Sample letter to the author from the reader. Start in science. Farewell letter from Gabriel Garcia

Sample essay-letters to favorite writers from elementary school children:

G.H. Andersen

A.S. Pushkin

K.I. Chukovsky

Letter to my favorite writer

Hi, G.H. Andersen!

I am writing you a letter from the 21st century. All my friends, classmates and I love your wonderful, magical tales. After all, good always triumphs over evil. Thumbelina found her friends, Kai found Gerda again, the ugly duckling endured all the ridicule and became a charming swan, Eliza found happiness and brothers, having gone through all the difficulties in her path. Well, how can you not rejoice!

Many years ago my grandmother read your fairy tales, then my mother and father, and now my brother and I are reading. I think that many more years will pass, the next century will come, and your works will also be popular in the world. My grandchildren will read them, which means you are an eternal storyteller who will live in the hearts of people for many generations!

Your reader Anastasia.

Hello dear Korney Ivanovich Chukovsky!

My name is Alina. I am in 3rd grade. During this time I have read many of your interesting books.

From early childhood, my mother read your poems to me, and I listened to them with pleasure and believed in those miracles. Under these verses I fell asleep sweetly. But if, as in a fairy tale, I managed to meet you, then I would definitely tell you what interesting poems I read in your books.

I think that many children read and listen to "Cockroach", "Fly-Tsokotuha", "Stolen Sun", "Fedorino's grief". There is a lot of instructive in the poem "Moydodyr". My favorite work is "Aibolit". I have read it many times.

When meeting with you, I would thank you on my own behalf and many children who grew up on your fairy tales.

Sincerely, your reader Alina S.

Hello dear Alexander Sergeevich Pushkin!

I am writing to you with great gratitude for the wonderful works created. I really like to read them, I especially want to highlight the fairy tale "About the dead princess and the seven heroes." Your talent to write in verse is rare and not everyone is given it.

I have your books in my small library, which makes me very happy. At any free moment for me, I can take and read already familiar and favorite poems or fairy tales. Of all the poems I have read, I like the poem "The Prisoner" the most. In my opinion, it is suitable for every person who is in prison of some kind. For example, I feel like that “prisoner” when I am punished by mom and dad. Sitting in my room, I reread the last quatrains, although I know it by heart:

We are free birds! It's time brother, it's time!

Where the mountain turns white behind the clouds,

Where the sea edges turn blue,

Where we walk only the wind and me!

Even the cat Yeshe likes your works, because he comes and lies down next to me when I read them. Thank you very much for your works!

Sincerely, your reader!

Hello, Mikhail Yuryevich!

Zuy Marina writes to you.

How is your health?

For some time I managed to get acquainted with many of your works. I confess that most of it simply delighted and at the same time amazed me.

I especially liked the poems "Child" and "Council", which seemed to me similar. In both, you praise the joy of being and the enjoyment of the current moments, but at the same time you want to convey that happiness is everywhere, the main thing is to believe in it.

Also, your poem “Mtsyri” seems to me very wise. The main character makes me admire his love for his native places and makes me think about the real values ​​​​of our life. For a young man, the result is not above all, but in what way it was achieved. His character is especially visible in those lines where you describe the fight with the leopard. He fights with the enemy, believing that only an equal fight can be fair for both sides. It seems to me that this is right, since freedom and equality should take their rightful place in this world.

It is interesting to know your personal attitude to the main character. What would you do in the place of your brave character?

I would like to end my letter with a small poem of my own, which I dedicated to you and your work:

Thank you Great Poet!
Your work is amazing!
Left a mark in literature
All over the world you are revered.

Poems give you strength
For great new achievements.
And create that peace of mind
For all generations.

Having read a couple of lines alive,
Your heart will get warmer.
And realizing their depth,
You will be wiser, kinder.

Letter to my favorite writer

Letter to my favorite writer

Hi, G.H. Andersen!

I am writing you a letter from the 21st century. All my friends, classmates and I love your wonderful, magical tales. After all, good always triumphs over evil. Thumbelina found her friends, Kai found Gerda again, the ugly duckling endured all the ridicule and became a charming swan, Eliza found happiness and brothers, having gone through all the difficulties in her path. Well, how can you not rejoice!

Many years ago my grandmother read your fairy tales, then my mother and father, and now my brother and I are reading. I think that many more years will pass, the next century will come, and your works will also be popular in the world. My grandchildren will read them, which means you are an eternal storyteller who will live in the hearts of people for many generations!

Your reader Anastasia.

Hello dear Korney Ivanovich Chukovsky!

My name is Alina. I am in 3rd grade. During this time I have read many of your interesting books.

From early childhood, my mother read your poems to me, and I listened to them with pleasure and believed in those miracles. Under these verses I fell asleep sweetly. But if, as in a fairy tale, I managed to meet you, then I would definitely tell you what interesting poems I read in your books.

I think that many children read and listen to "Cockroach", "Fly-Tsokotuha", "Stolen Sun", "Fedorino's grief". There is a lot of instructive in the poem "Moydodyr". My favorite work is "Aibolit". I have read it many times.

When meeting with you, I would thank you on my own behalf and many children who grew up on your fairy tales.

Sincerely, your reader Alina S.

Hello dear Alexander Sergeevich Pushkin!

I am writing to you with great gratitude for the wonderful works created. I really like to read them, I especially want to highlight the fairy tale "About the dead princess and the seven heroes." Your talent to write in verse is rare and not everyone is given it.

I have your books in my small library, which makes me very happy. At any free moment for me, I can take and read already familiar and favorite poems or fairy tales. Of all the poems I have read, I like the poem "The Prisoner" the most. In my opinion, it is suitable for every person who is in prison of some kind. For example, I feel like that “prisoner” when I am punished by mom and dad. Sitting in my room, I reread the last quatrains, although I know it by heart:

We are free birds! It's time brother, it's time!

Where the mountain turns white behind the clouds,

Where the sea edges turn blue,

Where we walk only the wind and me!

Even the cat Yeshe likes your works, because he comes and lies down next to me when I read them. Thank you very much for your works!

Statistics

Number 38 (460) dated September 30 The epistolary genre, alas, is a thing of the past. It is now unfashionable to write letters, out of date, and for a long time. It's no big deal - I wrote an SMS with a limited number of words - and it immediately reached the addressee, but along with the speed of such a message and the minimum set of words, we lost something spiritual that was inherent in the very genre of writing. The employees of the Central Children's City Library decided to revive this genre. The project, which they developed together with the Department of Education and the Municipal Methodological Center, was called "A Letter to a Favorite Writer." First of all, the task of the competition was to promote children's national fiction, then to study reader demand, as well as to identify gifted children and adolescents.

118 letters were sent to the competition, which was held from March to April of this year. Primary school children were the most active. The organizers expected that schoolchildren would write to contemporary authors. But the largest number of letters - 28 (a quarter of all!) Was addressed to Alexander Sergeevich Pushkin.

“I am writing to you, dear Pushkin…
You are my idol, you are the master of my thoughts,
I mustered up the courage to write you a letter.
You are my mentor, my teacher…”- Often the letters were written in verse.

Eduard Uspensky and Viktor Dragunsky are also popular among the younger generation, they received nine letters each; seven - to Sergei Yesenin and Nikolai Nosov, four - to Alexander Grin, three each - to Agnia Barto and Sergei Mikhalkov. They also wrote to Dmitry Yemts and Nikolai Gogol, Mikhail Bulgakov and Kir Bulychev, Fyodor Tyutchev and Konstantin Paustovsky, Boris Polevoi and Arkady Gaidar, Leo Tolstoy and Korney Chukovsky and many others.

Children not only wrote letters, but also sent drawings. Entire castles and maps of fairy-tale countries, favorite characters and authors of children's books are drawn on them. Reading the children's letters, I could not help noticing how talented children study in our schools. For example, Natasha Filatova from school No. 17 wrote a letter addressed to “grandfather Krylov” in the form of a fable, where there are such lines:

I don't want to be a lamb
And it's not good to be a wolf either.
I would like to live my life like this
So as not to become like a Pig.

Chekin Maxim from gymnasium No. 2 wrote in a letter to N.N. Nosov: "It seems to me that Dunno looks like me."

The results of this unusual but wonderful competition were summed up at the beginning of summer, and with the start of the new academic year, schools will be awarding winners in three age categories.

In the younger age group of children under 11:
1st place - Dasha Kuznetsova, 2nd grade gymnasium No. 2,
2nd place - Liza Timofeeva, 3rd grade school number 14,
3rd place - Petr Lomako, 5th grade gymnasium number 9.

In the middle group of children from 12 to 14 years old:
1st place - Sveta Bedyagina, 8th grade school number 14,
2nd place - Daria Karpukhina, 7th grade Lyceum No. 4,
3rd place - Anna Safina, 7th grade Lyceum No. 4.

In the senior group up to 17 years:
1st place - Natalya Kozlova, 10th grade Grammar school № 5,
2nd place - Natasha Filatova, 9th grade school number 17,
3rd place - Nikita Tokmakov, 11th grade School № 1.

Essay-letter to the writer (after reading the story of V. G. Rasputin "French Lessons") of 6th grade students

Essay on Literature (UMK G.N. Kudina - Z.N. Novlyanskaya)

Preview:

(after reading the story of V. G. Rasputin "French Lessons")

Dear Valentin Grigorievich!

Write to you students of the 6th grade of the school "Razvitie" of the city of Armavir, Krasnodar Territory.

We read your story “French Lessons” and for the first time we learned how people lived after the war, in what hunger and poverty. We learned that they planted potatoes with eyes and even ate these eyes. For some reason this was particularly shocking.

We liked the character of the hero - proud, purposeful, but at the same time modest. And I liked the kind, sympathetic teacher Lidia Mikhailovna, who was worried about the health and study of the boy, her student.

We were surprised by the main character's ability to play "chika" and outraged by the behavior of Vadik and Ptakhi. But even now it happens like this: if someone breaks ahead in something, this is not forgiven by mediocrities. I didn’t like Fedka very much because he stole food, served the strong.

We really liked the last episode of the story, which says that Lidia Mikhailovna sent a parcel with macaroni and three apples to her former student. And although the boy had only seen apples in pictures before, this time he recognized them. It means that the teacher did not forget the boy, and he certainly did not grow up indifferent.

We felt sorry for the people living in such poverty. We admired the fact that although the people were poor, the children aspired to knowledge.

Diana Vartumyan, Vera Tkacheva,

Fomenko Alexander, Tagaev Dzhabrail

(after reading the story of V. G. Rasputin "French Lessons")

Hello, dear Valentin Grigorievich!

I am Blokhina Alina. I am 11 years old. I study in the 6th grade at the school "Razvitie" in the city of Armavir, Krasnodar Territory. I live in the village of Prikubansky.

I read your autobiographical story "French Lessons" and for the first time I learned about how people lived after the Great Patriotic War. I was very sad when I read this story, but it was still interesting, and I couldn't put it down.

I especially liked your kind, wise teacher Lidia Mikhailovna, who helped you so that you could feed yourself and not lose faith in good people and in yourself.

I didn't like the boys who played "chika", especially Vadik. I do not like his cruelty and the fact that he set the rules of the game, and everyone had to obey him. After all, even now, although a completely different time has come, there are many such evil and selfish people.

I feel very sorry for those people who lived in those post-war years. A lot of hardships and troubles fell on your generation, but people overcame them.

This story is close to us, understandable, because it is about children of our age, although they lived in a different time. Moreover, I also do not get along with the pronunciation of French words.

Thanks for sharing such great, interesting stories! I would like to read some more of your stories about your childhood.

Composition: Letter to Gogol

Author-compiler: Larkina Ekaterina Yurievna.
Place of work: State budgetary educational institution for orphans and children left without parental care, Belgorod Orphanage Yuzhny
Description: The material will be useful for teachers of Russian language and literature, educators and parents of children of middle and senior school age.
Objective: propaganda and popularization of N.V. Gogol.
Tasks:
Educational: teaching children the process of unconventional understanding and comprehension of the writer's work.
Educational: fostering a feeling of love for Russian literature.
Developing: development of speech culture and interest in the writer's work.

Dear Ekaterina Sergeevna, hello!

Many thanks to you and Yakov Sokolov for a wonderful book. Now it seems to me that I know everything about Yana. Of course, this is not so, but at least I had my own opinion about her as a person. Previously, I could only evaluate her work in isolation from the very personality of the Author. Now, many songs have received a slightly different sound. Unfortunately, I heard Yanka only after her death.

Retreat:

I myself learned about it in the following way. In August 1991, we were traveling on the Moscow-Riga train to the international bridge festival "Vendene" 91. Several reserved seat carriages of bridge players, all, of course, drinking vodka and playing cards. A couple of young punkers rode with us in the carriage It was with the boy that I began a conversation. Of course, in a very short time we started talking about GO. It was then that he told me that Yegor had a personal tragedy, he no longer makes music, but went as a hermit to some commune either to the Altai, or to Tibet. When I asked what happened, my new acquaintance said that Letov’s bride fell into some pond and drowned. “I’m probably drunk,” the young punker added. he took out his passport and pulled out a photo of Yegor from under the plastic cover: "I give. And his bride's name was Yanka, and she also sang good songs. "On the way back, I recorded the album "Home!" (acoustics) I stopped in Moscow with my friend and decided to listen to what I recorded (except for Yanka, NATE and DIFFERENT PEOPLE were recorded.) In general, it turned out that Tim and I listened to only Yanka for half the night.

Someone in this book spoke in the spirit that true lovers of rock music heard it during their lifetime, while the rest did not need to. This is complete nonsense. And this book, perhaps, will open Yanka to someone else for the first time. Although, it seems to me, the book is mainly intended for people who have already heard her songs and want to learn more about her. In general, I was unpleasantly struck by such a large number of identical opinions on the topic “Do not spread Yanka!” "Show business", "sold my death" and other nonsense. What's this? Desire to possess secret knowledge? Childish selfishness? Hypertrophied jealousy? Or are these ideas driven (I don’t know by whom, but I guess) into their heads that money and real rock and roll are incompatible? Then it becomes clear the attitude that almost everyone has towards those who could become popular and relatively prosperous financially. Sometimes even quite serious (I just keep silent about snotty ones) people cannot resist completely ugly statements like that, they say, Shevchuk wrote only one song (“I got this role”), and then he lives at the expense of her all his life . In the same way, they spit in the direction of BG, Makarevich, Kinchev, Butusov with extraordinary ease. However, such "true" lovers of rock music do not evaluate creativity, but any external tinsel, "rootness" or "ours". And is it not clear that by humiliating someone in comparison with Yana, they do not elevate her, but humiliate her in the same way (even more)?

On the whole, the first part of the book (“Publications”) seemed to me somewhat drawn out. They wrote too much about her. The memorable article in Komsomolskaya Pravda seemed to me much more interesting and important than the lion's share of epitaphs, similar to each other, like soldiers digging a ditch. This is the first impression of the book when you read it. And the main reason for this is a strange order: first publications, and then memoirs. I am not an expert in writing such books, but it seems to me that publications (at least posthumous ones) would be better placed after the memoirs. Memories are about Yanke, publications are mainly - around Yankees (for the most part they go under the brand name "bob to me, how I loved Yanka). I liked a few analytical articles. In a special, perhaps, place is the original study "Color Painting". Nonsense, of course, but interesting.

The use of the open "a" in Yankee songs has also been widely analyzed. And what only the theoretical basis was not summed up, but it seems to me that everything is much simpler. This is just one of the versions, but it is strange that no one considered it. And why shouldn't she use a vowel chant just because there is no solo part of some leading instrument (keyboards, guitar, violin - it doesn't matter, even a flute) playing this part? Of course, this is not so lofty, but is it worth inventing an extra myth? It seems to me that adding horns to an icon is not much worse than diligently painting a halo on an ordinary person. Just a human...

The second bright line is Nikolai Kuntsevich's statement about Letov's responsibility. I did not have a clear opinion on this matter. Until I read Glazatov's defense speech. It's necessary to be able to speak in defense! After his open letter, I for myself issued a final verdict to Letov: "Guilty!" And further. What I am about to write may seem seditious, shocking, or even sacrilegious. There are two main and one side version of the death of the Yankees. The first is suicide, the second is a murder by some urla (a side line - by special services). I want to propose a development of the theme of murder. Try to find anything in the book that would disprove my version. And the version is as follows: Yana was killed by Letov. Not in the sense of any kind of responsibility, but in the most direct, physical one.

The discography section pleases with its meticulous punctuality. No confusion, everything is very clear and clear.

Let's add to everything else a few more poems that have not been published anywhere before. Yana's letter to her friend. Given the huge number of photos, only video can add something else to the Yankee image.

In general, the book (no, research work!) was a success. However, for those who are not familiar with her work, I would advise you to start the book with memoirs (ie, from the second section).

Thank you very much, Ekaterina Sergeevna! You gave me a new Yana. I kneel.

Dear PE!

Don't be surprised that I refer to you as you. After all, I have been reading your books for several years, and therefore I have known you for a long time. You are dear to me, like a good friend who got on a bad road. No one, except me, will tell you in a comradely, honest and frank way, that I am now thumping.

Do not be nervous, be patient a little, read this open letter to the end. Why open? Because you are closed and unavailable. You hid in the snail shell of your "I". You don't need anyone, not even friends. You are self-sufficient and avoid annoying admirers of your talent, sassy journalists, envious critics, sweet-voiced sing-alongs, fussy teletubbies and glamorous midges. Such an active anti-PR has become a kind of PR for you.

You did not crawl to the top of the literary Parnassus, like a snail on Mount Fuji, but took off like the god-like ancient Egyptian OMON Ra. Now you're sitting on top, hanging your ass, and grinning smugly. And at the foot of Parnassus, those on whom you fulfill your literary need will applaud you. I wouldn't be surprised if you're soon nominated for the Nobel Prize for post-humanism today. In principle, you are even worthy of a laurel wreath (thorns will not suit you).

Your style is so uninhibited, ironic and imaginative that the Master himself with a capital letter, M. Bulgakov, would envy him. Why Bulgakov! You outdid even V. Nabokov. Not only in the sense that you have a sophisticated figurative word no worse than him, but also in the fact that you know how to spit further and more accurately. The intellectual Nabokov spat rarely and not very accurately. For example, he spat at N. Chernyshevsky, but hit his adored dad, whom he tried with all his might to dress with words in snow-white angelic clothes.

However, I will not be distracted here by the Russian-American classic, beloved by both of us. Let's talk about you, or rather, about your works, without getting personal.

Your art of caustic-parodic saliva-poisonous p(e)leftness is something! Your black humor would do honor to such kings of the genre as O "Henry and M. Zoshchenko. And your ability to sculpt mysticism from reality is generally beyond all praise that I could think of. Even Kafka would not have been able to pick out such convincing phantasmogorical mysteries like you.

When I read your masterpiece "Death of Insects", I admired the lightness of the style, the dynamism of the plot and the realistic-symbolic mysticism. At the same time, in my soul, at the very bottom, after reading, there was, among other things, an unpleasant feeling that it was a little shit. Sorry for the rude word, but you yourself used it in some places, moreover, in its natural form. All these scarabs of yours, flies and mosquitoes, while I was reading about them, pooped into my soul imperceptibly, together and skillfully.

A similar feeling remained in me after many of your opuses. For example, in the "Crystal Cube" two cocaine-sniffing cadets lazily stop Lenin, who is trying to get into Smolny. And this Lenin, not called Lenin by you, but characterized by burr and beard, causes disgust. Actually, you were striving for this: to show Lenin as disgusting, shameless and deceitful. Moreover, from a number of “facts” (in quotation marks, because you always easily invent the necessary “facts” to please your fantasies) it follows that Lenin is a murderer and a robber who mercilessly killed several respectable people on the dank streets of Petrograd. And don't mind me that this is just a visual allegory. It's a lie. And it does not cease to be a lie from the fact that you gave it a feuilleton-grotesque look. To shock the reader with an incredible lie is the surest way to a resounding literary success. You are a stunningly convincing hoaxer. At the same time, your irony and humor about the stubborn persistence of Lenin's penetration through the cordon is very successful, especially when the beer bottles in the box rattled. Why did P.E. Levin, jokingly, click V.I. Lenin on the nose? Because historical and literary rudeness has become fashionable today, and you can do this with impunity.

Why is there a gangster Lenin! You have Darwin in the "Creation of Species" in general, a perverted maniac, who kills monkeys by himself by strangulation or skull-breaking with a club.

And what is Chapaev like in your plump novel Chapaev and Boredom? Boredom is there. But Chapaev is not. There - a strange crazy person, in the void, without friends, without morality. Maybe your Chapaev is a psychological self-portrait?

In general, you easily use famous historical figures in your works as the main characters, oh, not heroes, of course, but bastards. You take a historical brand and wrap your gloomy ideas and phantasmogorical glitches around it. This is absolutely the right way to ensure hype and demand among the readership, brought up by jokes, media, the Internet and TV. A literary-historical scandal is as indispensable to rich writers' fees as an ectopic pregnancy is to a successful abortion. Roughly said? So after all this, Victor, your style.

However, each famous writer has his own style and his own PR hobby. For example, would Antosha Chekhonte have become great if he had not hung around in the backstage, slept with famous actresses and disgraced himself (with a noisy crash) with his miserable plays that failed at premieres? He would have remained as unknown as, for example, Panteleimon Romanov, who, on the contrary, was an excellent writer, but did not know how to present himself. But Chekhov, cold and prudent, knew how. His sentimental tales (by the way, set out in a rather poor style) dispersed in newspapers and magazines like hot pies with sauerkraut. Wandering around brothels, Anton Palych, in personal correspondence and conversations with friends, savored the details of sexual pleasures with prostitutes, but he did not include such plots in his stories. He preferred the most effective PR: vulgarity and muck by word of mouth.

I'm sorry, I digress. But you, too, in your works like to dance Krakowiak with a squiggle, digress into various philosophies that are not directly related to the development of the plot. In fact, by and large, you do not care about the plot and even reality. The main thing is not about what, but how and why. Reality, whatever one may say, fits in the head. Any plot can be concocted, there would be a talent for a storyteller. And you are an excellent storyteller.

You will object that every author has the right to paint his literary hero in the form in which he wishes. Yes, it does, but with one caveat: if this hero is not named after the glorious name of a person who really lived. If you have taken on a well-known historical person, then if you please, do not distort her biography beyond recognition in your crooked mirror. Don't trivialize someone's life with your anecdote. Would you like it if, after your death, some shameless writer published a book “P.E. Levin - the illegitimate grandson of V.I. Lenin”? And in it, he would convincingly, gracefully, in a light style depict the plot about the fact that in Razliv, a Bat flew to the leader of the proletariat in a hut, which he impregnated and from which your father was born, who later slept with the Wild Cat, which gave birth to a baby who later became the great new Russian writer P.E. Levin. You, Victor, this vile story would lead to admiration? Not? So, even after death, not everything will be the same to you. So the story does matter.

The story "Babylonian Criticism of Masonic Thought" is a special milestone in your work. She struck me with her brilliant, figurative description of the transformation of human labor into the emanation of money. An excellent confirmation of the theory of surplus value of Marx's "Capital", which you, alas, did not read, but rediscovered.

The Sacred Book of Muddler also amused and entertained me, like almost all of your works. However, there is no point and time to stop at all.

Let's turn to one of the best - Generation Pease. Let's start with the name (we'll end there). Why does it have foreign titles? To increase the citation index in the Western media (media of mass perversion)? Or are you just showing off? Or both? I think so: gave the novel an English title - write a novel in English! Oh, you don't know Shakespeare's language enough to understand a whole book in it? Then don't pretend to be Nabokov. Alas, you didn't get there. If he gave an English name, he also wrote the text in English, and in such a way that even stupid Americans read it.

Now a few words about rudeness and self-censorship. I hope you are familiar with Andrei Platonov, A.N. Tolstoy, Arkady Gaidar, Konstantin Simonov, V.P. Astafiev, Chingiz Aitmatov? They are courageous enough, at least their prose, but never, unlike you, they used obscenities, especially - directly and rudely. Has anyone seen the word "***" in their works? Nobody saw. And I would not have seen it, even if I had begun to look at the text under a microscope. And you poke this word, like a sexual organ, right in the nose of your readers on your pages, not giving a damn that many, especially readers, this will apparently not be too pleasant.

Opposing me, you will start to refer to Henry Miller, a pioneer in literary foul language and mockery. But this is a *** author (sorry for the rude word, but I try to talk to you in your language). Miller's style in the scandalous "Tropic of Cancer" is ragged and loosely connected, the plots are base, and the main character is miserable and smelly. Of course, Miller is great because he boldly spat in the face of vile capitalism. His book is more than fair. She was revolutionary in her time. Some of Miller's phrases are as sharp and precise as a cutting rapier. But his book as a whole is vile, dirty and corrupt. She is full of vulgarity and swearing. You can, of course, follow him up with the argument that profanity and rudeness are in wide circulation in life, no less than stupidity and vulgarity, and that literature simply, like a mirror, reflects what is, including sewers and sexual sewers.

And I will object to you with your own words from your wonderful book “Uzshku M” (transliterated from your English), that the word has such great power that it transforms the world. This idea is, of course, as old as the world. But it means, in particular, the following: if the writer spat out verbal filth, then filth will appear in life. Not only will she appear, she will flood and spoil everything. It would be foolish to doubt it. Take, for example, again, your best-selling book, Death of the Insects. Only a dozen years have passed since its publication. So what? The text began to materialize. The process has already started! Soon people will turn into insects. As soon as scientists introduce the gene of some ant into human DNA, the process will become an avalanche. Researchers (damn their cheeky curiosity!) have already inserted the scorpion gene into the DNA of tomatoes so that the fruits would not be gnawed by bugs. And we, humanoids, eat these transgenic fruits. And something scorpion begins to appear in us. Now I'm stinging you with criticism, like the militant Macedonian - his philosophizing friend, but it's not my fault, I just overate genetically modified tomatoes. By the way, criticism should be caustic, even, perhaps, fucking (this word is quite in your spirit; I try to speak with you in your dialect so that it comes to you).

As for "Uzshku M", it is a magnificent satirical pamphlet on the modern Moscow vampire beau monde. This mystical novel of yours, in my opinion, has surpassed all others. Although the ending is somehow no, nowhere. And you yourself know it. Probably, by the end, "the fighter's pen has already withered."

Despite the fact that I am sending this letter in Chekhov's "to the village of grandfather" - on the Internet - there is a certainty that you will read it, although you are a writer, not a reader. Sooner or later, someone, tormented by envy of your success, will slip it on you, give you a link. It slips maliciously and deftly. But it is not important. It is important that the letter will still reach you, and you will not be able to resist reading it. You are inquisitive. By the way, you could very well become a scientist, a researcher. Analytical thinking is your strong trump card.

What if you still don't read the letter? It's OK. It itself spontaneously telepathizes to your brain and materializes in it. After all, I put a fair amount of psycho-emotional-logical charge into this letter, penetrating not only the skull, but even tank armor. The question is, why? And then, to bring you to your senses.

You will now be indignant, because you are sure that there is nothing to reason with you, because your mind is strong. Yes, strong, but prone to schizophrenic splits and manias. That is why you are a damn talented writer (in this phrase, the emphasis is on the fourth word). If we talk about the far-reaching consequences of your writings, then, unfortunately, they are sad. After your books, terrible indifference, gloomy egocentrism and disregard for the human person can settle in people. In some texts, you deliberately give an encoding for this. Don't act like you don't understand what I'm talking about. Do you remember, for example, how in "Backworld Tambourine" you first arrange a hypnotic session of general philosophical reasoning, designed to relax the reader? And then you sharply hit the reader in the stomach with code words that trigger illness and death in his body! Cruel and vile reception. How many sensitive reading natures can suffer!

But for me, this technique was powerless. I, like a mirror, reflected your insidious attack and sent it to you. This letter of mine addressed to you carries the coding of your death. If you have read the letter up to this point, then that's it, kerdyk: you only have three months left to live. You sowed death. And you will reap it... Whoever comes with a sword will make hara-kiri for himself.

Well, Victor, is it scary? Did you skip a beat? Goosebumps running down your back? And when you released poisonous black snakes from your insides and verbally stung everyone with them, sparing no one, did you think about the consequences? I understand that for you it was a process of self-therapy: you sublimated all the muck and rot from the bottom of your soul into texts and with this, as it were, cured your illness. But the disease still remains in you. It eats away at you like a tumor.
And so it will be until you understand that you need to crush the reptile in yourself, and not let it go free. Only self-purification can heal the soul and body.

I'm giving you one last chance now. So, I remove the encoding, deactivate. I spared you. I can’t do otherwise, otherwise I will become as unhappy and unkind as you. That's it, Vitya. Now it's all up to you...

Live long and happily. Write as before ironically, sharply, caustically and figuratively, but carefully weighing the words. And try to become kinder and more generous (I'm trying ...).

Well, goodbye. Consider that in my letter I simply speculated (on the example of your work) on a hackneyed topic: the role of literature in art and life.

Z.Y. Congratulations on the anniversary!

Early in the morning, leaving the bath, Sergei Ivanovich immediately went to the computer, shuffling around in his slippers and wiping his face. He urgently needed to send the management a report on which he had been working all the previous evening. He sent the report, but what was his surprise when he found a strange letter in his inbox.

“Sergey, your story is an amazing thing. Thanks for your creativity. Sincerely."

My story?! - Sergei exclaimed and heard the smell of burning - his fried eggs were burning.
- How could I write a story, if all the way only reports and I know how to write ... - The man was sincerely perplexed, getting ready for work. He said with annoyance: - I'm not a writer, but a simple manager.
“Lower level,” added an inner voice.
- Lowest level, - reluctantly confirmed Segrey.
Putting on socks, trousers and a shirt, he looked intrigued at the computer:
- When did I have time? Can't wait to read! – But as soon as I reached out to click on the link to my work, I saw a watch in the lower right corner. They showed that if he did not come out this very second, he would be late for work.
“Penalty for being late,” an inner voice warned, and Sergei, swearing quietly, turned off the computer.

On the way to work, he began to realize that he really wrote the story, only he does not remember it at all. It's very interesting to read yourself from the outside. "What did I write about?" - Sergei Ivanovich asked himself and smiled. He felt as if magic had happened in his life. The whole working day I searched in my memory for traces, clues of some kind of plot, but nothing was found. This intrigued him even more.

And when I was returning from work, I got caught in a downpour, got wet to the skin, and froze. In the apartment he took off his wet clothes and, contrary to his plans, went to the bath instead of reading his masterpiece. The hot water relaxed our hero and he dozed off.

Phew, finally! - The controller in his head was delighted. “I thought he would never settle down. Not a single thought ... What do we have here. The controller looked around. Cabinets, bedside tables, tables. He took out a pack of stickers and a pen from his pocket.
- This is for your inner voice, - the controller grunted, sticking stickers on the most prominent places of Sergei Ivanovich's "head". - These are fines, so as not to forget. There are all sorts of fines, I won’t specify, - I stuck a piece of paper with the large word “Penalties”. He hung about ten pieces with the word "Work", pulled out a pile of forms for reports from the bedside table and solemnly laid them out on the desk. - Here. Let the guy do it. And what's that?! - The controller noticed a small shining piece of paper on the table, - Well, let's read!
Suddenly, the wind blew directly on the controller. The controller fell to the floor, covered his head with his hands and held his breath, he knew perfectly well what that meant: a thought. It was impossible for him to let thought notice him. The wind picked up the leaf and rushed back and forth with it, and it even seemed to the peeping controller that the wind was shaking the leaf like a small child. Later, the wind calmed down, leaving the leaf on the table, where it picked it up.
- I fell asleep again. - Ironically commented the Controller. - So what kind of scribble is this?
- “…Thank you for your creativity. Regards…”, - Having read it, the Controller even covered his mouth in surprise. - Here's a beetle! Managed to write. Well now I'm for you! He shouted and tore the letter into small pieces. In anger, he pushed the table and went out. For a while.

And Sergei Ivanovich woke up, leisurely got out of the bath, remembering that he had to write a report all evening the next day, he only felt that he was angry with someone, but he didn’t know who.
-Probably, I'm angry with myself - so much time in the bath to oversleep! Who will write the report...