In collaboration with red wine

Society

We know that many writers have created not only the desk, but also in various other places. Perhaps enough of these and other Belarusian writers. And, if I may ask, where you write and write? Is there a role any special rules (quality paper, clothing, time of day, lighting, drinking)?

Ales Queens


WithJustify native desk has never been the sole workplace the writer. As we remember from the "holiday that is always with you," Gemingvey loved writing in a Parisian cafe. Meterlink long lived in the Abbey of Saint-Vandryl, and when he created "Life of Bees", set himself saucer with honey to attract his heroines. Jean Jacques Rousseau, it seems, has worked at home, but by rewriting the "New Heloise", used the gilded paper, ink prysypayuchy lazurkavym and silver powders yes sshyvayuchy sheets blue ribbons.

In the 20-50-ies of the last century, many writers on the one-sixth of the world very often worked not in the most comfortable surroundings, and the paper had a little bit worse than Russo. In the house of creativity in writing PITSUNDA Russian novelist Leo Acceleration told me that in times of restructuring met with his French translator camp stories. For the introduction of the interested parts, for example, is what he wrote on his counterpart in the gulag. "Yes to what fell out," — said the former prisoner. "Oh my God! — Frenchman grabbed his head. — I got it! You wrote on the toilet paper! "

Our Peter Bitel, translating into captivity "Pan Tadeusz", also used the "toilet paper", in particular, its varieties such as flakes of cement bags.

Russian writers were sitting then, as is well known, and in the Polish prison. Conditions of Use there wasand not paradise, but obviously more comfortable for a meeting with the Muses than in Stalin's "boarding". Otherwise Philip Pestrak would not ask after his release in 1939, the new Soviet authorities to let him run — until the end of acclimatization period — the former camera.

On the authority of Vladimir Karatkevich askance, but, thank God, in prisons and labor camps, he was not sitting. "The Wild Hunt" was created in Orsha in the attic of his parents' house in sheds. "The rapidly despair" and more — in a huge bright room erected by his grandfather Vasily home in Rogachev (strong preserved century-old building waiting for memorialization).

Author of the novel "Do not cry, my dear," which was read once, "maystrovtsy" and genius vytinanki Vyacheslav baton came to Minsk post office and sat for hours with paper and pen, without attracting the attention of times that once took him for a spy.

Perhaps someone will inevitably accuse me of nyastsiplastsi th desire to cuddle prominent and famous people, but the question was asked — it is necessary to say something about myself.

Not much I can not boast. Can only write at home, in a room whose window overlooks the gun near the National Museum of History, and more — in the last of my parents' apartment in Novopolotsk, where he currently lives sister Tatiana. Summer residence on Bald Mountain (as, indeed, and elsewhere), which creates and creates a significant part of the domestic word wizards, never had.

There are no bells and whistles to tell you I can not. Until recently, he wrote the first version exclusively by hand, trying at once on a computer. Paper be white and thick enough so you do not prasvechvali line on the bottom of the page, that somehow makes the soul a certain disharmony. The best results — when you write in the first half of the day. The best thing about the light — the sun. Attempts to simulate the creative process of the night ended with a deep sound sleep to bury his nose in the paper.

Earlier, some of the texts written in the "co-authored" with good wine. So a quarter of a century ago, was written by "the plague." Then I spent a month living in the Transcarpathian Hungarian village, where do without wine would be considered just mavetonam. I still do not refuse reds, but have long come to the conclusion that the desk to call for help and unworthy of alcohol is dangerous. You can have me for maralizatara, but at the bottom of a glass of really creative hiding helplessness and tragedy. The most eloquent and terrible example known, apparently, to everyone who is interested in our beautiful writing. Now I drink drafts over a very strong Kenyan tea, which is to bring a friend from an African shop in London. Apply it carefully with milk, or a week can be acquired ulcer.

They say Vladimir Karatkevich, sitting down at the table, dressed as a holiday, and wrote as an A-student, almost nothing is correcting and zakreslivayuchy. In leisure time drinking coffee, which is prepared on some top-secret recipe, and loved to watch cartoons.

Coffee I, wild man, almost never drink, cartoons, I do not really like it. Infinitely kreslyachy and correcting myself, I gave birth to a story about Karatkevich for a children's book, "Where our family," the very heat of summer, when the window was about forty degrees. Referring to the text, as the meter put on before work neatly pressed white shirt, I got up from the table and walked over to the mirror. From there looking at me someone sweating in some green shorts.

I am ashamed to think that this would Karatkevich and decided to wear something else. Suddenly, from somewhere — from the cover of "ear" or because of the black sash of his "Iliad," the best book in his mind master — said he has not forgotten his voice. "Let our children upholster pears bones of our enemies" — supposedly not the topic he said. And I saw it as a sanction to write the way I like it.


All texts are a series of "flying BOOM BYE"

Tags:

Literature, History

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