Recently, many books about Joseph Brodsky have been published. Some idolize him, others scold him and throw out all the grievances. Here are a few moments from the book "Brodsky Among Us" by Ellendea Proffer Tisley, Brodsky's longtime friend and publisher. And with all the warm feelings for the poet, she says that sometimes he was impossible.

1. On the expulsion of the poet from the USSR

“Later, much later, Joseph will say that he was thrown out, expelled, that he left against his will. In fact, the offer from OVIR came at the moment when Joseph desperately wanted to leave, so he accepted it. Otherwise, a prison awaited him, he did not doubt it and did not want to take risks.

2. About women

• “... When a woman attracted him, he lived in the moment and was ready to say or do everything to seduce her; sometimes, perhaps, he himself believed in what he was saying - although I don’t think so. He was a jealous possessive and at the same time deprived of sobriety. He could leave a woman for six months, and returning, be surprised that she managed to get married during this time. It was portrayed in such a way that he was rejected.
• “Here affected the secular, cynical, ruthless side of his nature. He cheerfully condemned married friends for having affairs on the side - despite the fact that he himself seduced married women. He was romantically nonchalant."

3. About son

“In 1989, an important guest came to Joseph - 22-year-old Andrei Basmanov, a son who last saw his father at the age of five. The meeting didn't go well. Joseph called me and said with annoyance that his son, who plays the guitar, does nothing all day, only watches MTV. He doesn't read. He doesn't know anything, Joseph said angrily. Now that was a crime. The son was supposed to be his copy and his pride.

4. About teaching

“The new profession was a test for him: Joseph never attended regular classes and had no idea how to teach future bachelors ... Some of Joseph's students specialized in other areas, but had not previously been engaged in literature. He considered them stupid, and they were not accustomed to open contempt. Some students complained that Joseph read English poetry to them, but they did not understand a word because of his accent. He was an uneven teacher: in the early years he did not really prepare, relying on the fact that he knew more than students ... But he was an example of what these students rarely met - a poetic genius thinking aloud.

5. About Brodsky's first morning in the USA, at the Proffers' house

“I got up today,” he said with humor and bewilderment, “and I see: Ian is sitting on the kitchen counter. She puts bread in a metal thing. Then the bread pops out on its own. I don't understand anything."

After asking around, I found out that no one had lived in the house for a very long time and that this property was run by a real estate agent named Vicens Clave. His office was located on Komercio street opposite the market. Clave turned out to be a seigneur of the old school and preferred to dress in the style of alcaldes and fathers of the fatherland, whose sculptural images flaunted at the entrances to the Ciutadella park. As soon as his vigilance was relaxed a little, he would launch into arguments, climbing into such a jungle of rhetoric that you could even endure the saints.

So you are a writer. You know, I could tell you so many stories that you would have enough of them for a dozen books.

No doubt. Why not start with the story of Number 30 Flassaders Street?

Clave's face took on a resemblance to a Greek mask.

Tower house?

He is.

Believe me, young man, you will not want to live there.

The house brings misfortune. I was in it when we came with the notary to seal it, and I swear, the old part of the Montjuic cemetery is much more fun. Since then, the house has been empty. This place holds bad memories. Nobody wants to go there.

Those memories can't be worse than mine, and I'm sure they'll help lower the price they're asking for it.

Sometimes there are bills that you can't pay with money.

May I see the house?

For the first time I crossed the threshold of the house with the tower on a March morning in the company of the manager, his secretary and the financial inspector from the bank, who acted as the owner. The mansion appears to have been deeply entangled in legal strife for many years, until it was finally turned over to the bank as a loan debt from the last owner. If Clave did not lie, for twenty years not a single living soul crossed the threshold of this house.

8

Years later, after reading the chronicles of the discovery of the Egyptian pyramids with colorful stories by British scientists about how they delved into the darkness of millennia-old burials with intricate labyrinths and curses, I involuntarily remembered my first visit to the house with a tower on Flussaders Street. The secretary stocked up with an oil lantern in advance, since no one bothered to provide electricity to the house. The inspector brought in a set of fifteen keys to unlock the more than a dozen locks that securely fastened the chains. When the portal was opened, the house smelled like a crypt - decay and dampness. The inspector coughed, and the manager, who maintained an expression of extreme skepticism and disapproval, pressed his handkerchief to his lips.

You are the first, he invited.

The vestibule was a kind of courtyard in the manner of ancient palaces in our area, paved with wide slabs and with a stone front staircase leading to the main entrance to the dwelling. The glass roof, spitting all over with pigeons and gulls, gleamed dully overhead.

There are no rats, - I said, finding myself in the building.

Someone could use a bit of good taste and common sense,” muttered the manager behind me.

We climbed the stairs to the landing of the residential floor, where it took the bank inspector about ten minutes to pick up the key to the lock. The mechanism gave way with a plaintive groan that sounded like a welcome to me. The door opened, revealing an infinitely long corridor, where cobwebs hung in tatters, swaying in the darkness.

My God, the manager whispered.

No one dared to take the first step, so I again had to lead the expedition. The secretary, raising the lantern higher, looked around with a sorrowful look.

The inspector and the manager looked at each other mysteriously. Noticing that I was watching them, the banker smiled serenely.

If you get rid of the dust and renovate a little, it will be a real castle, he said.

Let's not lose optimism, - the inspector rushed to save the situation. - No one lived in the house for some time, and, naturally, in such a situation, something always inevitably falls into disrepair over trifles.

I barely paid attention to them. I dreamed about this house for so long when I passed its gates that I hardly noticed the painful cemetery atmosphere that reigned in it. I walked down the central corridor, peering into the rooms and storerooms. The surviving old furniture rested under a thick cover of dust. There was still a rotten tablecloth on the table, a service and a tray with rotten fruits and flowers. The glasses and cutlery were still in place, as if the inhabitants of the house had not finished their supper.

Wardrobes were full of worn clothes, faded underwear and shoes. The drawers were crammed full of photographs, glasses, pens, and watches, and the beds were made and covered with white sheets that gleamed in the dark. A monumental gramophone was perched on a mahogany nightstand, loaded with a record that stopped when the needle reached the end of the track. I blew off a thin layer of dust, and the name opened up: “Lacrimosa” [The eighth part of the “Requiem”.] V.A. Mozart.

Music in the house, - said the inspector. - What else is there to wish for? You will live here like a pasha.

The steward shot him a murderous look and shook his head almost imperceptibly. We walked all the way down the floor to the gallery at the end, where there was a coffee machine on a table and an open book waiting for someone to turn the page comfortably in an armchair.

It seems that they left the house suddenly, without having time to collect things, - I said.

The inspector coughed.

Would the seigneur want to inspect the office?

The office was at the top of a narrow tower. It was a strange structure, the heart of which was a spiral staircase that started from the main corridor. The façade of the tower bore the traces of as many generations as the city remembered. The tower, like a watchtower, hung over the tiled roofs of the Ribera quarter and was crowned with a small drum of colored glass and metal, which served as a light lantern, on the roof of which a weather vane in the shape of a dragon nestled.

We went up the stairs and found ourselves in a spacious room. The inspector hastily opened all the windows, letting in air and light. The room was a rectangular room with high ceilings and dark wooden floors. Four huge arched windows looking out on four sides overlooked the Basilica of Santa Maria del Mar to the south, the great Born Market to the north, the old French Station to the east, and to the west an endless maze of tangled streets and boulevards stretching towards Mount Tibidabo.

Well, what do you say? Wonderful! exclaimed the inspector enthusiastically.

The manager looked around without delight, not hiding his disapproval. His secretary still held the lantern high above his head, though it was no longer necessary. I approached one of the panoramic windows and plunged into the sky, mesmerized.

All of Barcelona seemed to lie at my feet, and I wanted to believe that when I opened these windows in my new home, the city streets would whisper all sorts of stories to me in the evenings and confide secrets so that I would transfer them to paper and tell those who is willing to listen. Vidal had a luxurious and majestic marble tower in the highest and most fashionable part of Pedralbes, surrounded by mountains, trees and the promised heaven. I will have a fatal fortress tower rising above the oldest and gloomiest streets of the city, surrounded by the miasma and darkness of the necropolis, which the poets and murderers dubbed the “fiery rose”.

The last argument for me was the desk in the center of the office. On the table, like a sculpture of metal and light, was an imposing Underwood typewriter, rented long ago. I sat down in the marshal's chair at the table, stroked the keys of the typewriter with a smile, and said:

I will leave her.

The inspector let out a sigh of relief, and the manager rolled his eyes and crossed himself. On the same day, I signed a ten-year lease. While the technicians from the electric company brought the lights into the house, I cleaned and put things in order to give the dwelling a decent look. I was assisted by three servants whom Vidal sent to the squad without even asking if I needed reinforcements. I soon realized that modus operandi The electrician team is very simple: first they drilled the walls to the right and left, and then they asked questions. Three days after the landing, there was not a single working light bulb in the house, but anyone would say that there was an invasion of grinder beetles, addicted to plaster and precious metals.

Are you saying that there is no other way to deal with the problem? - I asked the battalion commander, who solved all issues with hammer blows.

Otilio (that was the name of this craftsman) waved a set of plans for the house, which the manager handed me along with the keys, and explained that the house was to blame for everything, since it was poorly built.

Judge for yourself, - he urged, - if the thing is no good, there's nothing to be done. And so it is here. It says here that you have a reservoir of water on the asotea. [Asothea is the flat roof of a house.] But no. The cistern is in your backyard.

So what? The water does not touch you, Otilio. Focus on electricity. Light. Not faucets and pipes. Light. I need light.

So everything is connected. What can you say about the gallery?

That there is no light.

According to the plan, the main wall should pass in this place. And right there, as soon as old Remigio just pointed his finger, almost half the house collapsed on us. And there is nothing to say about the rooms. According to the plan in the hall at the end of the gallery - almost forty square meters. Nothing like this. Thank God if there are at least twenty there. There is a wall that shouldn't be there. And it’s really better not to remember the plumbing. All weirs are not at all where they should be.

Are you sure you understand blueprints?

Look, I'm a professional. Keep in mind, everything in this house is topsy-turvy. Everything is done as God puts on the soul.

Nevertheless, you will have to be smart and work with the material as it is. Do whatever you want, but I want the holes in the walls to be patched up, the surfaces painted and the lights on by Friday.

Do not rush me, the work is delicate. You need to act wisely.

And what are you going to do?

For now, go get some breakfast.

Yes, you came only half an hour ago.

Senor Martin, with such an attitude, we will never agree with you.

The torment associated with repair work and the elimination of imperfections stretched out for a week longer than planned. However, the very thought warmed my soul that at any moment I could move into the house that I had long dreamed of. If necessary, I was ready to exist for years by candlelight and oil lanterns, resigned to the presence of Otilio and his squadron of magicians, who made holes anywhere and ate food for two and a half hours. Fortunately, the Ribera quarter was a real reserve, spiritual and material, of artisans of various stripes. A stone's throw from the new monastery, I found craftsmen who installed locks for me that did not resemble trophies from the Bastille, as well as lamps and faucets of the 20th century. The idea of ​​becoming the happy owner of a telephone line did not inspire me. From what I heard on Vidal's radio, the new media (as the current press called it) ignored me in an attempt to attract an audience. I decided that I would lead a quiet life, enjoying books and peace. I took almost nothing from the boarding house, only a change of linen and a box with my father's revolver, the only thing left of him as a keepsake. I distributed the rest of the clothes and other property to other tenants. If I could get rid of old skin and memories as easily, I would.

I officially moved into the tower house, finally fully electrified, the day the City of the Damned pilot came out of print. I famously spun an intrigue, fictitious from beginning to end, around the fire in the Dream in 1903 and the ghostly creature that has been casting spells on the streets of Raval ever since. Before the first edition's ink had dried, I began work on the second novel in the series. According to my calculations, based on thirty days of continuous work per month, Ignatius B. Samson had to write an average of 6.66 clean pages per day in order to fulfill the terms of the contract. Pure madness, but it had one advantage: I had almost no free time to think about it.

I hardly realized that over time I began to absorb more coffee and cigarettes than oxygen. As I poisoned myself, I got the feeling that the brain is gradually turning into a steam engine that never cools down. But Ignatius B. Samson was young and hardy. He worked all night long and fell into bed at dawn, completely exhausted, overcome by strange dreams. He dreamed that the letters on a sheet of paper tucked into the typewriter in his office were detached from the paper and, like ink spiders, crawled over his hands and face, penetrated the skin and filled the veins, until they entwined the heart with a black cocoon and covered the pupils with lakes of darkness .

For weeks I did not leave the walls of the mansion and lost track of the days of the week and the months of the year. I did not pay attention to the recurring attacks of headache, which began suddenly, as if an iron chisel was pierced into the skull so that sparks fell from the eyes. I'm used to constant tinnitus, drowned out only by the howl of the wind or the rustle of rain. Sometimes, drenched in cold sweat and feeling that the fingers lying on the keyboard of the typewriter refuse to obey, I promised myself to see a doctor the next day. But the next day there was always a new episode and another story to be told.

Ignatius B. Samson turned one year old, and to celebrate this event, I decided to take a day off and see the sun again, feel the breath of the wind and walk through the city, which I had long traveled only in my imagination. I shaved, cleaned myself up and dressed up in the best and most respectable of my costumes. I left open the windows in the study and the gallery to ventilate the house, and the thick perfume that had soaked all the pores was dispelled to four sides. I went outside and found a large envelope on the ground under the mailbox. In the envelope I found a thin sheet of parchment, sealed with sealing wax with an impression of the figure of an angel, written in amazingly beautiful handwriting. The text read:

...

Dear David,

I would like to be the first to congratulate you on the new stage of your career. I had great pleasure reading the first issues of City of the Damned. I hope you enjoy my humble gift.

Once again I express my admiration and confidence that one day our paths will cross. With a sincere desire that this be so, your devoted friend and reader

Andreas Corelli.

I was presented with an old copy of Great Expectations, which Senor Sempere once gave me as a child. I returned this very book to him out of fear that my father would find it. And many years later, she disappeared in an unknown direction just a few hours before I tried to return my treasure, ready to pay any money. I looked at a stack of paper where, as it seemed to me quite recently, all the magic and light of the world was concentrated. There were still traces of boyish bloody fingers on the cover.

Thank you, I muttered.

9

Senor Sempere put on his reading glasses to carefully examine the book. He laid it on a cloth spread out on a desk in the back of the shop and turned the lamp so that the light fell on the battered volume. The examination took him several minutes. Throughout the procedure, I kept reverent silence, watching him turn the pages, sniff them, carefully run his fingers over the paper and spine, weigh the book on one hand, and then on the other, and, finally, closing it, examine through a magnifying glass the spots of dried blood left by my fingers on the binding twelve or thirteen years ago.

Unbelievable,” he whispered, taking off his glasses. - The same book. How do you say she got back to you?

I don't really know myself. Senor Sempere, what do you know about a French publisher named Andreas Corelli?

The name sounds more Italian than French. Although Andreas is like a Greek pronunciation...

The publishing house is located in Paris. Publishing house "Lumiere".

Sempere thought for a moment, doubtful.

I'm afraid I haven't heard of this. I'll ask Barcelo. He knows everything and everyone, let's see what he has to say.

Gustavo Barcelo was the head of the elite secondhand shop in old Barcelona, ​​and his encyclopedic store of knowledge was known no less than his prickly manners and pedantry. There was a saying among professionals: if in doubt, ask Barcelo. At that moment, Sempere's son (the guy was two or three years older than me, but behaved so quietly and modestly that at times he seemed to become invisible) looked into the room and made a sign to his father.

Father, come to pick up an order that I think you took.

The book dealer with a sigh handed me a thick, disheveled volume.

I've got the latest catalog of European publishers here. If you want, look in the meantime, maybe you will find something, and in the meantime I will serve the client, ”he suggested.

I was left alone in the back room of the bookshop, trying in vain to find the Lumiere publishing house, while Sempere returned to the counter. Leafing through the catalog, I heard him talking to a woman, and her voice sounded familiar to me. In the conversation, they mentioned Pedro Vidal, and I, intrigued, leaned out into the hall to inquire.

Christina Sagnier, the driver's daughter and my mentor's secretary, sorted through a pile of books, and Sempere listed them in the sales book. When she saw me, she smiled politely, but clearly did not recognize me. Sempere raised his head and, noticing my stupid appearance, immediately cleared the situation.

You do know each other, don't you? he said.

Cristina raised her eyebrows in surprise and turned back to me, unable to remember where we met.

David Martin. Don Pedro's friend, I introduced myself.

Oh, of course, she said. - Hello.

How is your father? - I found.

Wonderful. He's waiting for me at the corner in the car.

Sempere, from whom nothing escaped, immediately intervened:

Señorita Sagnier stopped by to pick up the books ordered by Vidal. But they are very heavy, so would you be so kind as to help carry them to the car?

Don't worry…” Christina protested.

Willingly,” I said, hurrying to pick up a stack of books that weighed like a deluxe edition of the Encyclopædia Britannica with all its appendices.

I felt something crunch in my back, and Christina looked at me with concern:

Are you okay?

Don't worry, senorita. Before you is my dear Martin, although he is an educated man, he is strong as a bull,” Sempere said. - Really, Martin?

Christina continued to look at me with disbelief. I imitated the smile of a courageous hero.

Solid muscles, I confirmed. - It's just a light warm-up.

What about security and privacy?

• We guarantee anonymity. We do not write from the account and do not respond to messages.
• All account data and correspondence are protected by SSL encryption, powerful website and CRM security mechanisms, as well as the blood oath of our managers.
• We have been working since 2011. We know how to bypass the EULA, user agreements and vigilant admins in the game.
• We do not use: cheats, bots, bugs, exploits and vulnerabilities. We play fair.

How is it going?

1. We look, choose, read and agree on a price with the operator.
2. Register on the site to receive bonuses (cashback 5%).
3. We pay for the order.
4. We finalize the details and get to work.

What is “We will add to the balance?”

• This refers to the "Balance" of the account in the personal account. With each purchase, 5% of the purchase amount is credited to the balance, which can then be used for other purchases.
• You can register in your personal account in the upper right corner.
• In addition to the balance, the history of your orders is kept there, which is convenient and practical.

I want a better price. Are you going to a meeting?

We try to keep the fairest prices on the market, but we could miss something.

Contact the manager and let's agree!

Glory to the Legion Hero

Glory to the hero of the legion - one of the innovations of the latest addition Legion in world of warcraft. Players will face 26 serious challenges in 10 new Legion dungeons.

Glory of the Legion Hero Achievement rewards are a mount Hippogriff with arcane plumage and one of the artifact's unique colors.

In order to fulfill all the conditions for the glory of the hero of the legion, players will have to complete the following achievements:

• in the Catacombs of Suramar - "Inaccurate Enchantment", "Running Time", "Wet Floor"
• in the Black Rook Fortress - "Black Rook's Wail", "Bad Memories", "Useless Helpers"
• in the Quarter of Stars - "Following the words", "Waiting for Gerdo"
• in the Thicket of the dark heart - "Down!", "But what about the eggs?"
• in the Eye of Azshara - Not Quite a Friend, Ready for Raid V, Foam of the Sea
• in the Halls of Valor - "Honey is a very strange object", "Something is storming me", "Fuse"
• in the Maw of Souls - "Helmheim knows no rage", "Instant karma", "Poor, unfortunate souls"
• in Neltharion's Lair - "Snail Atlas", "Ravenous Appetite"
• in the casemates of the guards - "Ghost illuminated", "And it's not cold at all", "Who's afraid of the dark"
• in Storming the Amethyst Fortress - "I made a pie", "You only make it worse."

Achievements from the "Glory to the Hero..." series have always been a challenge for dungeon lovers. Sometimes, the quest criteria seemed impossible, and sometimes, simply ridiculous. Anyway, along with the new addition to World of Warcraft, the list of these quests has grown, which means that the heroes will again go on dangerous adventures for great rewards!

Today we will talk about two completely different dungeons - Black Rook Hold and Neltharion's Lair.
By the end of this article, you'll have learned how to complete the quests in these dungeons to get Glory of the Legion Hero.

Black Rook Hold

Wailing of the Black Rook

During the Soul Meld boss fight on Mythic difficulty, the boss summons ghosts to him while Call Soul is active. Your task is to delay one of them (use control or slowdowns) for 30 seconds. After that, the ghost will change color and name - now it needs to be killed.

Complete the Mythic boss fight to earn the Wail of the Black Rook achievement.

Useless Helpers

Everything is very simple here. Illidanna, oh sorry, Illysanna spawns a mob during the second stage of the fight (the one where she flies and shoots lasers from her eyes), your task is not to kill him. ) does not cause too much difficulty.

bad memories

More than one task of this dungeon is connected with the above-named fan of Illidan. To get the Bad Memories achievement, you will have to collect the pages of her diary, so carelessly scattered throughout the ancestral home. There are 6 of them in total:

1. Torn page

(in the round hall after the first boss)

2. Page with curled corners

(in the corners of the hall in front of the second boss) + see. 4 page

3. Ink-splattered page

(in the center of the semicircular corridor after the second boss)

4. Shabby page

(in the corners of the hall in front of the second boss, near the bookshelves)

5. Burnt page

(It's on a music stand in the round room you run through after killing the third boss.)

6. Page with scribbled doodles

(located on the table in the room right before the last boss)

After collecting all the pages, you will receive your achievement.

Neltharion's Lair

predatory appetite

To complete, you need to accumulate 6 stacks of the "Predation" buff on the boss. During the fight, the boss will summon 2 hells - they need to be brought to the boss, as he eats them (when absorbing any character, he gets a stack). For a 3-4 buff, the tank must take damage. On 5 stacks, oneshot - it's better to give some dp instead of a tank. Next, kill the epochal boss.

snail atlas

A detailed guide can be seen below, but since it's in English, here's what you need to do:
We need a tablet purchased from the Mushroom Merchant. You can get to it after falling down the tunnel at the beginning of the dungeon, bypassing Spirithorn Spiritwalker from behind. There begins a very short but steep path, at the end of which a merchant is waiting for us.

First snail

appears after killing the first boss. It is on a mushroom located after the three dragbars that you will float past in a barrel. You need to throw fish at it, so that later you can find it on the stone on the right in the place where you fell on the barrels.

Second snail

located in a cave under the barrel landing site, i.e. you have to dive down and swim through the tunnel. In order for the snail to come out of the puddle, you need to aggro it, but do not damage it.

third snail

in the passage to the left of the second reel, in the trash in front of the second boss.

Fourth, fifth and sixth

are immediately behind the second boss (running around the stone).

seventh

can be found in the cave just behind the previous snails. A passage with basilisks leads to the cave. One pack must be killed in order to get to the cave through the water, the basilisks sleep in the cave itself, i.e. If they are not attacked, they will not aggro.

On this 1/6 part of obtaining the Hero of the Legion is completed, I wish you good luck in getting the mount!

Recently, many books about Joseph Brodsky have been published. Some idolize him, others scold him and throw out all the grievances. Here are a few moments from the book "Brodsky Among Us" by Ellendea Proffer Tisley, Brodsky's longtime friend and publisher. And with all the warm feelings for the poet, she says that sometimes he was impossible.

Recently, many books about Joseph Brodsky have been published. Some idolize him, others scold him and throw out all the grievances. Here are a few moments from the book "Brodsky Among Us" by Ellendea Proffer Tisley, Brodsky's longtime friend and publisher. And with all the warm feelings for the poet, she says that sometimes he was impossible.

Brodsky and Ellendea

1. On the expulsion of the poet from the USSR

“Later, much later, Joseph will say that he was thrown out, expelled, that he left against his will. In fact, the offer from OVIR came at the moment when Joseph desperately wanted to leave, so he accepted it. Otherwise, a prison awaited him, he did not doubt it and did not want to take risks.

2. About women

1. “... When a woman attracted him, he lived in the moment and was ready to say or do everything to seduce her; sometimes, perhaps, he himself believed in what he was saying - although I don’t think so. He was a jealous possessive and at the same time deprived of sobriety. He could leave a woman for six months, and returning, be surprised that she managed to get married during this time. It was portrayed in such a way that he was rejected.
2. “Here affected the secular, cynical, ruthless side of his nature. He cheerfully condemned married friends for having affairs on the side - despite the fact that he himself seduced married women. He was romantically nonchalant."

3. About son

“In 1989, an important guest came to Joseph - 22-year-old Andrei Basmanov, a son who last saw his father at the age of five. The meeting didn't go well. Joseph called me and said with annoyance that his son, who plays the guitar, does nothing all day, only watches MTV. He doesn't read. He doesn't know anything, Joseph said angrily. Now that was a crime. The son was supposed to be his copy and his pride.

4. About teaching

“The new profession was a test for him: Joseph never attended regular classes and had no idea how to teach future bachelors ... Some of Joseph's students specialized in other areas, but had not previously been engaged in literature. He considered them stupid, and they were not accustomed to open contempt. Some students complained that Joseph read English poetry to them, but they did not understand a word because of his accent. He was an uneven teacher: in the early years he did not really prepare, relying on the fact that he knew more than students ... But he was an example of what these students rarely met - a poetic genius thinking aloud.

5. About Brodsky's first morning in the USA, at the Proffers' house

“I got up today,” he said with humor and bewilderment, “and I see: Ian is sitting on the kitchen counter. She puts bread in a metal thing. Then the bread pops out on its own. I don't understand anything."

6. About the English language and poetry

“Not only was he not bilingual, he did not feel the accents and tone of English phrases, and therefore even the technically correct verses in his translation sounded like verses ... Over time, he began to translate his poems better, but before that he had already managed to disappoint serious readers of poetry. My friends - American poets and Russianists - used to call me and sadistically read Brodsky's latest auto-translation, and I got tired of defending myself, convincing them that he was a wonderful Russian poet.