Brilliant: a poem by A. Pushkin about how to live so as not to regret in old age

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No matter how much I pick up Pushkin’s works, I cannot believe that all that came out of his pen is a good humanitarian upbringing and the love of a nanny. There was no higher power.

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A 90-year-old man can probably think that deeply, draw full-fledged conclusions about life. And Pushkin lived only 37.

Surprisingly, our Russian poets and prose writers are far from being role models. On the contrary, they are sometimes gamblers, sometimes night owls, sometimes despots. Pretentious, risky, people prone to manic-depressive psychosis.

But you read their creations – and as if the soul is illuminated with light. Deleted. Grows. As if eternity were speaking to you. In her poems and novels one gets the answer to the question what to strive for, what to hope for.

On the other hand, everything is logical. Only the one who ruined his life, who was not afraid of desperate decisions and actions, only he knows how to live.

The poets whose names we have remembered for centuries did not create because these rhymes were the fashion of high society, but because their souls demanded it. Hence – penetrating honesty, frankness, like contact with a bare electric wire – from heart to heart.

Poets wrote when they were forbidden to. In exile. arrested. At night. This is so different from our current generation, who will not lift a finger without the promised ruble.

“If they offered me a good fee, I would write a book,” says my friend. On the one hand, I’m happy for him. Writing 300-400 pages of a coherent story – not everyone can do that. But I’m sure this book doesn’t need to be written, because it’s awesome when an unknown voice dictates words in your ear in a certain order and you sit down and write. And you simply cannot exist otherwise.

Talent boils within and needs to be unleashed. But you don’t have to do that for money. Without them, there’s a lot of book junk, right?

What is the most important thing in life

I think you already know without me that our ideas about life have changed dramatically and have irrevocably shaken the old ideals.

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I was “addicted” to the poet’s lines Julia Drunina:

Let me swear to myself often

Standing above worries, stronger than worries.

A hundred times I’ve taken a vow of dispassion

A hundred times my heart answered me: “Oh no!

I don’t know how, I don’t want to

I’ll pay for everything with fair coin…”

how do we live We protect ourselves from emotional excesses by seeing them as something unacceptable. We treat stress with shopping and resorts, fill it with strong drinks. We try to patch holes with money, we plug our problems with it. We distance ourselves from people so that they do not violate our harmony. But is it harmony?

We are afraid to give more than we get. We are afraid that resentment will leave a mark on our soul and we go first. We don’t speak words of love lest we be seen as weak and dependent. We protect our hearts from hurt and attachments.

We run away from work half an hour before the call so as not to feel like slaves to the authorities. We feel most comfortable when we succeed in transferring our responsibility to others.

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And life, real life, only happens beyond those boundaries. Where is real weariness, where is spiritual generosity, where are sincere tears – both joyful and burning.

Comfortable, clean, red carpet with a minimum of emotions – there is nothing but a cocoon. A dark, dry pod of stale air, not penetrated by a single ray of light. And so – for years. And when we realize that life has passed us, it will not give us its treasures. Prepare them for others.

Alexander Pushkin was sure: A decent, successful life is not when the doorbell is ringing in your pocket, your nerves are intact and your stomach is full, but when your soul is vibrating. If you cannot experience a whole range of emotions, then it only seems to you that you are alive. Knowing the joy of life is only possible in a series of fears and bad weather from which we so fiercely protect ourselves:

elegy

Crazy years faded fun

It’s hard on me, like a vague hangover.

But like wine – the sadness of days gone by

In my soul, the older the stronger.

My way is sad. Promises me work and suffering

The coming turbulent sea.

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But I don’t want to die, oh friends;

I want to live to think and to suffer;

And I know I’ll enjoy it

Between grief, worry and fear:

Sometimes I get drunk with Harmony again

I’ll shed tears over fiction

And maybe – at my sad sunset

Love will shine with a goodbye smile.

Source: tayni-mirozdaniya.ru

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