Author of quotes: Yuri Markeev

The path to my treasure lay through a long, narrow corridor to the kitchen. At the kitchen table in a sliding cell with forks and knives, I came up with a storage space of a chest of Golden doubloons - matchbox, stuffed with a lot of money. On Sunday mornings, when everyone was asleep, I pulled out my treasure, fingering the coins, counted and Polish the tarnished doubloons a piece of felt, kept them back, and, satisfied, returned to the room. In those moments I was wise alchemist, penetrated all the secrets of the transmutations of matter. The philosopher's stone was in my "secret". He looks like a piece of red amber. In fact, there were frozen tears of the sisters of Phaeton, crashed in a fiery chariot of the Sun God. It happened a million years ago, but I was able to see through time... Now, a tiny piece of frozen tears was my talisman and philosopher's stone, from which I removed the mystery and admired them. The red tincture, the Grand elixir. It was all happening the most skilled tales. Black alchemy adults was a lion and tried to swallow the sun. Leo choked on them, and in the case of transformation of matter took little wizards, mysterious alchemists. Sometimes I would get a piece of amber from "the secret", approached the window, gazed through it at the sun, and thousands of fiery arrows aroused my fantasy. Thoughts - glad the sun beings - began to dance in the dance fun. I saw them, knew every, sometimes joined in the dance, in order to subsequently slip are washed by magic. The eternal elixir of the imagination, the mystery of the Golden threads that weave the tale.
And when I touched the red amber to Golden fur my Elza, was a clear miracle: the stone was full of inner light, becomes hot as a piece of the sun. Began to glow in the darkness, and the magic Princess, wandering in different realities, have changed. From fur her were sparks. She bent over mysteriously, and before me... before my mind's eye floated a vision: thin, airy, green-eyed girl with luxurious curls the color yellow red amber smiles at me through space and time. Two mysteries, two magical elements in contact and gave birth to a miracle. I kept this miracle from everyone, afraid to cause him the ruin of other people's opinions and ridicule. Only the adult world with impenetrable darkness and fear of freedom could laugh at the miracle. The child is bathed in it as in bliss. Purified tale, in which there was light. And is it possible to uncover this light before the deniers of light and wonder? Is it possible to test the darkness of the very tenderness, which could not exist in the atmosphere of the basement darkness, suffocated and died in the darkness, if not escaped to the light source? The adult world of the tales were severe.
(Gold Elsa childhood of the magician)

In front Kurochkin nurses tied up woozy after a deathly story of the Cuban who ran around the office shouting: "Revolt! Long live the world revolution! Coffins and guillotine is our symbol!". Cuban was dressed up in a straitjacket, and aunt Glasha gave him a double portion of the magnesia in each buttock, so that it is a metaphorical expression of "life is cracking in the area W..." took quite perceptible scathing look. But then the self-proclaimed brother of Fidel, passionate soul, writhing on the floor in pain, he continued to shout revolutionary slogans interspersed with delirium. "Hurrah! - he yelled. In blitzkrieg only play the Germans! Cuban will show your bourgeois face cat eye of the dictatorship of the proletariat. I learned Russian only for the fact that Lenin spoke. All hanged on lampposts in nature..."
Soon, the Cuban was quiet. Realizing, obviously, your "cracked" position, he is unlikely to show someone the cat eyes of the dictatorship of the proletariat, a Cuban clenched his teeth and curled up, silent.
One of the patients, a former teacher of rastamanskie Bodrato, insane, like Kurochkin, on religious grounds alcoholic, took a moment to quietly to the nurses to approach Ivan Mefodevich and whisper to him that from the street through a bathroom window it causes some bearded friend Smokes. Kurochkin bullet slipped into the toilet, with little concern about what this intimate restaurant in the mental hospitals seen from the office through a special hinged window. Clutching at the bars, Ivan looked down into the courtyard, and saw the excited alcohol Dimka Dimova, a heart friend who shook before him an open bottle of port.
- Salutations, soul Kurochkin! - thundered the red-bearded giant, in a welcoming gesture throwing up your hand with port. - Drink to your health, my friend! How long are you going to hang around in these stinking land? Beast your Ideas! Gives you to visit. Rubbish! Bureaucracy! X-rays fucking! Soul does not see, son of a dog! Bureaucrats took possession of the souls of brilliant artists. Vanya! - even louder shouted Dymov. - Do you know what is happening on the streets of our blessed town? Rebellion, revolution, disobedience holiday! And tops it all some kind of mad monk. Has led just a bunch of fanatics to the Uspensky temple and demands of the Church authorities. Says that did the world end in Rastyapino.
Smokes took a swig from the bottle and mad, laughed.
- And, indeed, long live doomsday! Want anarchy! Tired of mocking the power of money and the bureaucrats! Break the grate, friend, jump! I'll catch you, and we incurred General in a whirlwind of madness.
(from the novel Crack)

Memory is delicate, selective, precious. Sometimes it is lost only partially. Is it bad not to remember that poison the soul? Even in the morning usually resort to prayer with the petition, "deliver us from evil memories." Fierce memories is the voice of unrepentant sin, trumpet belated conscience, an unpleasant spirit of the decaying underground soul bad thing to do. Need to repent immediately. Broom to clean the garbage. But there are times in life when, for various reasons, too lazy to clean up his room. And over the years accumulated dust. First, you don't notice it then vanishes allergic to dirt, then the dirt will have to be reconciled pompously calling it "metaphysical dust of existence." Oh gods, gods! Mind is sometimes so deftly copes with temptation, yielding to it with a justifying verdict. The main thing - nice call. If the dirt is dust metaphysical existence, then it can become a decoration, Museum piece.
Laziness is a powerful thing. And metaphysical dust, which, actually, is a normal mud, will soon make themselves felt sickening attacks of causeless depression. However, you should carefully look into yourself in silence and solitude, under the sober melodies of heaven, as it becomes apparent that Paradise of the soul goes not by chance. Paradise is etched with bitter memories and come quietly as a thief, doing their predatory thing and leave the fence loopholes for future thieves fishing. How important time is to notice and put the guard house watchdog.
(The game of confession)

Yes, thanks to this miraculous salvation in the basement, I re-learned magic. I continued to listen to her mother's bedtime stories, but have ordered the dreams of himself living in them a different reality. And when the tale broke out of the dream into my day, I already knew how much. For example, collecting the Golden pollen from the autumn maple leaf and melted it into gold. All the new coins I was diligently polishing paste GOI and admired the glow of imagination, transforming an ordinary penny pennies into gold doubloons, folded into the pirate chest. A thousand devils and a barrel of rum! I had fun when the box was empty boxes from the matches, - was filled with coins. Oh, what joy! Comes new tales, is painted in Golden-red tones. Autumn was at any time of the year because all the gold was Fiat wealth inside of me. And this wealth no one could take away - just as it is impossible to take away a child's dream or an adult the desire to be happy. At any age you can be a wizard. Adult to do this, at least for a time, become the child, and the child - not to let themselves "adults" fears. Adults often fear of liberation from the anxieties generated by life's bustle. These concerns constrain the infinite soul, put her in a cage, even of pure gold, made to suffer, but the soul gradually becomes accustomed to the captivity, like a bird to its cage. Get used to the cage and the soul. And when it turned loose, she's afraid to make the first move. The freedom she feels like a cage and a prison pulpit freedom. Adult harder to become a magician. It is almost impossible. Only a purified heart can be this gift.

When you enter the basement with daylight, then in the first moment feel as if sinking into a black pit. Do not see any dig. Walk a few steps to touch the wall, and the wall of cold brick, with ancient potholes and chipped and scratched, covered with some mucus. And, it seems that not down in the basement, and into the hell in which they live, devils and ghosts. There is no fear, but scared shitless, because you don't know what awaits you ahead. Warms only the understanding that you have one match, which can ignite at the most critical moment. And the magic that won't leave you in difficult moments.
Two or three minutes the eyes adjust to the darkness, and becomes not so scary. Sometimes once you see the visible outline of the passage. This is probably some kind of self-deception, suggestion, and can be really strong nervous tension that is included the most coveted cat's eye - is difficult to explain. Great desire to see something. And when a great desire, helps magic. It is possible and the time to become basement cat, not only a noble rogue or a wise alchemist. You can melt the fear in magic, to make it work for yourself.

The city where I was born, carried the spirit of magic. Grotesque characters could exist only in the mood of my town with lots of soaring Gothic spires of the old Church, a neat cobbled streets and squares, where the night was going and weeping ghosts of witches, heretics, scientists, alchemists of all stripes, who during the Inquisition were burnt "to the greater glory of God." Their weeping was turned to the past, and was hovering over today's city Baltic howling monsoon winds. The past was heard in the night noises, which can recognize only children. Sometimes the old Church, built not on a Foundation of stone, and only hot fervent faith, flew up to the heavens, which were fixed and then the city could be heard the groans of the sinners who are not embraced landless Sky.
Old black river P. twice a year was "swollen" and poisoned by the miasma citizens. Who was wiser, he knew that Christmas and Easter from the bottom trying to get up decayed bodies are left there once the villains and robbers, and come out ahead of time on the Court Fear. And witches who were not checked by the fire of fires, and throwing them into the water. If the young red-haired beauty with green eyes, which conveyed a fat Burger, a neighbor, did not sink, so she was declared a witch and she was burned at the stake. If drowned, then the Church has recognized a mistake and prayed for the soul of the righteous, innocent victim for the sake of Christ and received a crown of the Martyr. Burger-the informer was not recognized, because in the inquisitorial box for letters - the "mouth of truth" - were allowed to leave anonymous. Not recognized there were still reasons for which it was told: young, proud beauty denied him the pleasures of love - she, a woman with obvious signs of witches; too independent, too beautiful, with Golden hair the color of carrots and eyes like sparkling malachite. The city was old for new stories, however, have nourished fantasies of children to magical new stories.

For someone idleness is the mother of all vices, the ending is brutal slavery and death. For someone idleness is a challenge. It was not the worst punishment for Russian peasant 18-19 century like to watch "idly tied to the chair" working friends. Say sophisticated penalty that came up with the Industrialists, the Germans in Russia. The Germans are generally good psychologists when it comes to stimulation of labor. But the trouble is to put German psychology on Russian soil. Through the asphalt of the city strikes the mutant rebellion. Not be good for anyone.
I'm in a spiritual small, because adhere to drawing from his own life experience. For me sloth is the reason for the discipline and internal discipline. Idleness, as a kind of freedom requires tremendous effort, because this freedom is easier to give to someone - to throw to the feet of the authority to free themselves from the burden of responsibility. Not everyone is able to carry freedom. Most people prefer the freedom to sell for a mess of pottage, as Esau sold his birthright to Jacob. Idleness will master not everyone. By nature most of us are slaves of Convention. Understand yourself, identify your own personality are the characteristics of the original freedom. But the original freedom is a heavy load. Believe in the word. Easier for a mess of pottage...

The rains have gone... In the morning fog spreading like a huge feathery cloud. Not see the house across the street, the Windows shrouded in steam, the trees like cotton. All around - soft, plush, weightless. I love these in the morning. The calm, the silence, the feeling of a fairy tale. Today, Socrates woke up at five in the morning, something was trying to say, then curled up and fell asleep.
I think he was trying to whisper about how nice to be idle and quiet. I know it is. Without prompting homegrown philosophers. Idleness has taught. Work, including. Paradox? Not at all. Try to spend alone and idle at least twenty-one days. The duration of the quarantine. If you don't decide by the end of the second week to commit suicide from the opened abyss, then begin a new existence. Nothing feels human freedom. It is one thing to obey conventions, to compel myself to work, as a duty, another thing to realize the desire of his heart. But first - a painful return to his real "I". All the breaking of the three-pillar human beings. Flour weakened by the twenty-first day. Why? Say that updated blood composition. And where there is blood there is the spirit. The test is not easy. Sometimes, at night will be without the usual worldly pleasures, and then frantically found the button, which wants to escape from himself, his self. Noise comfortable because it allows you to listen to the silence. There will come from the heavenly bells? Well, as something terrible? Run from yourself, do not want to stop and take a break. I'm afraid to be alone with freedom.
From birth we fall into the slavery conventions. And then can't stand freedom.
(Psychologist and a psychopath)

I also have a cat. Not easy. Philosophical, psychological, existential. His name is Socrates. He had red hair, old and fat.
He constantly needs to assert and define their existence. He needs a cut from the everyday space of meanings. And he cuts through them where possible and where not. Often the latter. The back of the sofa riddled with meaning, the litter box, too, a carpet with tufts of red wool, "cemetery" chicken bones under the kitchen table - all Socratic sense.
Sometimes he deliberately wakes me up at night when I lay hungover, so I got mad, lost his temper and "identified" it is the existence of bashing.
Socrates rises to his paws to my ear, loud screaming, then runs away headlong, hiding under the sofa and squeaks. In a word, existential bastard.
Alas, I must also be approved by the absurd actions to acutely feel some bubble or mosquito unity, and person. Just not one that sounds good. Leave it for curly-haired boys with guitars that call to hit heads against stone walls. Existentialism, his mother! I do know the meaning of your life, but are unable to implement it fully. Can't get rid of habits that are as far from the truth, as a set of psychological properties of the monkey from the man. Isn't that a big gap? Even too big.
However, you need to live. At peace with itself and the constant enmity with the world.
And indicate the existence of a genuine sense in opening the space of truth.
And even if you're a poet, look often at the night stars. If you're not a poet, still get out on the balcony and watch. Maybe ever notice how one of the stars winked at you. And invited into the flight. Here you can open up to the true moments of life. Don't miss a moment.
But if you don't have a balcony, and you're not a poet, and your head rarely turns to the stars, then go and look at his feet - and there you can see reflected in the puddle star. Well, like wink?

I also have a cat. Not easy. Philosophical, psychological, existential. His name is Socrates. He had red hair, old and fat.
He constantly needs to assert and define their existence. He needs a cut from the everyday space of meanings. And he cuts through them where possible and where not. Often the latter. The back of the sofa riddled with meaning, the litter box, too, a carpet with tufts of red wool, "cemetery" chicken bones under the kitchen table - all Socratic sense.
Sometimes he deliberately wakes me up at night when I lay hungover, so I got mad, lost his temper and "identified" it is the existence of bashing.
Socrates rises to his paws to my ear, loud screaming, then runs away headlong, hiding under the sofa and squeaks. In a word, existential bastard.



Explanation of the quote:

From the novel "Psychologist and a psychopath".
Cat Socrates and the owner.

And the monk Varlaam? This is truly the figure of a curious, deep, Russian. Such a man lived in the era of Ivan the terrible. Gains somewhere in the North. He served as a priest in a small temple. His name was at that time Vasily. Mentioned his hot temper, the purity of the faith, fearlessness in spiritual work. Since the ascetic is strong, it means that the devil does not sleep. Fought a young priest to idolatry by local fishermen. The devil could not stand, and left, promising to avenge the ascetic. Compelled it to Basil that his wife committed the sin of adultery. Like Vasily it with my own eyes saw. Decided to "chastise" mother, to do religious rites. And during the ceremony - whether by accident, not by chance you? - priestly thrust a spear that the Holy communion in the altar is prepared, in the heart of his beloved wife. Whether the devil so cleverly played their parts, whether the jealousy in the young priest leaped, but the mother was not to blame.
Buried the body of his wife in the churchyard. He went to the Confessor to the monastery. The Abbot gave him a new name Barlaam and put a strange penance. Ordered to dig up the body, to sit in a boat and drive it along the coast of the Barents and White seas. And to fast, to pray until, until the body of his wife will not rot. Three years Varlaam obediently executed the orders of the Abbot, suffered hunger and cold, and prayed, lamented. The day came, when the monk was forgiven. Sent in such cases special signs. In a narrow water Strait, which is due to marine worms were dying ships and people, Varlaam was able to hold the boat. "Drill ship" retreated from those places, and that was evidence of forgiveness. The miracle was performed.
I do not consider this story a fairy tale. In allegorical form the history of this repentance, which changes the human soul as a matrix.
From the point of view of psychology, much is clear: the person who commits a sin, feels a strong physical impact. The stronger the sin, the deeper the wound. If the wound is not treated by repentance, and be drawn into the nostrils the powder, or pour a wine pain, sin for a time ceases to be felt. But the wound is not tightened, it bleeds. There are deep feelings of sin, strong remorse that causes a person to change substantially. He can not be the same. This is not for everyone.



Explanation of the quote:

Thinking of the nature of repentance.
from the novel "Psychologist and a psychopath".

The psychologist is more the lawyer, not the devil's advocate. To understand does not mean to forgive. To understand is to characterize the hidden movement of thoughts so as not to have any desire to throw a stone.
Try to be in one spirit with those who did not throw a vicious woman stone. He just said quietly: "If there's anyone of you is without sin, throw a stone at her". It was a long time ago - so long ago, when people had a conscience. For a moment they looked into themselves and they became ashamed. They dropped stones on the ground and left. And she left. The woman approached the man and asked:
And you don't judge me?
"No," he said. - Don't judge. Go and sin no more.



Explanation of the quote:

from the novel "Psychologist and a psychopath".
Reflections of a psychologist.

The second half of the night. The stars hanging over the rooftops like ripe apples. Seems to stretch out a hand and pluck one or two. The stars are large and cool. Silent. Not live some. They are not neglecting me.
Can't sleep. And when you can't sleep, I was plagued by thoughts are various. Better they go somewhere else to send. I mean to put together and send in a creative flight. Or a crusade for a certain idea. Psychological idea, because my education is sometimes oppresses me, oppresses like the flesh of monks-hermits. The idea should be implemented, otherwise it will want to get drunk, and then another and another. And we have to live with me. Where are these to find? From removing it? From the dullness of monotonous routine? Do not go out. The square root of zero is zero. The square root of the unit will unit. Require a different coordinate system. Is Not Euclidean. What to extract meaning? Probably from the fact that a better. Say I had a good psychologist - psychology is not yet started cramping. That is, has ceased to have meaning. One doesn't make sense. And I can't live without acute experience of life. If in my life a long time do not come to the senses, I start to rebel noble...



Explanation of the quote:

from the novel "Psychologist and a psychopath".
Philosophical reflections.

And even if you're a poet, look often at the night stars. If you're not a poet, still get out on the balcony and watch. Maybe ever notice how one of the stars winked at you. And invited into the flight. Here you can open up to the true moments of life. Don't miss a moment.
But if you don't have a balcony, and you're not a poet, and your head rarely turns to the stars, then go and look at his feet - and there you can see reflected in the puddle star. Well, like wink?



Explanation of the quote:

From the novel "Psychologist and a psychopath".
Thinking about the stars