Block. "Nightingale Garden". Analysis of the poem. Blok A.A. – Nightingale Garden The plan might be something like this
I break layered rocks
At low tide on the muddy bottom,
And my tired donkey drags
Their pieces are on their furry back.
Let's take it to the railway,
Let's put them in a heap and go to the sea again
Hairy legs lead us
And the donkey starts screaming.
And he screams and trumpets - it’s gratifying,
That goes lightly at least backwards.
And right next to the road it’s cool
And there was a shady garden.
Along the high and long fence
Extra roses are hanging down towards us.
The nightingale's song never ceases,
Streams and leaves whisper something.
The cry of my donkey is heard
Every time at the garden gate,
And in the garden someone laughs quietly,
And then he walks away and sings.
And, delving into the restless melody,
I look, urging the donkey,
Like a rocky and sultry shore
A blue haze descends.
The sultry day burns out without a trace,
The darkness of the night creeps through the bushes;
And the poor donkey is surprised:
“What, master, have you changed your mind?”
Or the mind is clouded by the heat,
Am I daydreaming in the dark?
Only I dream more and more relentlessly
Life is different - mine, not mine...
And why is this cramped hut
I, a poor and destitute man, am waiting,
Repeating an unknown tune,
In the nightingale's ringing garden?
Curses do not reach life
To this walled garden
In the blue twilight there is a white dress
A carved man flashes behind the bars.
Every evening in the sunset fog
I pass by these gates
And she, light, beckons me
And he calls with circling and singing.
And in the inviting circling and singing
I'm catching something forgotten
And I begin to love with languor,
I love the inaccessibility of the fence.
The tired donkey is resting,
A crowbar is thrown on the sand under a rock,
And the owner wanders in love
Behind the night, behind the sultry haze.
And familiar, empty, rocky,
But today is a mysterious path
Leads again to the shady fence,
Running away into the blue haze.
And the languor becomes more and more hopeless,
And hours go by,
And thorny roses today
Sank under the draft of dew.
Is there punishment or reward?
What if I stray from the path?
As if through the door of a nightingale's garden
Knock and can I come in?
And the past seems strange,
And the hand will not return to work:
The heart knows that the guest is welcome
I'll be in the nightingale's garden...
My heart spoke the truth,
And the fence was not scary.
I didn’t knock - I opened it myself
She is an impenetrable door.
Along the cool road, between the lilies,
The streams sang monotonously,
They deafened me with a sweet song,
The nightingales took my soul.
Alien land of unfamiliar happiness
Those who opened their arms to me
And the wrists rang as they fell
Louder than in my poor dream.
Intoxicated with golden wine,
Golden scorched by fire,
I forgot about the rocky path,
About my poor comrade.
Let her hide from long-lasting grief
A wall drowned in roses, -
Silence the roar of the sea
The nightingale's song is not free!
And the alarm that began to sing
The roar of the waves brought me...
Suddenly - a vision: a big road
And the tired tread of a donkey...
And in the fragrant and sultry darkness
Wrapping around a hot hand,
She repeats restlessly:
"What is the matter with you, my beloved?"
But, staring lonely into the darkness,
Hurry to breathe in the bliss,
The distant sound of the tide
The soul cannot help but hear.
I woke up at a misty dawn
It is unknown what day.
She sleeps, smiling like children, -
She had a dream about me.
How enchanting under the morning dusk
The face, transparent with passion, is beautiful!...
By distant and measured blows
I learned that the tide was coming in.
I opened the blue window,
And it seemed as if there was
Behind the distant growl of the surf
An inviting, plaintive cry.
The donkey's cry was long and long,
Penetrated into my soul like a groan,
And I quietly closed the curtains,
To prolong the enchanted sleep.
And, going down the stones of the fence,
I broke the flowers' oblivion.
Their thorns are like hands from the garden,
They clung to my dress.
The path is familiar and previously short
This morning it is flinty and heavy.
I step onto a deserted shore,
Where my home and donkey remain.
Or am I lost in the fog?
Or is anyone joking with me?
No, I remember the outline of the stones,
A skinny bush and a rock above the water...
Where is home? - And sliding foot
I stumble over a thrown crowbar,
Heavy, rusty, under a black rock
Covered in wet sand...
Swinging with a familiar movement
(Or is it still a dream?)
I hit with a rusty crowbar
Along the layered stone at the bottom...
And from there, where the gray octopuses
We swayed in the azure gap,
The agitated crab climbed up
And sat down on the sandbank.
I moved, he stood up,
Widely opening claws,
But now I met someone else,
They got into a fight and disappeared...
And from the path trodden by me,
Where the hut used to be,
A worker with a pick began to descend,
Chasing someone else's donkey.
I break layered rocks
At low tide on the muddy bottom,
And my tired donkey drags
Their pieces are on their furry back.
Let's take it to the railway,
Let's put them in a heap and go to the sea again
Hairy legs lead us
And the donkey starts screaming.
And he screams and trumpets - it’s gratifying,
That goes lightly at least backwards.
And right next to the road it’s cool
And there was a shady garden.
Along the high and long fence
Extra roses are hanging down towards us.
The nightingale's song never ceases,
Streams and leaves whisper something.
The cry of my donkey is heard
Every time at the garden gate,
And in the garden someone laughs quietly,
And then he walks away and sings.
And, delving into the restless melody,
I look, urging the donkey,
Like a rocky and sultry shore
A blue haze descends.
The sultry day burns out without a trace,
The darkness of the night creeps through the bushes;
And the poor donkey is surprised:
“What, master, have you changed your mind?”
Or the mind is clouded by the heat,
Am I daydreaming in the dark?
Only I dream more and more relentlessly
Life is different - mine, not mine...
And why is this cramped hut
I, a poor and destitute man, am waiting,
Repeating an unknown tune,
In the nightingale's ringing garden?
Curses do not reach life
To this walled garden
In the blue twilight there is a white dress
A carved man flashes behind the bars.
Every evening in the sunset fog
I pass by these gates
And she, light, beckons me
And he calls with circling and singing.
And in the inviting circling and singing
I'm catching something forgotten
And I begin to love with languor,
I love the inaccessibility of the fence.
The tired donkey is resting,
A crowbar is thrown on the sand under a rock,
And the owner wanders in love
Behind the night, behind the sultry haze.
And familiar, empty, rocky,
But today is a mysterious path
Leads again to the shady fence,
Running away into the blue haze.
And the languor becomes more and more hopeless,
And hours go by,
And thorny roses today
Sank under the draft of dew.
Is there punishment or reward?
What if I stray from the path?
As if through the door of a nightingale's garden
Knock and can I come in?
And the past seems strange,
And the hand will not return to work:
The heart knows that the guest is welcome
I'll be in the nightingale's garden...
My heart spoke the truth,
And the fence was not scary.
I didn’t knock - I opened it myself
She is an impenetrable door.
Along the cool road, between the lilies,
The streams sang monotonously,
They deafened me with a sweet song,
The nightingales took my soul.
Alien land of unfamiliar happiness
Those who opened their arms to me
And the wrists rang as they fell
Louder than in my poor dream.
Intoxicated with golden wine,
Golden scorched by fire,
I forgot about the rocky path,
About my poor comrade.
Let her hide from long-lasting grief
A wall drowned in roses, -
Silence the roar of the sea
The nightingale's song is not free!
And the alarm that began to sing
The roar of the waves brought me...
Suddenly - a vision: a high road
And the tired tread of a donkey...
And in the fragrant and sultry darkness
Wrapping around a hot hand,
She repeats restlessly:
“What is the matter with you, my beloved?”
But, staring lonely into the darkness,
Hurry to breathe in the bliss,
The distant sound of the tide
The soul cannot help but hear.
I woke up at a misty dawn
It is unknown what day.
She sleeps, smiling like children, -
She had a dream about me.
How enchanting under the morning dusk
The face, transparent with passion, is beautiful!…
By distant and measured blows
I learned that the tide was coming in.
I opened the blue window,
And it seemed as if there was
Behind the distant growl of the surf
An inviting, plaintive cry.
The donkey's cry was long and long,
Penetrated into my soul like a groan,
And I quietly closed the curtains,
To prolong the enchanted sleep.
And, going down the stones of the fence,
I broke the flowers' oblivion.
Their thorns are like hands from the garden,
They clung to my dress.
The path is familiar and previously short
This morning it is flinty and heavy.
I step onto a deserted shore,
Where my home and donkey remain.
Or am I lost in the fog?
Or is anyone joking with me?
No, I remember the outline of the stones,
A skinny bush and a rock above the water...
Where is home? - And with a sliding foot
I trip over a thrown crowbar,
Heavy, rusty, under a black rock
Covered in wet sand...
Swinging with a familiar movement
(Or is it still a dream?)
I hit with a rusty crowbar
Along the layered stone at the bottom...
And from there, where the gray octopuses
We swayed in the azure gap,
The agitated crab climbed up
And sat down on the sandbank.
I moved, he stood up,
Widely opening claws,
But now I met someone else,
They got into a fight and disappeared...
And from the path trodden by me,
Where the hut used to be,
A worker with a pick began to descend,
Chasing someone else's donkey.
Analysis of the poem “The Nightingale Garden” by Blok
The creation of the poem “The Nightingale Garden” is dated from January 6, 1914 to October 14, 1915. It is dedicated to the opera singer Andreeva-Delmas Lyubov Alexandrovna.
The work belongs to the genre of romantic poem. In it, the poet talks about the meaning of life. He divides it into two sides: everyday work for food, and idleness with his idleness. Here the author is faced with the question: what to choose?
The basis of The Nightingale Garden is the difficult life of an ordinary worker. Every day he goes to the railway, near which there is a wonderful garden, with his donkey. He is tempted by the opportunity to enter the shadow of the garden, and he forgets “about the rocky path, about his poor comrade.” But in life you have to pay for pleasure, and in the end the poor worker hurries to his former life, where his house and donkey remain. However, later repentance leads him only to a rusty crowbar - what is left of his house.
The poem contains the following artistic devices:
- Rhyme - alternation of feminine and masculine;
- Paths. Here there is antithesis (the contrast between the garden and the sea), personification (“streams and leaves whisper”), comparison, metonymy (“a white dress flashes”), gradation (“an abandoned crowbar, heavy, rusty”) and assonance (“And the donkey begins to cry And he screams and trumpets - it’s gratifying”).
- Verse size. Here it is defined by a three-foot anapest (emphasis on the third word).
“The Nightingale Garden” refers to the mature period of the poet’s work, where liberation from romance and mysticism is observed. The works of this period are full of everyday life and concreteness. In them there is a transition from symbols to reality. At the same time, in the description of real life, enough symbolism is preserved (“extra roses are hanging from flowers”, “a face, transparent with passion, is beautiful!..”). The image of the sea defines the main symbol of life in the work. When the hero stops hearing its roar, he becomes enchanted by the fictional world. The desire to return to real life helps him to hear the sound of the sea, that is, to feel the thirst to live again.
The poem makes extensive use of contrast. It can be understood as a retreat into an illusory space from historical and life reality. As a result, such a rejection of everyday life leads the main character to a huge loss of all his values, mental and material.
Alexander Blok
NIGHTINGALE GARDEN
I break layered rocks at low tide on the muddy bottom, and my tired donkey drags their pieces on his shaggy back.
Let's carry it to the railway, put it in a heap, and again our hairy legs lead us to the sea, And the donkey begins to scream.
And he screams and trumpets - it’s gratifying that he’s going back lightly. And right next to the road there is a cool and shady garden.
Flowers hang down to us along the high and long fence of extra roses. The nightingale's song does not cease, the streams and leaves whisper something.
The cry of my donkey is heard every time at the garden gate, And in the garden someone laughs quietly, And then he walks away and sings.
And, delving into the restless melody, I watch, urging the donkey, as a blue haze descends onto the rocky and sultry shore.
The sultry day burns out without a trace, The darkness of the night creeps through the bushes; And the poor donkey is surprised: “What, master, have you changed your mind?”
Or is my mind clouded by the heat, Am I daydreaming in the twilight? Only I dream more and more persistently of a different life - mine, not mine...
And what am I, a poor, destitute man, waiting for in this cramped hut, repeating an unknown tune, in the ringing nightingale garden?
The curses of life do not reach this walled garden, In the blue twilight a white dress behind the bars flashes carved.
Every evening in the sunset fog I pass by these gates, And she, light, beckons me And with circling and singing she calls.
And in the inviting circling and singing I catch something forgotten, And I begin to love languor, I love the inaccessibility of the fence.
A tired donkey is resting, A crowbar is thrown on the sand under a rock, And the owner wanders in love Behind the night, behind the sultry haze.
And the familiar, empty, rocky, But today - a mysterious path Once again leads to a shady fence, Running away into the blue darkness.
And the languor becomes more and more hopeless, And the hours go by, And the prickly roses today Have sank under the pull of the dew.
Will there be punishment or reward if I deviate from the path? How would you knock on the door of the nightingale's garden, and can you enter?
And the past seems strange, And the hand cannot return to work: The heart knows that I will be a welcome guest in the nightingale’s garden...
My heart spoke the truth, And the fence was not scary. I didn’t knock - she opened the impregnable doors herself.
Along the cool road, among the lilies, the streams sang monotonously, They deafened me with a sweet song, The nightingales took my soul.
The alien land of unfamiliar happiness Those arms opened to me, And the falling wrists rang Louder than in my beggarly dream.
Intoxicated by golden wine, scorched by golden fire, I forgot about the rocky path, about my poor comrade.
Let the wall drowned in roses shelter you from long-lasting grief, and let the nightingale’s song not be free to drown out the rumble of the sea!
And the alarm that began to sing brought the roar of the waves to me... Suddenly - a vision: a high road And the tired tread of a donkey...
And in the fragrant and sultry darkness, wrapped in a hot hand, she repeats restlessly: “What’s the matter with you, my beloved?”
But, staring lonely into the darkness, the soul can’t help but hear the bliss in a hurry, the distant sound of the tide.
I woke up at the misty dawn of an unknown day. She sleeps, smiling like children, She had a dream about me.
How, under the morning dusk, a charming face, transparent with passion, beautiful!... By the distant and measured blows I learned that the tide was approaching.
I opened the blue window, And it seemed as if an inviting, plaintive cry appeared behind the distant growl of the surf.
The donkey's cry was long and long, Penetrated into my soul like a groan, And I quietly closed the curtains, To prolong the enchanted sleep.
And, going down the stones of the fence, I broke the flowers’ oblivion. Their thorns, like hands from the garden, clung to my dress.
The path is familiar and previously short. This morning it is flinty and heavy. I step onto the deserted shore, where my home and donkey remain.
Or am I lost in the fog? Or is anyone joking with me? No, I remember the outline of the stones, the skinny bush and the rock above the water...
Where is home? - And with a sliding foot I trip over a thrown crowbar, Heavy, rusty, under a black rock Covered in wet sand...
Swinging with a familiar movement (Or is it still in a dream?), I hit the layered stone at the bottom with a rusty crowbar...
And from where the gray octopuses swayed in the azure crevice, an agitated crab climbed up and sat down on the sandy shallows.
I moved, he stood up, opening his claws wide, But now he met another, They got into a fight and disappeared...
And from the path I had trodden, where the hut had been before, a worker with a pick began to descend, chasing someone else’s donkey.
The short poem “The Nightingale Garden” (1915) is one of Blok’s most accomplished works. (It is no coincidence that Blok was often called the singer of “The Nightingale’s Garden”). It reflected the poet’s constant thoughts about his place in life, in the social struggle. The poem helps to understand the very important “turn in life” for Blok from individualism towards rapprochement with the people.
Schoolchildren read "The Nightingale's Garden" with interest. What is the best way to organize work on this poem? It is useful to give each chapter a title. This will allow you to see a very harmonious, clearly thought out composition of the poem.
The plan might be something like this:
- Tiring work and heat.
- Dreams about the "inaccessible fence" of the nightingale's garden.
- The desire to enter the garden.
- "An alien land of unfamiliar happiness."
- “The nightingale’s song is not free to drown out the roar of the sea!”
- Escape from the garden.
- Loss of a former home, job and friend.
After reading the poem, we offer students a task: using the text of the first chapter (and partly the subsequent chapters), trace how the hero’s hard working life is depicted and what is contrasted with it in the poem. They will notice that the chapter is built on contrasts. The “poor, destitute man” lives “in a cramped hut,” his work is exhausting (“a tired donkey,” “it’s gratifying” that he is walking lightly even back.”) And in the garden “the nightingale’s melody does not cease, streams and leaves whisper something.”
In the first chapter, built on contrasts, it is not difficult to detect two opposing lexical layers. The prosaic vocabulary used to describe everyday work (drags, shaggy back, hairy legs, etc.) gives way to romantically upbeat speech when he sings and talks about the nightingale’s garden. The content of the first chapter, which is an exposition, speaks naturally and logically, motivating the events of the second chapter, which constitutes the plot of the plot: a beautiful, mysterious nightingale garden, contrasted with joyless work, gives rise to dreams of a different life.
It is interesting to follow in the second chapter how the hero’s dream of an “impregnable fence” of the garden develops. At the same time, you should pay attention to how Blok was able to convey the power of a persistent dream and reveal the hero’s spiritual world. Something unprecedented is happening to him. Thoughts about the possibility of another life cause dissatisfaction with one’s fate (“And what am I, a poor, destitute man, waiting for in this cramped hut?”), a revaluation of one’s usual work, which is now perceived as a “life of damnation.” The incessant nightingale's melody, "Her" "circling and singing", persistent dreams evoke "hopeless languor" that filled the entire soul, crowding out everything else.
Sketches of nature play an important role in the second chapter. They help to understand how the idea of escaping from the “life of curses” into the calm and serene nightingale garden arises and matures. Dreams and longings appear in the evening hour, when “the sultry day burns out without a trace.” Signs of the coming night are mentioned several times: “in the sunset fog,” “darkness of the night,” “in the blue twilight.” In the sultry evening fog and then in the darkness of the night, clear outlines of objects are not visible; everything around seems unsteady, vague, mysterious. “In the blue twilight, a white dress” flashes like some kind of ghostly vision. “Incomprehensible” is the name given to the chant heard in the garden. With her “whirling and singing,” the girl beckons to her like a magical, fairy-tale force.
Everything connected with the nightingale’s garden is closely intertwined in the hero’s mind with persistent dreams of an unknown life. It is difficult for him to separate the real from the fictional and fantastic. Therefore, the attractive and alluring garden seems inaccessible, like a bright dream, like a pleasant dream. The poet very emotionally and psychologically convincingly shows the impossibility of getting rid of this yearning. Therefore, it is not difficult to say what will happen next: the hero will inevitably go to the nightingale’s garden.
In the third chapter, the “dialectic” of a difficult spiritual struggle is revealed to the reader. The decision to go to the nightingale garden does not arise so suddenly, suddenly. Having abandoned the donkey and the crowbar, “the owner wanders in love,” he again comes to the fence, “the clock is following the clock.” “And the languor becomes more and more hopeless” - it must soon be resolved. And it will probably happen today. A well-known road seems mysterious today. “And the thorny roses fell today under the draft of dew” (Obviously, they will not detain a guest with their thorny thorns if he heads into the garden). The hero is still only asking himself the question: “Is there a punishment waiting for me, or a reward if I deviate from the path?” But if we think about this issue, we can say that essentially a choice has already been made. “And the past seems strange, and the hand cannot return to work.” A turning point in the hero’s soul has already occurred; it is clear to us that he, not satisfied with his previous life, will try to fulfill his dream.
The fourth chapter, which tells about the achievement of a cherished dream, is logically clearly distinguished from the previous one and at the same time naturally connected with it. The “bridge” connecting them is the phrase: “My heart knows that I will be a welcome guest in the nightingale’s garden:.” The new chapter begins with a continuation of this thought: “My heart has spoken the truth:.” What did the hero find behind the impregnable garden fence?
Along the cool road, between the lines,
The streams sang monotonously,
They deafened me with a sweet song,
The nightingales took my soul.
Alien land of unfamiliar happiness
Those who opened their arms to me
And the wrists rang as they fell
Louder than in my poor dream.
Why did the poet consider it necessary to reveal to the reader all the charm of this heavenly bliss?
The dream did not deceive the hero; the “alien land of unfamiliar happiness” turned out to be even more beautiful than it was in the lover’s dreams. He reached the pinnacle of his bliss and forgot about everything else. The situation in which the “poor and destitute man” finds himself is capable of charming and captivating everyone. Few would be able to resist the temptation to surrender to this wonderful, almost heavenly life, to refuse the opportunity to experience happiness. And it is quite natural that the hero, having reached the pinnacle of bliss, “forgot about the rocky path, about his poor comrade.”
This phrase leads us to a new “key,” a new chapter, a new thought. Is it possible to forget your comrade, your work, your duty? And did the hero of the poem really forget about all this?
Let her hide from long-lasting grief
A wall drowned in roses, -
Silence the roar of the sea
The nightingale's song is not free!
“The roar of the sea”, “the roar of the waves”, “the distant sound of the tide” turn out to be much stronger than the nightingale’s song. This is quite true from the point of view of simple plausibility. Let us remember at the same time something else. The nightingale and the rose are traditional images of tender love in world lyric poetry. For many poets, the sea acts as a symbol; we can say that Blok affirms the need to subordinate personal interests to public ones.
Despite everything, “the soul cannot help but hear the distant sound of the tide.” The next, sixth chapter talks about the escape of the hero of the poem from the nightingale garden. Let's ask students questions:
What is the role of the sixth chapter of the poem?
Was it possible to do without her?
Why not simply write that the hero left the garden as soon as he realized that this had to be done?
Chapter six makes the reader feel how difficult it was to leave the garden. The hero was enchanted not only by the coolness, flowers and nightingale songs. With him was a beauty who discovered “an alien land of unfamiliar happiness.”
She is not an evil sorceress, a temptress who lured her victim in order to destroy. No, this is a caring, passionately loving woman, childishly tender, sincere and trusting.
She drinks, smiling like children, -
She had a dream about me.
She is concerned, noticing some kind of anxiety in the soul of her lover. It is difficult for the hero to leave the garden not only because he deprives himself of bliss. It’s a pity to leave such a pure, trusting, loving creature and to destroy “her” happiness. And you need to have great mental strength in order to leave the beautiful garden, no matter what, responding to the call of life. Without seeing these difficulties, without learning about the happiness that the hero of the poem is forced to give up, readers would not be able to understand and appreciate his action.
What new thought is connected with the seventh and final chapter? It would seem that, having left the nightingale's garden, the hero will continue his work as before. But in the same place there was neither a hut nor a donkey, only a rusty scrap covered with sand was lying around. An attempt to break a stone with a “familiar movement” meets resistance. The “agitated crab” “rose up, opening its claws wide,” as if protesting against the return to work of someone who had already lost the right to it. Another one has now taken his place.
And from the path trodden by me,
Where the hut used to be,
A worker with a pick began to descend,
Chasing someone else's donkey.
The attempt to escape from the “life of curses” into the serene nightingale garden did not go unpunished. The seventh chapter of the poem leads us to this thought.
After familiarizing themselves with the contents of all chapters, students draw a conclusion about the significance of “The Nightingale Garden” in the debate about the role and purpose of the poet. With his poem, Blok argues that the poet should actively participate in public life and fulfill his civic duty, and not take refuge in the serene garden of “pure art.”
We invite students to name the poets of “pure art,” Blok’s predecessors and teachers. Recalling the literary tastes and hobbies of the author of The Nightingale Garden, schoolchildren will name, along with other poets, A.A. Fet, whose poems Blok knew and loved well. The teacher will read A. Fet's poem "The Key".
Students will note what the poem “The Nightingale Garden” has in common with Fetov’s poem. Fet managed to convey the enchanting and alluring charm of “refreshing moisture”, a shady grove and a nightingale’s call. Blok’s nightingale garden is depicted in the same attractive way. The lyrical hero of the poem "The Key" strives for that bliss that, we saw, the hero of "The Nightingale's Garden" found behind the "wall drowned in roses." Blok's poem resembles the poem "The Key" in its rhythm, melodiousness, and similar images and symbols.
It should be noted that literary scholars in their studies drew attention to the subtext of “The Nightingale Garden”, to the polemical orientation of this poem by Blok in relation to A. Fet’s poem “The Key”. This idea was first expressed by V.Ya. Kirpotin in the article “The Polemical Subtext of the Nightingale Garden.” He was joined by V. Orlov in his comments to the Nightingale Garden, and L. Dolgopolov in his monograph on Blok’s poems.
No matter how attractive the “nightingale’s garden” may seem, no matter how difficult it is to part with it, it is the poet’s duty to go into the thick of life, responding to its calls. Therefore, it was especially important for Blok to show life in the nightingale’s garden so enchanting and captivating. And it was necessary to talk about her in the same captivating, mellifluous verses.
From the drafts of the poem one can see that it was originally constructed as a third-person narrative. Subsequently replacing the narrator's face, Blok made the story more emotional, closer to the reader, and introduced autobiographical elements into it. Thanks to this, readers perceive the poem not as a story about the sad fate of some poor man, but as an excited confession of the narrator about his experiences, about his spiritual struggle. The meaning of “The Nightingale Garden” cannot therefore be reduced only to a polemic with Fet or other supporters of “pure art”. This poem, V. Kirpotin concludes, was not only “a response to a multi-branched and noisy dispute about the purpose of the writer and about the paths of the Russian intelligentsia.” In his work, Blok “created an answer in which he said goodbye to his own past, or, rather, to much of his own past.” “The polemic with Fet,” writes L. Dolgopolov, “developed into a polemic with himself.”
C This process was false for Blok. He does not hide difficult, painful experiences from his readers, and opens his soul to us. Extreme sincerity and frankness, the ability to convey the subtlest shades of spiritual life - this is perhaps the strongest side of Blok’s poetry. The poem "The Nightingale Garden" helps to see the difficult path along which the poet walked towards his main feat of life - the creation of the poem "The Twelve".
Literature.
- Blok A.A. "Lyrics" - M.: Pravda, 1985.
- Gorelov A. "Essays on Russian writers."
- L., Soviet writer, 1968.
- Fet A.A. "Complete collection of poems" L., Soviet writer. 1959.
- Questions of literature. 1959, No. 6, p. 178-181
- Dolgopolov L.K. "Blok's poems and Russian poems of the late 19th and early 20th centuries", M. - L., Nauka, 1964, p. 135-136.
