it’s “the sea”, they will laugh until they laugh, and they will throw me away. Yes-ah... we also found where to send a postcard with the sea!

– Why do you grumble all the time on the fly? – a Random Speck of Dust flying past asked in a beautiful voice.

– And who, excuse me, are you that I should answer your not very polite questions? – Postcard-with-the-Sea immediately put it in its place.

“I am a Random Speck of Dust flying by,” the Random Speck of Dust immediately became embarrassed, “and you, of course, should not answer my not very polite questions, for which I immediately apologize to you...”

“It’s okay, it happens,” Postcard-with-the-Sea softened. “And I grumble on the fly because I was sent to a very small and completely non-seaside town, in which, as I understand, no one will understand me: there, probably, not a single resident has ever seen the sea.

- Who sent you there? – Random Speck of Dust was surprised.

“The man sent,” sighed Postcard-with-the-Sea. – And there is nothing particularly surprising here.

Klyuev Evgeniy Vasilyevich is an original writer with a characteristic, inimitable style, and simply a bright, versatile person.

Let's get to know him better and learn better about his creative biography, personal life and colorful works.

Childhood

Evgeny Klyuev, whose books have been incredibly popular for the second decade, was born in January 1954 in the city of Tver (formerly Kalinin).

We know little about the childhood of the famous writer. He himself says that he was born into a dysfunctional family with a surprising imbalance. Why? Perhaps we will learn this from the author a little later.

From early childhood, the boy was distinguished by a craving for literary activity, composing poems and stories, which even then differed from the classical genre in their characteristic individual style and extraordinary, specific style.

Education

Evgeniy Klyuev received his higher education at the local state university at the Faculty of Russian Language and Literature. Then he entered graduate school at Lomonosov Moscow State University at the Department of Journalism.

Evgeniy Klyuev is an active and energetic person. He loves to travel a lot, visiting universities in different countries and exchanging experiences with foreign colleagues. Thanks to this, he holds a Doctor of Philosophy degree in the specialty “Linguistic Pragmatics”.

Activities

Evgeniy Vasilyevich began publishing quite late, devoted most of his time to science, and quite productively tried himself in various fields of activity - philology, drama, journalism, painting, translation work. Collaborated with many domestic universities and periodicals.

For example, in the early 1990s, he held the position of editor-in-chief at the newspapers First of September and Mission, and also taught journalism at the University of Russian Innovative Education.

Abroad

At the age of forty-two, Evgeniy Klyuev was offered to take part in a three-year linguistic project, for the sake of which the scientist decided to radically change his lifestyle and go to Denmark.

There, the Russian scientist was liked by many colleagues, his works and research were appreciated.

Since then, Evgeniy Klyuev has been regularly residing in Denmark, where he has already received citizenship and a permanent place of work. His position is responsible and interesting, connected not only with scientific activities, but also with socio-political work.

Love to motherland

Despite the fact that the writer found himself abroad, he is very attached to his native country and regularly visits it, trying to make a feasible contribution to the cultural and literary life of Russia.

Twice a year, for several weeks, the Danish master visits the capital of the Russian Federation, where he leads an active lifestyle - he publishes his books in the artistic, scientific and journalistic genres (he writes all his works mainly in Russian), performs his own poetic works in the Bulgakov House, holds meetings with readers (both in large libraries and in large bookstores).

Awards

For his extraordinary talent and skill, Evgeniy Klyuev was awarded several domestic and foreign awards. Among them, it is necessary to mention the “Silver Letter” award (for the book for children “Fairy Tales Just in Case”), the “Big Book” award (for the novel “Andermanir Pieces”), and the “Russian Prize” award (for the book of poetry “ Music on the Titanic."

Creation

By profession, Evgeniy Vasilyevich is a linguist who knows everything about letters and symbols, words and sentences. Despite his seemingly monotonous activities, he did not lose his sparkling, ardent interest in writing. He still writes brightly and extravagantly, creating extraordinary, memorable images and inventing unforgettable twisted plots.

In his books, Klyuev seems to be playing with the readers and characters, and he does it softly and unobtrusively, in a light, humorous manner, making them worry and worry.

In his works written in the genre of tales or fairy tales, Evgeniy Vasilyevich raises serious, detailed topics and questions devoted to logic, philosophy and linguistics. And again, this is done in a simple, free manner, with soft irony or a sparkling joke.

However, there is something that a Ph.D. cannot touch with a joyful smile on his lips. This is his own poetry.

The poems of Evgeny Klyuev are filled with quiet sadness and all-consuming melancholy, even bitterness, which shines through in every line, in every rhyme, in every word.

In his poems, the poet raises complex life issues, issues of inequality and poverty, hard work and complex human relationships.

Books for children

In his work, Evgeniy Vasilyevich Klyuev assigns an important, priority place to works for children. For the writer, children are the same adults, with the same problems and emotions, only they perceive everything in their own way, somehow differently.

That’s why Klyuev’s fairy tales are special, understandable only to young readers, exciting and instructive.

This, of course, is the story of a Ball of green woolen threads, which rolled when it was insultingly offered to him, and about a Soap Bubble, and about a serious conversation between two Shoelaces, and about many other things that will teach a child to look at everyday objects from a different perspective, unusual side.

Evgeny Klyuev, whose fairy tales encourage you to laugh and cry, win and make mistakes, dream and plan, will reveal important philosophical truths to both adults and children and show that the happiest and most precious time is childhood.

Works for adults

Klyuev’s works for adult audiences are also colorful and unusual in their plot and the themes raised.

For example, his extraordinary, intriguing and bewitching “Book of Shadows”. From the very first pages, it encourages the reader to sympathize and worry about the main character, as well as imagine themselves in the place of interesting characters.

They say that in its mystery and unpredictability the novel is very similar to Bulgakov’s “The Master and Margarita.” Be that as it may, Evgeny Klyuev, whose “Book of Shadows” still gives rise to many controversial disputes and rumors, did not seek to mystify his reader. With his novel, he simply invited him to go beyond conventions and look at the world from a different perspective.

Klyuev’s other book, “Between Two Chairs,” is also interesting and entertaining, in which the author puts his reader in a logical dead end and forces him to reject templates and established concepts.

And only then will all the simplicity and simplicity of objects be revealed to him, only then will he be able to comprehend something new and interesting.

Influence

Among Klyuev’s philosophical and artistic creations, you can find a lot of useful and fascinating things for yourself, expand your horizons, learn to think outside the box, and look at familiar things in a different way.

So we reject stereotypes and plunge into the literary world, the world of sensations and theories of Evgeniy Klyuev.

1.
Today I finished reading (with deep regret that the fairy tales are over!) the third book by Evgeniy Vasilyevich from the “One Hundred and One Fairy Tales” series. It's called "From Laces to Heart" and was published last year in Moscow by the Vremya publishing house. It is 176 pp. and circulation 3000 copies. This, of course, is very little for such a wonderful book (and series).
We need to donate them to the library as soon as possible so that children and their parents can read and enjoy themselves more quickly.

First I will rewrite (for memory) CONTENTS

7 A serious agreement between two laces
12 Chicken for soup
17 Dandelion on the roof
22 Crooked Short Street
27 Dreams come true
32 Cucumber from the Moscow region
37 Light Bulb's Point of View
42 Japanese character
46 Ball at the landfill
52 The Giraffe Who Had a Million
57 Spyglass
63 Night Window without curtains
68 Business Letter
74 Bickford Cord, which thought
80 Marzipan pig
86 Small pond
91 Saucer with a golden border
95 When all the flowers bloomed
99 Key in a bunch of keys
104 Tallest Oak
108 Small Smoke without any form
113 Wagon and Small Trolley
119 White Sea, Black Sea, Red Sea
124 Conductor's Baton
130 Garden Shears
134 Brilliant Idea
139 bag of laughter
144 Two raindrops on one Burdock leaf
149 Dreams of Balcony
154 As Mr. Mixer used to say
159 Lightest Bye
163 Heart cut out of cardboard
169 Afterword

And now about the author.
He lives in Denmark. The manuscript of the future book was brought to Natalya Vasilyeva, the future (i.e. today's) editor, by the author's friend Viktor Vasilyevich Filatov, a restoration artist, in 1999, and the book was published in Russian only in 2004 (first published in English). This is the first volume/book of fairy tales.
Klyuev about writing the first fairy tale - in the magazine "Literary Studies", book. 4, 2004
He is a linguist by training and that is why he plays with words so wonderfully! And also, of course, because he is a poet. How I want to read his poems!!! And I’d also really like to find Klyuev’s article in Public in the magazine “Russian Language Abroad”, No. 4, 2008. And his other articles!

I would also like to give away all his fairy tales - all three books in this series! - to my favorite poet BZ for his birthday... Virtually, of course! After all, I took these books from the library. And it’s not so important for a gift whether it is material or virtual, in my opinion. Especially when you give a gift to the Poet. :-)

2.
Klyuev E.V.
From the ball to the festive march. M.: Vremya, 2013. - 160 pp., illus. - (Series “One Hundred and One Fairy Tales”).

The ball that rolled (7
Postcard with the sea (11
Dragon from a Chinese robe (17
Pie with nothing (21
Kitchen faucet (25
Iron like iron (29
Flying House (33
The story of one drawing (38
The Maybug who invented the smile (42
Nightingale without hearing (46
Written notebook (50
Small gust of wind (54
Chamber pot with sad cornflower on the side (58
The Shoe Who Wrote Poems (62
Sandwich Law (67
Precious minute (72
All such airy blouse (76
Conversations on the Christmas tree (80
The most important thing (84
Stone Lion (88
Completely different apples (92
Turkish carpet (96
Old bumblebee's birthday (100
Dog leash (105
Dancing in the golden beam (110
Letters on the asphalt (114
Aquarium (118
Coffee grinder (122
The very first autumn in the world (126
Card that fell from the wall (130
About one of the two gloves (135
Spring Awakening (140
Wrong scales (144
Little darling (148
Festive March (151

In total, the second book contains 35 fairy tales. One is better than the other. At least I dreamed of one!

And in the third part I will write about my favorite fairy tale by Evgeniy Klyuev - for adults! Or for older teenagers... Although middle-aged schoolchildren can, of course, read it not without pleasure. But in order to understand all the richness of shades and to be carried away in a whirlwind of a waltz by the wind of associations... You need some experience and erudition.

3.
Klyuev E.V. Between two chairs. - M.: Pedagogy, 1989. - 160 pp.: ill. - (Know yourself: Psychology for schoolchildren).

About this book. . . 3 (M.V. Panov, Doctor of Philology)
Lyrical
performance. . . . . 9
Chapter 1. Pie with a mine. . . . . . .14
2. Secret old man. . . . 22
3. Sleep with obstacles. . . . thirty
Lyrical
offensive . . . . .40
4. Yes, and no, and whatever. . . 44
5. A dizzy person. . . . .55
6. A hundred times mortal. . . . . . . . . . 61
7. Sacred horror for an insignificant reason. . 71
Lyrical
crime. . . . . 82
8. Lotto on the fly. . . 85
9. Beyond understanding. . . 97
10. Sweet art, treacherous art. . . 109
Lyrical
frenzy. . . . . . 118
11. Before and after the log. . . .121
12. Mania of duplicity. . . . . 136
13. The kiss everyone was waiting for. . . 147
Lyrical
retreat. . . . . . . 156

Past life, imperfect and aorist, -
think about what's going on!..
I carried my Tale into the distance like a train, -
And the Tale, like a train, left.
Green Lantern of Distant Freedom
it's already burning out - and here it is
Saturday's red lantern lit up
and previous household chores:
clear the table, make yourself some coffee
and look out the window for a long time
to the yard in the pigeons, on the swing alone,
on a cloud in the shape of an elephant...
And suddenly move away from the window - worrying,
like from this very day
a vague conscience called Tale
she will live alone, without me.

What an extraordinary, rare stroke of luck - I bought this little book! The author immediately became my friend (virtual, of course). And when, more than 20 years later, I was lucky again... I bought this fairy tale for adults (children) - and it was the favorite book of my personal library. And when I, happy, went to visit my beloved Poet, I, of course, took it as a gift.

(to be continued perhaps)