The bell rang when Andrei Petrovich had already lost all hope.

Hello, I'm following an ad. Do you give literature lessons?

Andrei Petrovich peered at the videophone screen. A man in his late thirties. Strictly dressed - suit, tie. He smiles, but his eyes are serious. Andrei Petrovich’s heart sank; he posted the ad online only out of habit. There were six calls in ten years. Three got the wrong number, two more turned out to be insurance agents working the old fashioned way, and one confused literature with a ligature.

“I give lessons,” Andrei Petrovich said, stuttering with excitement. - N-at home. Are you interested in literature?

“Interested,” the interlocutor nodded. - My name is Max. Let me know what the conditions are.

"For nothing!" - Andrei Petrovich almost burst out.

“Pay is hourly,” he forced himself to say. - By agreement. When would you like to start?

I, actually... - the interlocutor hesitated.

Let’s do it tomorrow,” Maxim said decisively. - Will ten in the morning suit you? I take the kids to school by nine and then I'm free until two.

“It will work,” Andrei Petrovich was delighted. - Write down the address.

Tell me, I'll remember.

***

That night Andrei Petrovich did not sleep, walked around the tiny room, almost a cell, not knowing what to do with his hands shaking from anxiety. For twelve years now he had been living on a beggar's allowance. From the very day he was fired.

“You are too narrow a specialist,” said the director of the lyceum for children with humanitarian inclinations, hiding his eyes. - We value you as an experienced teacher, but unfortunately this is your subject. Tell me, do you want to retrain? The lyceum could partially pay the cost of training. Virtual ethics, the basics of virtual law, the history of robotics - you could very well teach this. Even cinema is still quite popular. Of course, he doesn’t have much time left, but for your lifetime... What do you think?

Andrei Petrovich refused, which he later regretted. It was not possible to find a new job, literature remained in a few educational institutions, the last libraries were closed, philologists, one after another, retrained in all sorts of different ways.

For a couple of years he visited the thresholds of gymnasiums, lyceums and special schools. Then he stopped. I spent six months taking retraining courses. When his wife left, he left them too.

The savings quickly ran out, and Andrei Petrovich had to tighten his belt. Then sell the aircar, old but reliable. An antique set left over from my mother, with things behind it. And then... Andrei Petrovich felt sick every time he remembered this - then it was the turn of the books. Ancient, thick, paper ones, also from my mother. Collectors gave good money for rarities, so Count Tolstoy fed him for a whole month. Dostoevsky - two weeks. Bunin - one and a half.

As a result, Andrei Petrovich was left with fifty books - his favorite ones, re-read a dozen times, those that he could not part with. Remarque, Hemingway, Marquez, Bulgakov, Brodsky, Pasternak... The books stood on a bookcase, occupying four shelves, Andrei Petrovich wiped dust from the spines every day.

“If this guy, Maxim,” Andrei Petrovich thought randomly, nervously pacing from wall to wall, “if he... Then, perhaps, it will be possible to buy back Balmont. Or Murakami. Or Amada.”

It’s nothing, Andrei Petrovich suddenly realized. It doesn't matter whether you can buy it back. He can convey, this is it, this is the only important thing. Hand over! To convey to others what he knows, what he has.

***

Maxim rang the doorbell at exactly ten o'clock, every minute.

Come in,” Andrei Petrovich began to fuss. - Take a seat. So, actually... Where would you like to start?

Maxim hesitated and carefully sat down on the edge of the chair.

Whatever you think is necessary. You see, I'm a layman. Full. They didn't teach me anything.

Yes, yes, of course,” Andrei Petrovich nodded. - Like everyone else. Literature has not been taught in secondary schools for almost a hundred years. And now they no longer teach in special schools.

Nowhere? - Maxim asked quietly.

I'm afraid not anywhere anymore. You see, at the end of the twentieth century a crisis began. There was no time to read. First for children, then the children grew up, and their children no longer had time to read. Even more time than parents. Other pleasures have appeared - mostly virtual. Games. All sorts of tests, quests... - Andrei Petrovich waved his hand. - Well, and of course, technology. Technical disciplines began to supplant the humanities. Cybernetics, quantum mechanics and electrodynamics, high energy physics. And literature, history, geography faded into the background. Especially literature. Are you following, Maxim?

Yes, please continue.

In the twenty-first century, books were no longer printed; paper was replaced by electronics. But even in the electronic version, the demand for literature fell rapidly, several times in each new generation compared to the previous one. As a result, the number of writers decreased, then there were none at all - people stopped writing. Philologists lasted a hundred years longer - due to what was written in the previous twenty centuries.

Andrei Petrovich fell silent and wiped his suddenly sweaty forehead with his hand.

It’s not easy for me to talk about this,” he finally said. - I realize that the process is natural. Literature died because it did not get along with progress. But here are the children, you understand... Children! Literature was what shaped minds. Especially poetry. That which determined a person’s inner world, his spirituality. Children grow up soulless, that’s what’s scary, that’s what’s terrible, Maxim!

Problems:
- the role of literature in human life;
-the role of a teacher in a person’s life;
- how the essence of man and his humanity are manifested;
-what is altruism;
-what fills human life with meaning, what is the meaning of life (using the example of a teacher).
-technological progress (can technology replace everything? is there a place for culture and art in the world of science and technology?)
-negative consequences of scientific and technological revolution

THE CANDLE WAS BURNING

Reading time for the story is 14 minutes.

The candle was burning. Mike Gelprin

“Interested,” the interlocutor nodded. - My name is Max. Let me know what the conditions are.
“For nothing!” - Andrei Petrovich almost burst out.
“Pay is hourly,” he forced himself to say. - By agreement. When would you like to start?
“I, actually...” the interlocutor hesitated.
“The first lesson is free,” Andrei Petrovich hastily added. - If you don’t like it, then...
“Let’s do it tomorrow,” Maxim said decisively. - Will ten in the morning suit you? I take the kids to school by nine and then I'm free until two.
“It will work,” Andrei Petrovich rejoiced. - Write down the address.
- Tell me, I'll remember.
That night Andrei Petrovich did not sleep, walked around the tiny room, almost a cell, not knowing what to do with his hands shaking from anxiety. For twelve years now he had been living on a beggar's allowance. From the very day he was fired.
“You are too narrow a specialist,” said the director of the lyceum for children with humanitarian inclinations, hiding his eyes. - We value you as an experienced teacher, but unfortunately this is your subject. Tell me, do you want to retrain? The lyceum could partially pay the cost of training. Virtual ethics, the basics of virtual law, the history of robotics - you could very well teach this. Even cinema is still quite popular. Of course, he doesn’t have much time left, but for your lifetime... What do you think?
Andrei Petrovich refused, which he later regretted. It was not possible to find a new job, literature remained in a few educational institutions, the last libraries were closed, philologists, one after another, retrained in all sorts of different ways. For a couple of years he visited the thresholds of gymnasiums, lyceums and special schools. Then he stopped. I spent six months taking retraining courses. When his wife left, he left them too.
The savings quickly ran out, and Andrei Petrovich had to tighten his belt. Then sell the aircar, old but reliable. An antique set left over from my mother, with things behind it. And then... Andrei Petrovich felt sick every time he remembered this - then it was the turn of the books. Ancient, thick, paper ones, also from my mother. Collectors gave good money for rarities, so Count Tolstoy fed him for a whole month. Dostoevsky - two weeks. Bunin - one and a half.
As a result, Andrei Petrovich was left with fifty books - his favorite ones, re-read a dozen times, those that he could not part with. Remarque, Hemingway, Marquez, Bulgakov, Brodsky, Pasternak... The books stood on a bookcase, occupying four shelves, Andrei Petrovich wiped dust from the spines every day.
“If this guy, Maxim,” Andrei Petrovich thought randomly, nervously pacing from wall to wall, “if he... Then, perhaps, it will be possible to buy Balmont back. Or Murakami. Or Amadou."
It’s nothing, Andrei Petrovich suddenly realized. It doesn't matter whether you can buy it back. He can convey, this is it, this is the only important thing. Hand over! To convey to others what he knows, what he has.
Maxim rang the doorbell at exactly ten o'clock, every minute.
“Come in,” Andrei Petrovich began to fuss. - Take a seat. Here, actually... Where would you like to start?
Maxim hesitated and carefully sat down on the edge of the chair.
- Why do you think it is necessary? You see, I'm a layman. Full. They didn't teach me anything.
“Yes, yes, naturally,” Andrei Petrovich nodded. - Like everyone else. Literature has not been taught in secondary schools for almost a hundred years. And now they no longer teach in special schools.
- Nowhere? - Maxim asked quietly.
- I'm afraid not anywhere anymore. You see, at the end of the twentieth century a crisis began. There was no time to read. First for children, then the children grew up, and their children no longer had time to read. Even more time than parents. Other pleasures have appeared - mostly virtual. Games. All sorts of tests, quests... - Andrei Petrovich waved his hand. - Well, and of course, technology. Technical disciplines began to supplant the humanities. Cybernetics, quantum mechanics and electrodynamics, high energy physics. And literature, history, geography faded into the background. Especially literature. Are you following, Maxim?
- Yes, continue, please.
- In the twenty-first century, they stopped printing books, paper was replaced by electronics. But even in the electronic version, the demand for literature fell rapidly, several times in each new generation compared to the previous one. As a result, the number of writers decreased, then there were none at all - people stopped writing. Philologists lasted a hundred years longer - due to what was written in the previous twenty centuries.
Andrei Petrovich fell silent and wiped his suddenly sweaty forehead with his hand.
“It’s not easy for me to talk about this,” he said finally. - I realize that the process is natural. Literature died because it did not get along with progress. But here are the children, you understand... Children! Literature was what shaped minds. Especially poetry. That which determined a person’s inner world, his spirituality. Children grow up soulless, that’s what’s scary, that’s what’s terrible, Maxim!
- I came to this conclusion myself, Andrei Petrovich. And that is why I turned to you.
- Do you have children?
“Yes,” Maxim hesitated. - Two. Pavlik and Anechka are the same age. Andrey Petrovich, I just need the basics. I will find literature on the Internet and read it. I just need to know what. And what to focus on. You learn me?
“Yes,” Andrei Petrovich said firmly. - I’ll teach you.
He stood up, crossed his arms over his chest, and concentrated.
“Parsnips,” he said solemnly. - Chalk, chalk all over the earth, to all limits. The candle was burning on the table, the candle was burning...
- Will you come tomorrow, Maxim? - Andrei Petrovich asked, trying to calm the trembling in his voice.
- Definitely. Only now... You know, I work as a manager for a wealthy married couple. I manage the household, business, and balance the bills. My salary is low. But I,” Maxim looked around the room, “can bring food.” Some things, perhaps household appliances. On account of payment. Will it suit you?
Andrei Petrovich involuntarily blushed. He would be happy with it for nothing.
“Of course, Maxim,” he said. - Thank you. I'm waiting for you tomorrow.
“Literature is not only what is written about,” said Andrei Petrovich, walking around the room. - This is also how it is written. Language, Maxim, is the very tool that great writers and poets used. Listen here.
Maxim listened intently. It seemed that he was trying to remember, to learn the teacher’s speech by heart.
“Pushkin,” Andrei Petrovich said and began to recite.
"Tavrida", "Anchar", "Eugene".
Lermontov "".

Baratynsky, Yesenin, Mayakovsky, Blok, Balmont, Akhmatova, Gumilyov, Mandelstam, Vysotsky...
Maxim listened.
- Aren't you tired? - asked Andrei Petrovich.
- No, no, what are you talking about? Please continue.
The day gave way to a new one. Andrei Petrovich perked up, awakened to life, in which meaning suddenly appeared. Poetry was replaced by prose, which took much more time, but Maxim turned out to be a grateful student. He caught it on the fly. Andrei Petrovich never ceased to be amazed at how Maxim, who at first was deaf to the word, not perceiving, not feeling the harmony embedded in the language, comprehended it every day and knew it better, deeper than the previous one.
Balzac, Hugo, Maupassant, Dostoevsky, Turgenev, Bunin, Kuprin.
Bulgakov, Hemingway, Babel, Remarque, Marquez, Nabokov.
Eighteenth century, nineteenth, twentieth.
Classics, fiction, fantasy, detective.
Stevenson, Twain, Conan Doyle, Sheckley, Strugatsky, Weiner, Japrisot.
One day, on Wednesday, Maxim did not come. Andrei Petrovich spent the whole morning waiting, convincing himself that he could get sick. I couldn’t, whispered an inner voice, persistent and absurd. Scrupulous, pedantic Maxim could not. He has never been a minute late in a year and a half. And then he didn’t even call. By evening, Andrei Petrovich could no longer find a place for himself, and at night he never slept a wink. By ten in the morning he was completely exhausted, and when it became clear that Maxim would not come again, he wandered to the videophone.
“The number has been disconnected from service,” said a mechanical voice.
The next few days passed like one bad dream. Even my favorite books did not save me from acute melancholy and a newly emerging feeling of worthlessness, which Andrei Petrovich did not remember for a year and a half. To call hospitals, morgues, there was an obsessive buzzing in my temple. So what should I ask? Or about whom? Didn’t a certain Maxim, about thirty years old, excuse me, I don’t know his last name?
Andrei Petrovich got out of the house when it became unbearable to be within four walls anymore.
- Ah, Petrovich! - old man Nefyodov, a neighbor from below, greeted. - Long time no see. Why don’t you go out? Are you ashamed or something? So it seems like you have nothing to do with it.
- In what sense am I ashamed? - Andrei Petrovich was dumbfounded.
“Well, what is this, yours,” Nefyodov ran the edge of his hand across his throat. - Who came to see you. I kept wondering why Petrovich, in his old age, got involved with this public.
- What are you about? - Andrei Petrovich felt cold inside. - With what audience?
- It is known which one. I see these little darlings right away. I think I worked with them for thirty years.
- Who are they with? - Andrei Petrovich begged. -What are you even talking about?
- Don’t you really know? - Nefyodov was alarmed. - Look at the news, they are talking about it everywhere.
Andrei Petrovich did not remember how he got to the elevator. He went up to the fourteenth and with shaking hands fumbled for the key in his pocket. On the fifth attempt, I opened it, trotted over to the computer, connected to the network, and scrolled through the news feed. My heart suddenly sank with pain. Maxim looked from the photo, the lines of italics under the photo blurred before his eyes.
“Caught by the owners,” Andrei Petrovich read from the screen with difficulty focusing his vision, “of stealing food, clothing and household appliances. Home robot tutor, DRG-439K series. Control program defect. He stated that he independently came to the conclusion about childhood lack of spirituality, which he decided to fight. Unauthorizedly taught children subjects outside the school curriculum. He hid his activities from his owners. Withdrawn from circulation... In fact, disposed of.... The public is concerned about the manifestation... The issuing company is ready to bear... A specially created committee decided...".
Andrei Petrovich stood up. On stiff legs he walked to the kitchen. He opened the cupboard and on the bottom shelf stood an open bottle of cognac that Maxim had brought as payment for his tuition fees. Andrei Petrovich tore off the cork and looked around in search of a glass. I couldn’t find it and tore it out of my throat. He coughed, dropped the bottle, and staggered back against the wall. His knees gave way and Andrei Petrovich sank heavily to the floor.
Down the drain, came the final thought. Everything is down the drain. All this time he trained the robot.
A soulless, defective piece of hardware. I put everything I have into it. Everything that makes life worth living. Everything he lived for.
Andrei Petrovich, overcoming the pain that grabbed his heart, stood up. He dragged himself to the window and closed the transom tightly. Now a gas stove. Open the burners and wait half an hour. That's all.
The doorbell rang and caught him halfway to the stove. Andrei Petrovich, gritting his teeth, moved to open it. Two children stood on the threshold. A boy of about ten years old. And the girl is a year or two younger.
- Do you give literature lessons? - the girl asked, looking from under her bangs falling into her eyes.
- What? - Andrei Petrovich was taken aback. - Who are you?
“I’m Pavlik,” the boy took a step forward. - This is Anya, my sister. We are from Max.
- From... From whom?!
“From Max,” the boy repeated stubbornly. - He told me to convey it. Before he... what's his name...
- Chalk, chalk all over the earth to all limits! - the girl suddenly shouted loudly.
Andrei Petrovich grabbed his heart, swallowing convulsively, stuffed it, pushed it back into his chest.
- Are you kidding? - he said quietly, barely audible.
“The candle was burning on the table, the candle was burning,” the boy said firmly. - He told me to convey this, Max. Will you teach us?
Andrei Petrovich, clinging to the door frame, stepped back.
“Oh my God,” he said. - Come in. Come in, children.

The Candle Was Burning Mike Gelprin

(No ratings yet)

Title: The candle was burning

About the book “The Candle Was Burning” by Mike Gelprin

Mike Gelprin was born in 1961, but began his literary career only in 2006. At first he wrote stories dedicated to certain gambling games, since he himself had been a professional gambler for a long time. But a year later, the aspiring writer switched to the “science fiction” genre. Several collections of his stories and novels were subsequently published. The author’s works should be read, first of all, by those readers who are already familiar with his work.

Mike Helprin himself admits that his most interesting work is the story “The Candle Was Burning.” The author has a unique attitude towards himself and his work. He asks not to call him a writer, because he believes that he lacks the professional skills for this. He is convinced that his creativity is more of an illness than a gift.

The story “The Candle Was Burning” is a story about the confrontation between creativity and civilizational progress, which can lead to tragic consequences. It was very difficult for literature to get along with new inventions, and it lost its relevance. This led to many people losing contact with the spiritual world.

Mike Gelprin is trying to find answers to complex questions related to the further development of public institutions and modern technologies. Will technological progress bring happiness to the average person or become his curse? Will people be able to preserve their unique inner world? The story “The Candle Was Burning” raises many complex and pressing issues that humanity may face in the near future.

The main character is Andrei Petrovich, who is very painfully experiencing all the changes that have happened in the world. He finds himself on the margins of the social order and delves into memories of a world that is in the distant past. He cannot adapt to the changes, so he retires to his apartment.

Mike Gelprin's main focus is on breaking the ties between reality and the fictional world. And the main connecting link is the book. The main character has a very large library, which he inherited from his mother, and thus he manages to maintain some kind of connection between generations.

Books, of course, are a very important part of the life of any educated person, because they allow people, no matter what, to maintain a spiritual connection with each other. The story “The Candle Was Burning” is worth reading for all those who want to experience strong emotions and unforgettable moments.

On our website about books lifeinbooks.net you can download for free without registration or read online the book “The Candle Was Burning” by Mike Gelprin in epub, fb2, txt, rtf, pdf formats for iPad, iPhone, Android and Kindle. The book will give you a lot of pleasant moments and real pleasure from reading. You can buy the full version from our partner. Also, here you will find the latest news from the literary world, learn the biography of your favorite authors. For beginning writers, there is a separate section with useful tips and tricks, interesting articles, thanks to which you yourself can try your hand at literary crafts.

BOOKSHELF FOR TAKEERS OF THE USE IN THE RUSSIAN LANGUAGE

Dear applicants!

Having analyzed your questions and essays, I conclude that the most difficult thing for you is the selection of arguments from literary works. The reason is that you don't read much. I won’t say unnecessary words for edification, but will recommend SMALL works that you can read in a few minutes or an hour. I am sure that in these stories and stories you will discover not only new arguments, but also new literature.

Tell us what you think about our bookshelf >>

Gelprin Mike "The Candle Was Burning"

A story about our future without books and the love of reading.

Tell me, what book have you read recently? And when was this? We have no time to read, no time to think, no time to give free rein to our imagination, no time to enjoy language, style, history. We put everything off and put it off. But what if you try to imagine what will happen when the hectic pace of life and progress leads to the fact that literature ceases to be necessary, withers away and remains only in the hearts of devoted anachronistic people?

Mike Gelprin wrote a story, “The Candle Was Burning,” in which he described a similar situation. Read it, please. And when you have time, go to the bookshelf and choose something interesting.

The bell rang when Andrei Petrovich had already lost all hope.
- Hello, I'm following an ad. Do you give literature lessons?
Andrei Petrovich peered at the videophone screen. A man in his late thirties. Strictly dressed - suit, tie. He smiles, but his eyes are serious. Andrei Petrovich’s heart sank; he posted the ad online only out of habit. There were six calls in ten years. Three got the wrong number, two more turned out to be insurance agents working the old fashioned way, and one confused literature with a ligature.

“I give lessons,” Andrei Petrovich said, stuttering with excitement. - N-at home. Are you interested in literature?
“Interested,” the interlocutor nodded. - My name is Max. Let me know what the conditions are.
“For nothing!” - Andrei Petrovich almost burst out.
“Pay is hourly,” he forced himself to say. - By agreement. When would you like to start?
“I, actually...” the interlocutor hesitated.
“The first lesson is free,” Andrei Petrovich hastily added. - If you don't like it, then...
“Let’s do it tomorrow,” Maxim said decisively. - Will ten in the morning suit you? I take the kids to school by nine and then I'm free until two.
“It will work,” Andrei Petrovich rejoiced. - Write down the address.
- Tell me, I'll remember.

That night Andrei Petrovich did not sleep, walked around the tiny room, almost a cell, not knowing what to do with his hands shaking from anxiety. For twelve years now he had been living on a beggar's allowance. From the very day he was fired.
“You are too narrow a specialist,” said the director of the lyceum for children with humanitarian inclinations, hiding his eyes. - We value you as an experienced teacher, but unfortunately this is your subject. Tell me, do you want to retrain? The lyceum could partially pay the cost of training. Virtual ethics, the basics of virtual law, the history of robotics - you could very well teach this. Even cinema is still quite popular. Of course, he doesn’t have much time left, but for your lifetime... What do you think?

Andrei Petrovich refused, which he later regretted. It was not possible to find a new job, literature remained in a few educational institutions, the last libraries were closed, philologists, one after another, retrained in all sorts of different ways. For a couple of years he visited the thresholds of gymnasiums, lyceums and special schools. Then he stopped. I spent six months taking retraining courses. When his wife left, he left them too.

The savings quickly ran out, and Andrei Petrovich had to tighten his belt. Then sell the aircar, old but reliable. An antique set left over from my mother, with things behind it. And then... Andrei Petrovich felt sick every time he remembered this - then it was the turn of the books. Ancient, thick, paper ones, also from my mother. Collectors gave good money for rarities, so Count Tolstoy fed him for a whole month. Dostoevsky - two weeks. Bunin - one and a half.

As a result, Andrei Petrovich was left with fifty books - his favorite ones, re-read a dozen times, those that he could not part with. Remarque, Hemingway, Marquez, Bulgakov, Brodsky, Pasternak... The books stood on a bookcase, occupying four shelves, Andrei Petrovich wiped dust from the spines every day.

“If this guy, Maxim,” Andrei Petrovich thought randomly, nervously pacing from wall to wall, “if he... Then, perhaps, it will be possible to buy Balmont back. Or Murakami. Or Amadou."
It’s nothing, Andrei Petrovich suddenly realized. It doesn't matter whether you can buy it back. He can convey, this is it, this is the only important thing. Hand over! To convey to others what he knows, what he has.

Maxim rang the doorbell at exactly ten o'clock, every minute.
“Come in,” Andrei Petrovich began to fuss. - Take a seat. So, actually... Where would you like to start?
Maxim hesitated and carefully sat down on the edge of the chair.
- Why do you think it is necessary? You see, I'm a layman. Full. They didn't teach me anything.
“Yes, yes, naturally,” Andrei Petrovich nodded. - Like everyone else. Literature has not been taught in secondary schools for almost a hundred years. And now they no longer teach in special schools.
- Nowhere? - Maxim asked quietly.
- I'm afraid not anywhere anymore. You see, at the end of the twentieth century a crisis began. There was no time to read. First for children, then the children grew up, and their children no longer had time to read. Even more time than parents. Other pleasures have appeared - mostly virtual. Games. All sorts of tests, quests... - Andrei Petrovich waved his hand. - Well, and of course, technology. Technical disciplines began to supplant the humanities. Cybernetics, quantum mechanics and electrodynamics, high energy physics. And literature, history, geography faded into the background. Especially literature. Are you following, Maxim?
- Yes, continue, please.

In the twenty-first century, books were no longer printed; paper was replaced by electronics. But even in the electronic version, the demand for literature fell rapidly, several times in each new generation compared to the previous one. As a result, the number of writers decreased, then there were none at all - people stopped writing. Philologists lasted a hundred years longer - due to what was written in the previous twenty centuries.
Andrei Petrovich fell silent and wiped his suddenly sweaty forehead with his hand.

It’s not easy for me to talk about this,” he finally said. - I realize that the process is natural. Literature died because it did not get along with progress. But here are the children, you understand... Children! Literature was what shaped minds. Especially poetry. That which determined a person’s inner world, his spirituality. Children grow up soulless, that’s what’s scary, that’s what’s terrible, Maxim!
- I came to this conclusion myself, Andrei Petrovich. And that is why I turned to you.
- Do you have children?
“Yes,” Maxim hesitated. - Two. Pavlik and Anechka are the same age. Andrey Petrovich, I just need the basics. I will find literature on the Internet and read it. I just need to know what. And what to focus on. You learn me?
“Yes,” Andrei Petrovich said firmly. - I’ll teach you.

He stood up, crossed his arms over his chest, and concentrated.
“Parsnips,” he said solemnly. - Chalk, chalk all over the earth, to all limits. The candle was burning on the table, the candle was burning...

Will you come tomorrow, Maxim? - Andrei Petrovich asked, trying to calm the trembling in his voice.
- Definitely. Only here... You know, I work as a manager for a wealthy married couple. I manage the household, business, and balance the bills. My salary is low. But I,” Maxim looked around the room, “can bring food.” Some things, perhaps household appliances. On account of payment. Will it suit you?
Andrei Petrovich involuntarily blushed. He would be happy with it for nothing.
“Of course, Maxim,” he said. - Thank you. I'm waiting for you tomorrow.

“Literature is not only what is written about,” said Andrei Petrovich, walking around the room. - This is also how it is written. Language, Maxim, is the very tool that great writers and poets used. Listen here.

Maxim listened intently. It seemed that he was trying to remember, to learn the teacher’s speech by heart.
“Pushkin,” Andrei Petrovich said and began to recite.
"Tavrida", "Anchar", "Eugene Onegin".
Lermontov "Mtsyri".
Baratynsky, Yesenin, Mayakovsky, Blok, Balmont, Akhmatova, Gumilev, Mandelstam, Vysotsky...
Maxim listened.
- Aren't you tired? - asked Andrei Petrovich.
- No, no, what are you talking about? Please continue.

The day gave way to a new one. Andrei Petrovich perked up, awakened to life, in which meaning suddenly appeared. Poetry was replaced by prose, which took much more time, but Maxim turned out to be a grateful student. He caught it on the fly. Andrei Petrovich never ceased to be amazed at how Maxim, who at first was deaf to the word, not perceiving, not feeling the harmony embedded in the language, comprehended it every day and knew it better, deeper than the previous one.

Balzac, Hugo, Maupassant, Dostoevsky, Turgenev, Bunin, Kuprin.
Bulgakov, Hemingway, Babel, Remarque, Marquez, Nabokov.
Eighteenth century, nineteenth, twentieth.
Classics, fiction, fantasy, detective.
Stevenson, Twain, Conan Doyle, Sheckley, Strugatsky, Weiner, Japrisot.

One day, on Wednesday, Maxim did not come. Andrei Petrovich spent the whole morning waiting, convincing himself that he could get sick. I couldn’t, whispered an inner voice, persistent and absurd. Scrupulous, pedantic Maxim could not. He has never been a minute late in a year and a half. And then he didn’t even call. By evening, Andrei Petrovich could no longer find a place for himself, and at night he never slept a wink. By ten in the morning he was completely exhausted, and when it became clear that Maxim would not come again, he wandered to the videophone.
“The number has been disconnected from service,” said a mechanical voice.

The next few days passed like one bad dream. Even my favorite books did not save me from acute melancholy and a newly emerging feeling of worthlessness, which Andrei Petrovich did not remember for a year and a half. To call hospitals, morgues, there was an obsessive buzzing in my temple. So what should I ask? Or about whom? Didn’t a certain Maxim, about thirty years old, excuse me, I don’t know his last name?

Andrei Petrovich got out of the house when it became unbearable to be within four walls anymore.
- Ah, Petrovich! - old man Nefyodov, a neighbor from below, greeted. - Long time no see. Why don’t you go out? Are you ashamed or something? So it seems like you have nothing to do with it.
- In what sense am I ashamed? - Andrei Petrovich was dumbfounded.
“Well, what is this, yours,” Nefyodov ran the edge of his hand across his throat. - Who came to see you. I kept wondering why Petrovich, in his old age, got involved with this public.
- What are you about? - Andrei Petrovich felt cold inside. - With what audience?
- It is known which one. I see these little darlings right away. I think I worked with them for thirty years.
- Who are they with? - Andrei Petrovich begged. -What are you even talking about?
- Don’t you really know? - Nefyodov was alarmed. - Look at the news, they are talking about it everywhere.

Andrei Petrovich did not remember how he got to the elevator. He went up to the fourteenth and with shaking hands fumbled for the key in his pocket. On the fifth attempt, I opened it, trotted over to the computer, connected to the network, and scrolled through the news feed. My heart suddenly sank with pain. Maxim looked from the photo, the lines of italics under the photo blurred before his eyes.

“Caught by the owners,” Andrei Petrovich read from the screen with difficulty focusing his vision, “of stealing food, clothing and household appliances. Home robot tutor, DRG-439K series. Control program defect. He stated that he independently came to the conclusion about childhood lack of spirituality, which he decided to fight. Unauthorizedly taught children subjects outside the school curriculum. He hid his activities from his owners. Withdrawn from circulation... In fact, disposed of.... The public is concerned about the manifestation... The issuing company is ready to bear... A specially created committee decided...”

Andrei Petrovich stood up. On stiff legs he walked to the kitchen. He opened the cupboard and on the bottom shelf stood an open bottle of cognac that Maxim had brought as payment for his tuition fees. Andrei Petrovich tore off the cork and looked around in search of a glass. I couldn’t find it and tore it out of my throat. He coughed, dropped the bottle, and staggered back against the wall. His knees gave way and Andrei Petrovich sank heavily to the floor.

Down the drain, came the final thought. Everything is down the drain. All this time he trained the robot.

A soulless, defective piece of hardware. I put everything I have into it. Everything that makes life worth living. Everything he lived for.

Andrei Petrovich, overcoming the pain that grabbed his heart, stood up. He dragged himself to the window and closed the transom tightly. Now a gas stove. Open the burners and wait half an hour. That's all.

The doorbell rang and caught him halfway to the stove. Andrei Petrovich, gritting his teeth, moved to open it. Two children stood on the threshold. A boy of about ten years old. And the girl is a year or two younger.
- Do you give literature lessons? - the girl asked, looking from under her bangs falling into her eyes.
- What? - Andrei Petrovich was taken aback. - Who are you?
“I’m Pavlik,” the boy took a step forward. - This is Anya, my sister. We are from Max.
- From... From whom?!
“From Max,” the boy repeated stubbornly. - He told me to convey it. Before he... what's his name...

Chalk, chalk all over the earth to all limits! - the girl suddenly shouted loudly.
Andrei Petrovich grabbed his heart, swallowing convulsively, stuffed it, pushed it back into his chest.
- Are you kidding? - he said quietly, barely audible.

The candle was burning on the table, the candle was burning,” the boy said firmly. - He told me to convey this, Max. Will you teach us?
Andrei Petrovich, clinging to the door frame, stepped back.
“Oh my God,” he said. - Come in. Come in, children.

Mike Gelprin, New York (Seagull Magazine dated 09/16/2011)

The bell rang when Andrei Petrovich had already lost all hope.
- Hello, I'm following an ad. Do you give literature lessons?

Andrei Petrovich peered at the videophone screen. A man in his late thirties. Strictly dressed - suit, tie. He smiles, but his eyes are serious. Andrei Petrovich’s heart sank; he posted the ad online only out of habit. There were six calls in ten years. Three got the wrong number, two more turned out to be insurance agents working the old fashioned way, and one confused literature with a ligature.

“I give lessons,” Andrei Petrovich said, stuttering with excitement. - N-at home. Are you interested in literature?
“Interested,” the interlocutor nodded. - My name is Max. Let me know what the conditions are.
“For nothing!” - Andrei Petrovich almost burst out.
“Pay is hourly,” he forced himself to say. - By agreement. When would you like to start?
“I, actually...” the interlocutor hesitated.
“The first lesson is free,” Andrei Petrovich hastily added. - If you don’t like it, then...
“Let’s do it tomorrow,” Maxim said decisively. - Will ten in the morning suit you? I take the kids to school by nine and then I'm free until two.
“It will work,” Andrei Petrovich rejoiced. - Write down the address.
- Tell me, I'll remember.

That night Andrei Petrovich did not sleep, walked around the tiny room, almost a cell, not knowing what to do with his hands shaking from anxiety. For twelve years now he had been living on a beggar's allowance. From the very day he was fired.

“You are too narrow a specialist,” said the director of the lyceum for children with humanitarian inclinations, hiding his eyes. - We value you as an experienced teacher, but unfortunately this is your subject. Tell me, do you want to retrain? The lyceum could partially pay the cost of training. Virtual ethics, the basics of virtual law, the history of robotics - you could very well teach this. Even cinema is still quite popular. Of course, he doesn’t have much time left, but for your lifetime... What do you think?

Andrei Petrovich refused, which he later regretted. It was not possible to find a new job, literature remained in a few educational institutions, the last libraries were closed, philologists, one after another, retrained in all sorts of different ways. For a couple of years he visited the thresholds of gymnasiums, lyceums and special schools. Then he stopped. I spent six months taking retraining courses. When his wife left, he left them too.

The savings quickly ran out, and Andrei Petrovich had to tighten his belt. Then sell the aircar, old but reliable. An antique set left over from my mother, with things behind it. And then... Andrei Petrovich felt sick every time he remembered this - then it was the turn of the books. Ancient, thick, paper ones, also from my mother. Collectors gave good money for rarities, so Count Tolstoy fed him for a whole month. Dostoevsky - two weeks. Bunin - one and a half.

As a result, Andrei Petrovich was left with fifty books - his favorite ones, re-read a dozen times, those that he could not part with. Remarque, Hemingway, Marquez, Bulgakov, Brodsky, Pasternak... The books stood on a bookcase, occupying four shelves, Andrei Petrovich wiped dust from the spines every day.

“If this guy, Maxim,” Andrei Petrovich thought randomly, nervously pacing from wall to wall, “if he... Then, perhaps, it will be possible to buy Balmont back. Or Murakami. Or Amadou."

It’s nothing, Andrei Petrovich suddenly realized. It doesn't matter whether you can buy it back. He can convey, this is it, this is the only important thing. Hand over! To convey to others what he knows, what he has.

Maxim rang the doorbell at exactly ten o'clock, every minute.
“Come in,” Andrei Petrovich began to fuss. - Take a seat. Here, actually... Where would you like to start?
Maxim hesitated and carefully sat down on the edge of the chair.
- Why do you think it is necessary? You see, I'm a layman. Full. They didn't teach me anything.
“Yes, yes, naturally,” Andrei Petrovich nodded. - Like everyone else. Literature has not been taught in secondary schools for almost a hundred years. And now they no longer teach in special schools.
- Nowhere? - Maxim asked quietly.
- I'm afraid not anywhere anymore. You see, at the end of the twentieth century a crisis began. There was no time to read. First for children, then the children grew up, and their children no longer had time to read. Even more time than parents. Other pleasures have appeared - mostly virtual. Games. All sorts of tests, quests... - Andrei Petrovich waved his hand. - Well, and of course, technology. Technical disciplines began to supplant the humanities. Cybernetics, quantum mechanics and electrodynamics, high energy physics. And literature, history, geography faded into the background. Especially literature. Are you following, Maxim?
- Yes, continue, please.

In the twenty-first century, books were no longer printed; paper was replaced by electronics. But even in the electronic version, the demand for literature fell rapidly, several times in each new generation compared to the previous one. As a result, the number of writers decreased, then there were none at all - people stopped writing. Philologists lasted a hundred years longer - due to what was written in the previous twenty centuries.

Andrei Petrovich fell silent and wiped his suddenly sweaty forehead with his hand.

It’s not easy for me to talk about this,” he finally said. - I realize that the process is natural. Literature died because it did not get along with progress. But here are the children, you understand... Children! Literature was what shaped minds. Especially poetry. That which determined a person’s inner world, his spirituality. Children grow up soulless, that’s what’s scary, that’s what’s terrible, Maxim!
- I came to this conclusion myself, Andrei Petrovich. And that is why I turned to you.
- Do you have children?
“Yes,” Maxim hesitated. - Two. Pavlik and Anechka are the same age. Andrey Petrovich, I just need the basics. I will find literature on the Internet and read it. I just need to know what. And what to focus on. You learn me?
“Yes,” Andrei Petrovich said firmly. - I’ll teach you.

He stood up, crossed his arms over his chest, and concentrated.
“Parsnips,” he said solemnly. - Chalk, chalk all over the earth, to all limits. The candle was burning on the table, the candle was burning...

Will you come tomorrow, Maxim? - Andrei Petrovich asked, trying to calm the trembling in his voice.
- Definitely. Only now... You know, I work as a manager for a wealthy married couple. I manage the household, business, and balance the bills. My salary is low. But I,” Maxim looked around the room, “can bring food.” Some things, perhaps household appliances. On account of payment. Will it suit you?
Andrei Petrovich involuntarily blushed. He would be happy with it for nothing.
“Of course, Maxim,” he said. - Thank you. I'm waiting for you tomorrow.

“Literature is not only what is written about,” said Andrei Petrovich, walking around the room. - This is also how it is written. Language, Maxim, is the very tool that great writers and poets used. Listen here.
Maxim listened intently. It seemed that he was trying to remember, to learn the teacher’s speech by heart.

Pushkin,” said Andrei Petrovich and began to recite.
"Tavrida", "Anchar", "Eugene Onegin".
Lermontov "Mtsyri".
Baratynsky, Yesenin, Mayakovsky, Blok, Balmont, Akhmatova, Gumilyov, Mandelstam, Vysotsky...
Maxim listened.
- Aren't you tired? - asked Andrei Petrovich.
- No, no, what are you talking about? Please continue.

The day gave way to a new one. Andrei Petrovich perked up, awakened to life, in which meaning suddenly appeared. Poetry was replaced by prose, which took much more time, but Maxim turned out to be a grateful student. He caught it on the fly. Andrei Petrovich never ceased to be amazed at how Maxim, who at first was deaf to the word, not perceiving, not feeling the harmony embedded in the language, comprehended it every day and knew it better, deeper than the previous one.

Balzac, Hugo, Maupassant, Dostoevsky, Turgenev, Bunin, Kuprin.
Bulgakov, Hemingway, Babel, Remarque, Marquez, Nabokov.
Eighteenth century, nineteenth, twentieth.
Classics, fiction, fantasy, detective.
Stevenson, Twain, Conan Doyle, Sheckley, Strugatsky, Weiner, Japrisot.

One day, on Wednesday, Maxim did not come. Andrei Petrovich spent the whole morning waiting, convincing himself that he could get sick. I couldn’t, whispered an inner voice, persistent and absurd. Scrupulous, pedantic Maxim could not. He has never been a minute late in a year and a half. And then he didn’t even call. By evening, Andrei Petrovich could no longer find a place for himself, and at night he never slept a wink. By ten in the morning he was completely exhausted, and when it became clear that Maxim would not come again, he wandered to the videophone.
“The number has been disconnected from service,” said a mechanical voice.

The next few days passed like one bad dream. Even my favorite books did not save me from acute melancholy and a newly emerging feeling of worthlessness, which Andrei Petrovich did not remember for a year and a half. To call hospitals, morgues, there was an obsessive buzzing in my temple. So what should I ask? Or about whom? Didn’t a certain Maxim, about thirty years old, excuse me, I don’t know his last name?

Andrei Petrovich got out of the house when it became unbearable to be within four walls anymore.
- Ah, Petrovich! - old man Nefyodov, a neighbor from below, greeted. - Long time no see. Why don’t you go out? Are you ashamed or something? So it seems like you have nothing to do with it.
- In what sense am I ashamed? - Andrei Petrovich was dumbfounded.
“Well, what is this, yours,” Nefyodov ran the edge of his hand across his throat. - Who came to see you. I kept wondering why Petrovich, in his old age, got involved with this public.
- What are you about? - Andrei Petrovich felt cold inside. - With what audience?
- It is known which one. I see these little darlings right away. I think I worked with them for thirty years.
- Who are they with? - Andrei Petrovich begged. -What are you even talking about?
- Don’t you really know? - Nefyodov was alarmed. - Look at the news, they are talking about it everywhere.

Andrei Petrovich did not remember how he got to the elevator. He went up to the fourteenth and with shaking hands fumbled for the key in his pocket. On the fifth attempt, I opened it, trotted over to the computer, connected to the network, and scrolled through the news feed. My heart suddenly sank with pain. Maxim looked from the photo, the lines of italics under the photo blurred before his eyes.

“Caught by the owners,” Andrei Petrovich read from the screen with difficulty focusing his vision, “of stealing food, clothing and household appliances. Home robot tutor, DRG-439K series. Control program defect. He stated that he independently came to the conclusion about childhood lack of spirituality, which he decided to fight. Unauthorizedly taught children subjects outside the school curriculum. He hid his activities from his owners. Withdrawn from circulation... In fact, disposed of.... The public is concerned about the manifestation... The issuing company is ready to bear... A specially created committee decided...".

Andrei Petrovich stood up. On stiff legs he walked to the kitchen. He opened the cupboard and on the bottom shelf stood an open bottle of cognac that Maxim had brought as payment for his tuition fees. Andrei Petrovich tore off the cork and looked around in search of a glass. I couldn’t find it and tore it out of my throat. He coughed, dropped the bottle, and staggered back against the wall. His knees gave way and Andrei Petrovich sank heavily to the floor.

Down the drain, came the final thought. Everything is down the drain. All this time he trained the robot.

A soulless, defective piece of hardware. I put everything I have into it. Everything that makes life worth living. Everything he lived for.

Andrei Petrovich, overcoming the pain that grabbed his heart, stood up. He dragged himself to the window and closed the transom tightly. Now a gas stove. Open the burners and wait half an hour.

The doorbell rang and caught him halfway to the stove. Andrei Petrovich, gritting his teeth, moved to open it. Two children stood on the threshold. A boy of about ten years old. And the girl is a year or two younger.

Do you give literature lessons? - the girl asked, looking from under her bangs falling into her eyes.
- What? - Andrei Petrovich was taken aback. - Who are you?
“I’m Pavlik,” the boy took a step forward. - This is Anya, my sister. We are from Max.
- From... From whom?!
“From Max,” the boy repeated stubbornly. - He told me to convey it. Before he... what's his name...
- Chalk, chalk all over the earth to all limits! - the girl suddenly shouted loudly.

Andrei Petrovich grabbed his heart, swallowing convulsively, stuffed it, pushed it back into his chest.
- Are you kidding? - he said quietly, barely audible.
“The candle was burning on the table, the candle was burning,” the boy said firmly. - He told me to convey this, Max. Will you teach us?

Andrei Petrovich, clinging to the door frame, stepped back.
“Oh my God,” he said. - Come in. Come in, children.

Mike Gelprin, New York (Seagull Magazine dated 09/16/2011)