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He finished speaking and the music began. Anna Murray, Kingfisher. Kate understood that it was deadly, the song was specially written to dissuade people from getting up and going to work. It was a lulling, drawn-out song.

“The Word Alive and the Dead” is a generalization of the many years of creativity of both Nora Gal herself and her wonderful colleagues. At the same time, this work goes far beyond the actual translation problems. Analyzing typical mistakes that penetrate into prose and journalism, on radio and television, and opposing them with brilliant examples of live Russian speech, she makes an invaluable contribution to the now so urgent struggle for the purity and dignity of the Russian language.

In the States, everything was not the same as in Europe, where the missing third dimension was replaced by the struggle against bureaucracy, against the authorities and gendarmes, the struggle for temporary visas, for work, the struggle against customs officers and police - in short, the struggle to survive! And here we were met by silence, dead calm! Only screaming newspaper headlines and radio bulletins reminded of the war raging far overseas; America knew only war on the air: not a single enemy plane plowed the American skies, not a single bomb fell on American soil, not a single machine gun fired at American cities.

The songs on the radio took on new meaning for him if he heard them when he went to her on a date. He wanted to listen to them with her, but they rarely came in the same car, and as the week passed that spring that spring, the songs, like May beetles, died in flight.

God and radio are with us again.

There is an outstanding book "Near the Monastery Walls" by Sergei Volkov, one of the last graduates of the old Moscow Theological Academy. In my opinion, one of the best works about the Church and the Trinity-Sergius Lavra of the period of the revolution. Volkov knew Saint Tikhon, Hieromartyr Hilarion Troitsky, listened to Florensky's lectures, saw the closure of the Lavra in the 1920s and its opening after the war, taught, and became beggar. He died in the 1960s without having a family and spent his entire life working on diaries and memories, most of which have disappeared. But even what has been preserved and published in the form of the above book amazes with the volume of knowledge and amazing language, poetic, soft and deep, which marked the era of modernity.
But not only that is attractive. He was replaced by family, household amenities, friends, social circle of the book. He was a man who read all his life voraciously, who in the most bleak years obtained, bit by bit, rare, often forbidden books, analyzed them, got used to them, communicated with them as with living people. Reading, organizing what he read, analyzing texts and ideas became for Volkov the main and main business of life.
The records contain several thousand (!) Books, brochures and articles from the 18th to the middle of the 20th century. Volkov recalled how he returned to books during the difficult war years. “I again plunged into the world of knowledge and truly aesthetic pleasure. And again, as once upon a time in the academic years, I was carried away by all this. Antique World, Middle Ages and Renaissance; Goethe, Shakespeare, Dostoevsky and Balzac; Persian, Japanese and Chinese poets; the history of China and Egypt, philosophical and archaeological journals, memoirs, works, travel - everything came to life for me again. I read new and re-read old books ... Books are material clots of the world mind and world soul - you were true teachers and companions in life. The Academy and Florensky, symbolists, mystics, dreamers, visionaries, poets, musicians - you are the joy and color of the world, teachers, mentors, friends, loved ones and relatives! All the people who came into close contact with me, who influenced me with their kindness, sympathy, affection, wisdom, all teachers, friends, acquaintances, students, comrades - I see, I remember and are grateful to you ”- he enthusiastically described his attitude to books. “How would I like to know,” he wrote, “what people like Romain Rolland, Maurice Maeterlinck, Knut Hamsun, Bernard Shaw, Herbert Wales, Aldington, Feuchtwanger think and say now? What books did they publish, what did they say about this war and about the people and life of our days in general? And I - a contemporary of these talented and deeply respected people dear to my mind and heart - do not hear their voices and their heartbeats "on such days." It is insulting and bitter. And you hear different chatter from all sides, and on the radio, and through newspapers and magazines ... "
Among those records that I had to see, there are whole sections - poetry (Knyazhnin, Soloviev, Agnivtsev, Merezhskovsky, Severyanin, Gumilyov, Pasternak, Teffi and dozens of other names), art history, prose (hundreds of titles - from Olesha, Ilf and Petrov, Bely, Antokolsky, Veresaev to Morua, Gashek, Locke), ancient history, medieval history, modern history, bibliography and, finally, philosophy - Russian and Western, which he knew brilliantly. He made careful extracts from various books about those he knew - first of all, about Florensky, whom he idolized. This is not counting the most varied periodicals and occasional brochures and articles. Separately, a list of "books that I would like to have" was compiled. Among them are Mandelstam, Muratov, Marienhof, Rolland, Nietzsche, Spengler ...
To "feel" that distant, tragic, densely saturated and wonderful time, you need to read not so many authors. Among them, no doubt, Sergei Volkov.

humanity. But there is also a radio, but there is still no happiness. It's the same with the internet. Once upon a time I dreamed that it would serve to bring people closer together. And it seems that dreams have come true, only somehow clumsily. How much anger, how many fraudsters have rushed here!

In the morning on the radio hasty, but meaningful perdezh.

Mothers have tears on the floor - waterfalls.

The authorities, with the help of radio, television, and newspapers, spread among millions of swaggering vile songs - so that the population does not know either Akhmatova, or Blok, or Mandelstam ...

Dmitry Kulikov. Foreword.

In all likelihood, the American is a good patriot. And if you ask him, he will sincerely say that he loves his country, but at the same time it turns out that he does not love Morgan, does not know and does not want to know the names of the people who designed the suspension bridges in San Francisco, is not interested in why in America with every year the drought intensifies, who built the Boulder Dame and why, why the Southern states lynch blacks and why he should eat chilled meat. He will say that he loves his country. But he is deeply indifferent to the issues of agriculture, since he is not a farmer, industry, since he is not an industrialist, finance, since he is not a financier, arts, since he is not an artist, and military issues, since he is not a military man. He's a hard worker, gets his thirty dollars a week and doesn't give a damn about Washington with its laws, Chicago with its gangsters, and New York with its Wall Street. From his country, he asks only one thing - to leave him alone and not interfere with his listening to the radio and going to the cinema.

Someone is singing downstairs. That is, he does not even sing, but shouts out the words of the song. All these people who need their TV to shout constantly. Or a radio or a turntable. All these people who are frightened by the silence. These are my neighbors. Sound-goliks. Silence is a phobia.

You turned off the radio, and people listen to your boast and think - to what crushed Aleshka Zhurbin!