A year without Zhvanetsky: the world coped with the loss, but it doesn't make it any easier

A year has passed. Zhvanetsky is gone... And the world, instead of flying out of orbit, rushes on, as if nothing had happened. Did it happen or not? Is a holy place ever empty?

Photo: Shutterstock

It happened. A holy place is empty. So, it was empty too. The only thing. Special. Irreplaceable. Have we noticed that he is not there? We, ordinary people - who knew him or just enjoyed the sparkling talent of a sad genius that was familiar over the years? I think not really. Moreover, COVID-19 jumped and turned the whole world upside down. There is no time for humor, and not even for satire ... But there is a hole in the heart. She is implicit, not always reminiscent of herself, but quietly and periodically aching. But she should be there - and there is no escape. And do not mend it, poor thing, and it will never overgrow. Although no, not like that. When his generation is gone - those who did not know how to live without his accurate analysis of what was happening, splitting, sometimes on the verge of a foul criticism of everyone and everything - then it will be more difficult. How to convey to modern youth "crayfish by five" or "Sidorov is a cashier" and "Associate professor is stupid"? No way. This is a foreign language for them, in which they do not speak and, accordingly, do not understand what is said in it.

Of course it is sad. Very sorry.

On the subject: An open letter to the memory of Zhvanetsky: why am I sad and happy at the same time

But on the other hand, you never know how life will turn out. And maybe, it just might be that the wheel of fortune spins in an unexpected direction, and it will become clear and understandable to our grandchildren and their grandchildren ... too ... I don't know how, but I really want to hope. Such a layer of life, culture, brilliant foresight and the ability to find white in black and vice versa should not be lost. This will be a crime against humanity.

I personally think so.

In memory of a departed genius...

The poet of folk thoughts is gone,

The prose writer of souls, the singer of passions,

His life rushed so quickly ...

One for all ... although ... no one ...

He did not know how to keep silent even once,

I noticed every little thing,

Regularly removed the infection

On the national pedestal.

He joked seriously, his heart was on his heels,

Then into disarray, and gallop again ...

Loose, like those magpies,

Our world, an expired roll ...

And that's it, he left, said - cut it off,

Put a point on the sheet

Scratching iron in the soul of love

And we're in naive simplicity

We run again in the morning and on,

In harness with every scoundrel

And a note of undivided falsehood

It hits in the face with an alarm bell ...

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