Yellow Metal Key - Max Fry. Book Yellow Metal Key read online M Fry Yellow Metal Key

Such a strange observation has already visited me quite a long time ago: sincere fans and "unconscious" connoisseurs of the Fry series about Echo usually do not really like novels "about something else", and, oddly enough, vice versa. Is there something to think about? .. However, think, don’t think, but it’s “The Key ...” that I would probably recommend to anyone who was interested in the author, tried to love him (well, or - to understand why loyal fans love him so much )), but for some individual reasons could not be imbued with the adventures of Sir Max. Try, honestly, one more time, because. here it is - “The Key ...”, here they are - everything, absolutely everything, the “chips” lying on the surface, for which it is simply impossible not to fall in love with Fry and, in the end, it’s a passion, how pleasant it is to read again in quite an adult age "The Adventures of Pinocchio" in a slightly new perspective!)..

Lying on the very surface is, of course, a "dream come true" about lazy-refined sybaritism, saturated with the smells of coffee (no! Not taste, oddly enough .. mm .. many coffee lovers know that taste is a separate matter, but smell - it’s always the smell of magic), the smell of apple pie, nothing but vanilla and cinnamon, which, of course, in the “sweetness race” surrounds both spring cherry blossoms and young daffodils ..

Lying a little deeper is the "dream of the quest." Well, what absolutely gloomy and impenetrable subject do you have to be in order not to get carried away by the excitement of chasing a mysterious medieval key from an even more “medieval” mysterious door through all the most magical and romantic cities of Europe? And what if the Prague immortal sorcerers and girls are also involved in what is happening, easily walking and seeing them off in their dreams?

Lying, in principle, everywhere - this, of course, is Fry's signature tricks on the topic that the world is arranged in such a way that not just anything happens to you in life, but exactly what you, personally, think and plan. Yes, that's right, you just need to make an effort of will to "guessing" and "planning", and then - all of it will definitely take place. As well as the fact that at numerous crossroads of being there are obvious direction indicators for everyone who wants to learn to see them.

A little higher, did I really praise the book I read? And I don't give 10 points? (have you gone completely crazy, or what?)) No, it's just that I already read about absolutely everything listed .. about ten years ago .. well, yes, somewhere in the middle of the series about Echo ...

Score: 7

M. Fry's new novel "The Key of Yellow Metal" is a curious mixture of a road story ("road movie") and a mystical detective story, based on the "Golden Key" by Alexei Tolstoy.

What is it about.

An overage young man, Philip, who is quite secure (four own apartments in Moscow is no joke!), not burdened by any everyday problems, but for some reason terribly disappointed in life, accepts the proposal of his adoptive father (of course, Karl, who lives in his own house in the historical part of Vilnius) - purchase an old key from the 15th century from one of the Prague antique dealers. Only here, before finalizing the deal, it is necessary to establish the authenticity of a rare find. Without much enthusiasm, rather out of nothing to do, Philip undertakes to fulfill his father's request. However, the Prague key turns out to be a later copy, and in search of the original, the young man begins to travel around the cities and villages of Central and Eastern Europe, encountering ever new mysteries, meeting very strange people, getting into more and more mysterious situations. However, we are getting ahead of ourselves a little. Mystical incidents begin much earlier in the novel - at the very moment when the regular bus "Vilnius - Prague" crosses the Lithuanian-Polish border...

What is so good about it.

Firstly, in the "Key ..." there is a real mystery, a mystery. Reading the novel is simply interesting and exciting. Secondly, together with the hero we will visit three cities of Eastern Europe (Vilnius, Prague and Krakow), which have retained the charm of the Middle Ages and a certain mystical aura. Thirdly, among the mass of platitudes, flat jokes and so on. (which - alas, alas - significantly spoil the impression of the novel) Fry expresses one, very intelligent thought. The life of ancient myths and ancient legends continues, they have not gone anywhere, have not disappeared into oblivion, but continue to exert their influence, determine the life and mentality of modern man. All you need is a reason, some kind of external push, to open your eyes and see how magic, magic really ooze, appear from under the ancient stones. And it's hard to find a better place than Prague, Krakow or Vilnius for such an experience. In general, after reading the novel, the words of one of the characters in the film “Stalker” suddenly come to mind: “It was interesting in the old days: a brownie lived in every house, God lived in every church. The people were young. And now every fourth is an old man.” Perhaps, these words (not found anywhere in the book) reveal the real key to understanding M. Fry's novel.

What's strange.

I have already spoken about the banalities and rather flat humor of the novel. However, I don’t impose my opinion, it’s a matter of taste - to someone the heroes’ pretentious arguments about life and art may seem really fresh and original. But here's an attempt to play the role of a "real man", expressed in the saturation of the GG's speech with various funny words from the lexicon of middle school students (countless "figasse", "horseradish", "crap", "bullshit", etc.) will cause, to be honest , grave confusion. Apparently, the saturation of the text with a light “intelligent mother tongue” should, according to the author, give the novel piquancy and wit. Alas, in this case, the opposite effect was achieved. And, finally, the last thing: it is especially a pity that Max Frei did not come up with a suitable conclusion to this whole entertaining story. The end is perhaps the only thing that disappoints in a very harmonious and well-balanced composition of the novel. It would probably be better if the author stopped in mid-sentence - in the end, reticence is always the most interesting thing that can be portrayed in the finale.

Score: 7

True, the key turns out to be completely different from what is needed - so the quest drags on and turns into a mystical trip, in which all kinds of devilry follows the main character. That bus, which he travels to Prague for the key, will fall into some kind of bad interworld-between times, then the hero will not be able to wake up from a nightmare repeating in a circle. Yes, and the characters around him are also not very ordinary: who can fall asleep in one place and wake up in another, who travel in time, dashingly skipping decades and not aging a single day. Philip is chasing the key with puppylike excitement across the map of Europe, as if it has turned into one big Fort Bayard, and the reader is running after the hero, who is also not allowed to sleep peacefully by all this fuss around the key.

In pursuit of the key, Pinocchio travels half of Europe - from Moscow, where he lives, to Prague, Krakow and Germany. These places are well known to readers of LiveJournal by Svetlana Martynchik, Sir Max's earthly avatar. As well as they are familiar with the mythological tales of a fictional author named Boris Tsaplin, whose book Philip reads - of course, no Tsaplin exists, he is invented by Martynchik in Borgesian style.

But the main thing in the story with the key is not the search for it itself (the plot, as we have already understood, was not invented by the author at all) and not even the opening of the door, but what happens besides and next to them. Just as in Echo Labyrinths, the author shifts the focus, turns the telescope over, making the secondary the main one. In the adventures of the Small Detective Troop, the adventures themselves did not mean as much as the off-plot (seemingly) chatter of the heroes over a cup of camera and their life outside the detective plot. It was in this apparent filling of the plot pauses that it was revealed how the “world through the eyes of Max” actually works and how to interact with it. A detective - just bait for gullible readers. The main thing is not action, but conversations, thoughts, dreams. Dreams, according to the Encyclopedia of Myths, are one of the topics that, in principle, can and should be discussed: “Sleep is the most accessible experience of non-existence, but few people have the courage to recognize these journeys to the wrong side of the world as an important part of life as wakefulness” .

Our Pinocchio acquires the real golden key precisely in a dream, when he stumbles over a special "Easter egg" for the devoted Fraevites - the name of the egg is Max (are all coincidences coincidental?), And it is he, as fans of role-playing games would say, "leaks information" to the hero about the main thing , for which, in fact, this fragrant text was written:

"- Until now, you were just a participant in the events. You went where they were sent, did what was required, listened to what they said, sometimes they believed, sometimes not. They observed, drew conclusions, wondered what was happening, tried to understand something - without much success. And this is for the best. Because in your situation you need not to understand, but to decide what is happening.

Exactly. Decide and publicly declare your highest will. Know for sure: as I say, so be it. I mean, as you say. This is your story. Think it over in detail."

Further, the plot is turned upside down several times in a row, and the denouement, perhaps, will not be easy for everyone to accept - it may seem too simple. But this is the meaning of both the "Key ..." and the seemingly frivolous, escapist "Labyrinths" at first glance: the world is not hostile to us. There are no conflicts, no enemies but ourselves (Echo Chronicles is written about this latter). The world does not hinder us, but helps. If we ourselves want it, of course.

In an attempt to understand what he really wants, Philip writes several pages, but in the end leaves one phrase: "I want everything to be fulfilled with meaning." This is also the key, this time to the first and last pages of the novel. What is the difference between a meaningless world and a meaningful world? Nothing. Except for the meaning. It's just another Fray koan. And The Yellow Metal Key is just another "Book for the Likes of Me." And "not like that" no one will forcefully pull into paradise, honestly. If they themselves are not delayed - and there is such a risk ...

Score: 9

This time it's not fantasy (however, Fry's fantasy is somehow wrong, "wrong bees" (c)), but almost mysticism. A mystical story about the doors in the wall, which must be opened by all means with a key made of yellow metal. And about the search for this key, during which all sorts of strange and unimaginable things happen. And also about the search for the meaning of life (no, not the meaning. Rather, the answer to the question “why me?”).

Fry's books, in particular this one, you read as if with a sixth sense and some other third eye, it is not so easy to express your feelings from what you read. You turn the last page and regret that the book ended too quickly, for everyone (well, except for collections, perhaps that) Fry's books have one such, but a very significant drawback.

The hero seems to be different, and his name is different (Philip), but it seems as if you are still reading about Max, at least about the Max who is in the Encyclopedia of Myths.

Although there is also a little Max. :)

I will probably read the book again. It's a very strange story.

Score: 10

Of all Lady Fry's non-Jehovian novels, this one is the most Jehovian. And in mood, and in plot, and especially - in unforgettable lyrical hero. True, I will immediately warn you that Echo is still an order of magnitude better, and this thing loses a priori, as any reality loses compared to a fairy tale.

From Echo in the "Key" there are:

1 - A lyrical hero, 33 years old, a sloth and a slacker, not devoid, however, of a purely Yesenin charm. This charm affects me only from a very long distance, and as soon as I begin to think, I understand that in real life I would feel a mixture of irritation and contempt for this useless creature. Because he is really, well, completely useless and spends his precious life in some kind of stupid fuss, and still not getting much pleasure from it. And as soon as something doesn’t suit him, instead of getting up and doing something to correct the situation, he starts whining and calling for a kind uncle (or anyone else. anyone else immediately comes to his aid, which is typical) .

2 - A kind uncle, who in Echo is called Juffin, and in the "Key" - the adoptive father Karl. The main role of a kind uncle is to come up with interesting games for his big child, one after another, all sorts of quests and tasks. So that the child does not take it into his head to be distracted, take a sober look at his life and understand that it is completely empty. Like any diligent parent, DD closely, but imperceptibly, watches his baby, and when the situation becomes at least somewhat serious, he quickly grabs him by the collar right from under the wheels of a passing truck. The kid, however, usually does not have time to realize the dangers, but oh well.

3 - Quest in the classical sense of the word, go there I don't know where, find a key made of yellow metal, which opens the mysterious Door in the Basement.

4 - Obstacles that do not exist. And there are just nice good people who fool the hero’s head not at all from evil, but only to make it more interesting for him to play. Without robbers, there are no Cossacks, of course.

5 - Problems that don't exist either. Not in Echo, not in The Key. The hero is well off financially to such an extent that he does not need to count money or work at all (not that he once did this). He has no obligations to anyone, no family, not even a pregnant cat. He passes the quest solely of his own free will and from idleness, why not wander around the wonderful Eastern Europe, going into every cafe on every square and consoling himself with the thought that you are doing an important job on behalf of your beloved parent.

6 - The hero "as if by magic" gets absolutely everything he wants. The whole arbiter's trick is to realize your wondrous power and decide what you finally want. Rough, but correct.

What is not in the "Key":

No, alas, there is no wonderful Ehovsky world, which perfectly exists both separately from the main character, and separately from him and is interesting. The action, as I said, takes place in Moscow and then in Eastern Europe. Mysticism, however, is present in a certain amount (without it, it would be completely dreary), but its quality is not at all the same. Because, to be honest, the mystical moments in the "Key" most of all resemble drug trips - all this, of course, is not so bad, but it is painfully realistic.

Another respected author, for once, was let down by an impeccable sense of proportion before: the novel seems overly lengthy. The development is proceeding according to the principle “two steps forward - one back”, and in some places I would like it to end as soon as possible. Add to everything excessively boring philosophical and drug periods for several pages, which, in order to improve the quality of the text, would have to be ruthlessly cut.

Disappointing ending. More precisely, not that it disappointed - from the very beginning I did not expect anything from this door, not only good, but interesting. Nothing happened. I imagine that Lady Fry wanted to portray some kind of slight qualitative change in the hero, finding either meaning or joy in life, and very gently and unobtrusively. You know, in the spirit of "There is already a house and an old servant waiting for you, the candles are already burning, and soon they will go out, because you will immediately meet the dawn." But this did not work out, not because it did not work out, but because the change as such is not visible. The hero and before the opening of the door, everything was as excellent as mere mortals can only dream of. And in this regard, he is an unfortunate person, because even such a miracle that allegedly happened is no longer able to make his life better or more interesting - because this is already the limit, there is nowhere further. Dreams of a starving lazy intellectual, as I said))

If the book is not compared with Echo, it is quite good and interesting, what can I say. And if you compare - it is both weaker and frankly "secondary", forgive me. The motive of the door itself, by the way. I don’t remember which of Fry’s books, maybe in The Stranger even quotes the classic “Green Door” by Wells in the same sense as ours ... Yes, and Prague and other Eastern European capitals with their traditional mysticism too, sorry, boyan.

Score: 8

The novel is strange. And "Fraevsky" like, and at the same time, some subtly different - smarter, or something, more filled with meaning than the series about Echo.

It seems nothing new - there is a GG - a young loafer, there is some kind of mystery that needs to be solved. There is no doubt about the happy ending, GG succeeds in everything. But the novel turned out to be somehow more philosophical, or something ... It is not perceived as simple entertainment.

The novel was a success. Moreover, everything was possible - the plot, the characters, and the implementation. The language is good. Heroes are good. The intrigue twisted in the course of action is excellent.

The author (for convenience, I will talk about Fry in this way) succeeded in one more thing - he managed to convey the atmosphere of a trip to "old" Europe. Traveling through the old streets, the atmosphere of old houses and cafes, the smell of coffee and beer, the smell of pastries...

The novel is full of mysticism. Moreover, mysticism is felt even where at first glance it does not exist. Well, how can the story that takes place in Prague do without mysticism? Is it possible to arrive there and not encounter a sorcerer or a golem? Impossible... Well, dream travel is just great. Carlos (who is Castaneda) looks with satisfaction from heaven - his teaching has received worthy and talented followers;))

So. The novel is an unimaginable mixture of a well-known fairy tale, travels to Echo, Kastanedov's practices and a guide to Prague. A mixture of interesting, fascinating smart and graceful. Recommended reading for everyone. Even for those who "did not go" the world of Echo.

Score: 9

Don't succumb to a changing world.

Let it bend under us!

A. Makarevich

This phrase contains the whole essence of the philosophy of Max Frei's books. The new novel - "The Key of the Yellow Metal" is extremely similar to the adventures of Sir Max. Yes, the action takes place not in a fictional Echo, but in quite earthly Vilnius, Krakow, Prague, but at the same time, the internal similarity is very great. The protagonist of the novel, Philip, is just a copy of Sir Max. The same deaf protest against the gray reality surrounding him, the same life dissatisfaction, the same hidden power, which gradually manifests itself in the course of action. The main characters in Fry's novels have one amazing quality. They are extremely selfish. They categorically do not want to be pawns in someone else's game. And they are ready to go from pawns to queens, and even better - from queens to players. so that everything around spins at their will.

The novel made a very strange impression on me. On the one hand, it is very interesting and unusual. The adventures of the main character are very entertaining. You never know what surprise this story will throw you, in which direction the plot will turn. The protagonists of the novel are very original, I would even say grotesque. Each of them is fraught with some kind of mystery. Other reviews have already said that this story is a kind of paraphrase on the theme of the Golden Key. I'm sure you'll be a lot of fun to recognize in the characters of Carabas and Malvina, Harlequin and Tortila the tortoise, Alice the fox and Basilio the cat. Some of them are obvious, others are more subtle.

In addition, the novel is simply very well written. With great pleasure, I walked with the hero along the narrow streets of Prague and Krakow, which I loved, and felt that it would be nice to visit Vilnius someday. Yes, if there are cities on Earth that are close in spirit to the wonderful Echo, they are.

The adventures of the hero are very entertaining. Particularly well described are episodes of movement between worlds and within them. You just feel how the cold creeps up to your feet in the episodes at the border or on the train. On the other hand, there is a lot left unsaid in the novel. The motives of the actions of many secondary characters remained unclear, and the situations themselves, for example, with a trip to Germany, look somewhat strange. Not too pleased with the specific humor of Fry, for example, in episodes with a swearing artist.

In general, many details of the novels are recognizable. All this has already been, was, was in different books of the author. And if in fictional worlds many features of the behavior of characters look quite understandable, then in ordinary earthly conditions, some episodes make one doubt their relevance.

The ending of the novel turned out to be somewhat unexpected for me, but typically Fray's. In general, it does not matter what the readers were waiting for. The main thing is what is more necessary and more convenient for the hero.

Conclusion. Fans of Fry and, in general, lovers of non-standard literature, this novel will bring a lot of pleasure. But he noticeably falls short of the best works about Echo. And the author does not tell us anything fundamentally new. As an old fan of Fry, I give it a solid 8.

Score: 8

This is the best thing I've read from Fry. The quintessence of everything that I liked so much in the Echo series, and without the endless empty talk and repetitive jokes that still, with all my love for the author, somewhat annoyed me. The ending is a real catharsis, no fools.

The book can be used as a tutorial on the art of making your world a better place. Recommended reading for children of all ages by the Committee for Correction, Improvement and Sublimation of World Unity (KISS ME). :lol:

Score: 10

I enjoyed reading the book. With great pleasure. With no less than the first Echo books. The unfading Pinocchio plot is put on completely new tracks. And got it! It turned out great. I don’t know how it is with Castaneda, I don’t know, for me personally this book is about searching for myself and searching for the key to myself. All the characters with whom the GG meets are good, and in sharp contrast with his allied perception of the world. And in the end - all is well.

Peter closed the gate behind me.

- Soo-die! - he said diligently, syllable by syllable, altering the foreign word in the usual way, and staring at me demandingly in anticipation of an admiring grimace - they say, he gives, he is strong, the dog, his mother! Frankly speaking, I did not feel any confusion, but I did my mimic duty and carefully moved my foot from the brake to the gas.

The guard here is not a polyglot; I doubt, to be honest, that he mastered any foreign language, even within the framework of a miserable school curriculum. But he is consumed by the noble passion of the collector. Peter collects, writes down and memorizes farewell formulas in different languages. I taught him the stiff Lithuanian “sudie” myself, showed off my erudition, and it was not easy, Peter learned all sorts of “good bye”, “aufidarzein”, “adyu”, “chao”, “asta la vista” and even “before vijenya” long before my appearance in this holiday village, whose inhabitants cross various state borders more often than the threshold of the gates guarded by Peter. I turned out to be a very useful acquaintance: the inquisitive guard gutted the old-timers and their guests a long time ago, and there were still many blank pages in his white lined notebook.

I entered into his position and undertook to replenish the collection. Thanks to me, the Tatar “sau bulygyz”, the Estonian “nyagemiseni”, the Dutch “dui”, the Latvian “uz redzeshanos” and the Hungarian “visontlatasha” appeared in Peter’s notebook; over the winter, his collection was adorned with the Uzbek “khaer salamat bulsin”, the Gaelic “dya dyt”, the Georgian “nahvamdis” and the odious Chinese “hui jien”, but I still could not calm down, I continued to ask my friends and open dictionaries in bookstores - on those rare days when I went to Moscow.

It’s not that I really liked the guard Peter, rather the opposite, my grandfather’s gratitude for his impeccable service in the organs is written on his forehead, and such inscriptions, let’s say, are not quite to my taste. But I have a passion to replenish other people's collections. As I started to carry to my father all the keys found on the street at the age of five, I still can’t stop.

However, the Petrine era in my life is over; it is unlikely that I will ever return here, except perhaps to visit Pashka, who kindly lent me his white stone tower for a complex but instructive laboratory work on the topic: “Will the winter in the Moscow region drive me crazy?” The result, in my opinion, came out negative; however, from the side, they say, it is more visible. Well, let's check, the meeting with the largest experts in this field will take place no later than tomorrow.

“Sa-yo-nara, Philip Karlovich,” the gate guard boomed after me.

I like Moscow, but this does not prevent me from hating it fiercely. She is the enemy to whom I surrender one battle after another. All megacities are the mouths of the many-headed Kronos, and Moscow is the most insatiable of them. She greedily devours my time, and therefore - myself. By and large, a person has nothing but time and the ability to be aware of its flow; however, in the vast majority this ability is fairly dulled, but the merciful hand of the heavenly anesthesiologist has passed me by, I constantly, with my whole body, feel how time flows through me, spills over the edge, flows away. I'm more or less used to this, or rather, I've learned be distracted, but in Moscow, time gushing out of me like blood from a torn wound, so rapidly that only sincere hatred for the aggressor helps me not to panic.

The first item on my program is Staromonetny Lane in Zamoskvorechye, one of four apartments bought on the occasion during my personal era of big money, stormy and short. Now they provide me with a comfortable and delightfully meaningless existence. By the way, back in the fifth grade, having read novels from my father's library, I honestly wrote in an essay that when I grow up, I want to become a rentier. It was my first A in Literature and the third, if I'm not mistaken, a huge scandal involving the head teacher, even Karl was called to school; he, however, disappointed the teachers, warmly approving my choice, although, of course, he could have laughed less.

And what, one wonders, was there to raise a fuss, everything turned out in my opinion, as always - if I want something for real, so it will be, even if for the sake of this it is necessary to change the political system on one sixth of the land; I would now still remember how it is to want for real. It's been a long time since I've been unable to do anything, and I've stopped trying.

The apartment in Staromonetny is the smallest and most unsettled, the only one I don't rent out. It is believed that I live here, in fact, most of the time it is just junk stored and dead araucaria gathering dust, whose restless soul, I have no doubt, rattles at night with ghostly fragments of an earthenware pot. There must be at least some mysticism in my life.

And now I just added two more bags taken from the trunk to the pile of rubbish, I didn’t even ventilate the room - there was no time, then someday, or never, we’ll wait and see.

Next - Belorussky railway station. The travel bag in the locker, the token with the number in my pocket, and running upstairs, the new owner of my Volkswagen is already waiting, ruffled, under the clock. He examined the car on the third day, was so pleased that he almost lost the ability to bargain; just a hassle - giving the keys and a pre-prepared general power of attorney, picking up the money is a matter of minutes. I always try to get rid of the car if I leave the city for more than a month, and when I return, I buy a new one, almost the first one that comes across, I’m too lazy to choose for a long time, and, to tell the truth, it doesn’t matter what I drive, at first I am delighted with of any car, simply because it is new, and in a week it will get boring, I quickly get bored with everything, and who would know how tired I am of myself in thirty years and three years.

From Zamoskvorechye on foot to Malaya Dmitrovka, espresso, another espresso, Pashka finally appeared, I hand over the keys, referring to business, I refuse the offer to dine. He is a cool, muddy fish with a kind heart, he is, as they say, a true friend, more precisely, the rarest kind of friend, ready, in which case, to help with deed, easily, on the run, sincerely believing every generous act of his is sheer nonsense, and the only adequate reaction of the saved is a one-time verbal gratitude; in a word, Pashka is a real treasure, but I have nothing to talk about with him, and not only with him. In theory, silence should have fed me over this winter, but I have just begun to get a taste, so I will dine alone. Or I won’t at all, it seems that I’m also tired of eating, although from time to time I want to, of course, but the process itself is the same thing every day, chewing, swallowing, fie.

Now there is a bookstore and another bookstore, Karl caught himself at the last moment, he sent a long wish list yesterday, of course, I won’t fulfill all his orders, here, in a good way, I need at least a week to search, but I need about a quarter of the list quite capable. A cup of coffee on the run, then another - at this stage I need not so much caffeine as a pause to take a breath, look over the books I bought, look at the clock, flinch, curse, jump up, fumbling in my pockets, and, without waiting for change, run away . The train is only fifty minutes away, and I still have a long, exhausting trip to the Belorussky railway station, two stops on the metro, scary to say.

I did nothing at all, I didn’t even have time to devour, and six hours of my life seemed to have never happened - a common thing, in Moscow everyone lives like that, they always don’t have time for a damn thing, except for the most necessary, and even then due to sleep; here, it seems, there is not a single person who can afford to sleep as much as he wants, even children are chronically sleep deprived. One day, the inhabitants of this city will go crazy with fatigue, it remains to be hoped that everything will be in one day, it will be easier for them to get used to it, and I’m here - not a foot, at least in the coming months, and then come what may.

Max Fry

Yellow metal key

Peter closed the gate behind me.

Su-dieu! - he said diligently, syllable by syllable, rewriting the foreign word in the usual way, and staring at me demandingly in anticipation of an admiring grimace - they say, he gives, he is strong, the dog, his mother! Frankly speaking, I did not feel any confusion, but I did my mimic duty and carefully moved my foot from the brake to the gas.

However, the Petrine era in my life is over; it is unlikely that I will ever return here, except perhaps to visit Pashka, who kindly lent me his white stone tower for a complex but instructive laboratory work on the topic “Will winter drive me crazy in the suburbs?”. The result, in my opinion, came out negative; however, from the side, they say, it is more visible. Well, let's check, the meeting with the largest experts in this field will take place no later than tomorrow.

Sa-yo-nara, Philip Karlovich, - the gate guard boomed after me.

I like Moscow, but this does not prevent me from hating it fiercely. She is the enemy to whom I surrender one battle after another. All megacities are the mouths of the many-headed Kronos, and Moscow is the most insatiable of them. She greedily devours my time, and therefore - myself. By and large, a person has nothing but time and the ability to be aware of its flow; however, in the vast majority this ability is fairly dulled, but the merciful hand of the heavenly anesthesiologist has passed me by, I constantly, with my whole body, feel how time flows through me, spills over the edge, flows away. I'm more or less used to this, or rather, I've learned be distracted but in Moscow, time is gushing out of me like blood from a torn wound, so rapidly that only sincere hatred for the aggressor helps me not to panic.

And what, one wonders, was there to raise a fuss, everything turned out in my opinion, as always, if I want something for real, so it will be, even if for the sake of this it is necessary to change the political system on one sixth of the land; I would now still remember how it is to want for real. It's been a long time since I've been unable to do anything, and I've stopped trying.

And now I just added two more bags taken from the trunk to the pile of rubbish, I didn’t even begin to ventilate the room - once, then someday, or never, wait and see.

Next - Belorussky railway station. Travel bag to the storage room, token with the number in my pocket and run upstairs, the new owner of my Volkswagen is already waiting, ruffled, under the clock. He examined the car on the third day, was so pleased that he almost lost the ability to bargain; just a hassle - to give the keys and a pre-prepared general power of attorney, pick up the money - a matter of minutes. I always try to get rid of the car if I leave the city for more than a month, and when I return, I buy a new one, almost the first one that comes across, I’m too lazy to choose for a long time, and, to tell the truth, it doesn’t matter what I drive, at first I am delighted with of any car, simply because it is new, and in a week it will get boring, I quickly get bored with everything, and who would know how tired I am of myself in thirty years and three years.

From Zamoskvorechye on foot to Malaya Dmitrovka, espresso, another espresso, Pashka finally appeared, I hand over the keys, referring to business, I refuse the offer to dine. He is a cool, muddy fish with a kind heart, he is, as they say, a true friend, more precisely, the rarest kind of friend, ready to help in case of emergency, easily, on the run, sincerely believing every generous act of his is sheer nonsense, and the only adequate reaction of the saved is a one-time verbal gratitude; in a word, Pashka is a real treasure, but I have nothing to talk about with him, and not only with him. In theory, the silence should have fed up with me this winter, but I have just begun to get a taste, so I will dine alone. Or I won’t eat at all, it seems that I’m also tired of eating, although from time to time I want to, of course, but the process itself is the same thing every day, chewing, swallowing, fie.

Now there is a bookstore and another bookstore, Karl caught himself at the last moment, he sent a long wish list yesterday, of course, I won’t fulfill all his orders, here, in a good way, I need at least a week to search, but I need about a quarter of the list quite capable. A cup of coffee on the run, then another - at this stage I need not so much caffeine as a pause to catch my breath, look over the books I bought, look at my watch, flinch, curse, jump up, fumbling in my pockets, and, without waiting for change, run away . The train is only fifty minutes away, and I still have a long exhausting trip to the Belorussky railway station, as many as, scary to say, two metro stops.

I did nothing at all, I didn’t even have time to devour, and six hours of my life seemed to have never happened - a common thing, in Moscow everyone lives like that, they always don’t have time for a damn thing, except for the most necessary, and even then due to sleep; here, it seems, there is not a single person who can afford to sleep as much as he wants, even children are chronically sleep deprived. One day, the inhabitants of this city will go crazy with fatigue, it remains to be hoped that everything will be in one day, it will be easier for them to get used to it, and I won’t be here, at least in the coming months, and then come what may.

Expiring time, I collapsed on a velvet, blue and gold coverlet and offered the usual prayer on the road: “Please, Lord, no neighbors, be a man, I beg You very much.” If I myself had been in the place of God, I would hardly have bothered to fulfill the whims of an uncultivated church misanthrope who remembers me only before the departure of the next long-distance train, but He, unlike me, is not petty, prayer, as always, worked, no one in my compartment did not enter. And when the train slowly crawled away from the platform, the edges of the lacerated wound began to heal, my time thickened and slowed down, so that with a certain imagination it was quite possible to imagine that it would last for a very, very long time, and maybe even forever. I used to be able to do it, but now I can't, but I have to try.

The conductor took the ticket, turned on the TV and, without letting me come to my senses, left. The poor thing, one must think, is convinced that turning on the TV is a beneficence of such magnitude that one can not ask the opinion of the beneficiary, who in their right mind would refuse their happiness? It is probably believed that every minute spent in silence is an almost unbearable torment; perhaps this has already been irrefutably proven by British scientists and seen from space by astronauts. Previously, passengers reached the destination station tormented by silence, barely alive from this torment, but now the golden age has come, a little more, and the confiscation of the TV will remain the only criminal punishment; however, the UN will quickly equate this barbaric method with torture and eradicate it everywhere, there is no doubt.

Max Fry

Yellow metal key

Peter closed the gate behind me.

- Soo-die! - diligently, syllable by syllable, he said, rewriting the foreign word in the usual way, and staring at me demandingly in anticipation of an admiring grimace - they say, he gives, he is strong, the dog, his mother! Frankly speaking, I did not feel any confusion, but I did my mimic duty and carefully moved my foot from the brake to the gas.

However, the Petrine era in my life is over; it is unlikely that I will ever return here, except perhaps to visit Pashka, who kindly lent me his white stone tower for a complex but instructive laboratory work on the topic “Will winter drive me crazy in the suburbs?”. The result, in my opinion, came out negative; however, from the side, they say, it is more visible. Well, let's check, the meeting with the largest experts in this field will take place no later than tomorrow.

“Sa-yo-nara, Philip Karlovich,” the gate guard boomed after me.

I like Moscow, but this does not prevent me from hating it fiercely. She is the enemy to whom I surrender one battle after another. All megacities are the mouths of the many-headed Kronos, and Moscow is the most insatiable of them. She greedily devours my time, and therefore - myself. By and large, a person has nothing but time and the ability to be aware of its flow; however, in the vast majority this ability is fairly dulled, but the merciful hand of the heavenly anesthesiologist has passed me by, I constantly, with my whole body, feel how time flows through me, spills over the edge, flows away. I'm more or less used to this, or rather, I've learned be distracted, but in Moscow, time gushing out of me, like blood from a torn wound, so rapidly that only sincere hatred for the aggressor helps me not to panic.

And what, one wonders, was there to raise a fuss, everything turned out in my opinion, as always, if I want something for real, so it will be, even if for the sake of this it is necessary to change the political system on one sixth of the land; I would now still remember how it is to want for real. It's been a long time since I've been unable to do anything, and I've stopped trying.

The apartment in Staromonetny is the smallest and most unsettled, the only one I don't rent out. It is believed that I live here, in fact, most of the time it is just junk and dusty dead araucaria, whose restless soul, I have no doubt, rattles at night with ghostly fragments of an earthenware pot. There must be at least some mysticism in my life.

And now I just added two more bags taken from the trunk to the pile of rubbish, I didn’t even ventilate the room - there was no time, then someday, or never, we’ll wait and see.

Next - Belorussky railway station. Travel bag to the storage room, token with the number in my pocket and run upstairs, the new owner of my Volkswagen is already waiting, ruffled, under the clock. He examined the car on the third day, was so pleased that he almost lost the ability to bargain; just a hassle - giving the keys and a pre-prepared general power of attorney, picking up the money is a matter of minutes. I always try to get rid of the car if I leave the city for more than a month, and when I return, I buy a new one, almost the first one that comes across, I’m too lazy to choose for a long time, and, to tell the truth, it doesn’t matter what I drive, at first I am delighted with of any car, simply because it is new, and in a week it will get boring, I quickly get bored with everything, and who would know how tired I am of myself in thirty years and three years.

From Zamoskvorechye on foot to Malaya Dmitrovka, espresso, another espresso, Pashka finally appeared, I hand over the keys, referring to business, I refuse the offer to dine. He is a cool, muddy fish with a kind heart, he is, as they say, a true friend, more precisely, the rarest kind of friend, ready in case of something to help with deed, easily, on the run, sincerely believing every generous act of his is sheer nonsense, and the only adequate reaction of the saved is a one-time verbal gratitude; in a word, Pashka is a real treasure, but I have nothing to talk about with him, and not only with him. In theory, silence should have fed me over this winter, but I have just begun to get a taste, so I will dine alone. Or I won’t at all, it seems that I’m also tired of eating, although from time to time I want to, of course, but the process itself is the same thing every day, chewing, swallowing, fie.

I did nothing at all, I didn’t even have time to devour, and six hours of my life seemed to have never happened - a common thing, in Moscow everyone lives like that, they always don’t have time for a damn thing, except for the most necessary, and even then due to sleep; here, it seems, there is not a single person who can afford to sleep as much as he wants, even children are chronically sleep deprived. One day, the inhabitants of this city will go crazy with fatigue, it remains to be hoped that everything will be in one day, it will be easier for them to get used to it, and I won’t be here, at least in the coming months, and then come what may.