The artistic world of Tatyana Tolstoy. Methodological development in literature (grade 11) on the topic: “What is the benefit to a person if he gains the whole world, but damages his soul?” (Gospel of Matthew ch. 16) (based on the story “Blank Slate” by T. Tolstoy) Integrated

The Dream of the Soul in Tatyana Tolstoy’s story “Clean Slate”

The plot of Tatyana Tolstoy’s story “A Blank Slate” is typical of the “era of the nineties”: Ignatiev, exhausted by everyday troubles, worries and longing for the unrealizable, decides to undergo an operation to remove the suffering soul, wanting to become powerful in this world. The result is predictable: he turns into one of those impersonal, soulless people about whom Yevgeny Zamyatin wrote in the science fiction novel “We.”

By losing the ability to compassion, the hero loses the main component of human happiness - the ability to make others happy, his neighbors and those far away.

Soulless people really walk the earth. Literally. It has become fashionable to write about zombies now. New details on this topic are appearing in newspapers and magazines. But even earlier, Sergei Yesenin remarked:

“I’m scared - because the soul is passing,

Like youth and like love."

The soul passes. You don’t even need to “extract” it.

People often become colder and callous over the years.

Tatyana Tolstaya in her work asks the most important questions:

What happens to the soul?

In what depths, in what abysses does she hide?

Where does it go or how is it transformed, what does this eternal longing for truth, goodness, beauty turn into?

Tatyana Tolstaya knows that there are no clear answers to these questions. To stage them, she uses (following Zamyatin) the techniques of fiction.

Having presented her hero, who easily parted with his soul, in a new capacity with a blank sheet of paper in his hands, the writer just as easily parted with him, without giving an answer as to how one can overcome such a terrifying “cleansing of souls” that become indifferent. The hero became a blank slate. One could write on it:

“And with all my soul, which I don’t feel sorry for

Drown everything in the mysterious and sweet,

Light sadness takes over,

How moonlight takes over the world."

Ignatiev’s soul was overcome by melancholy. Longing, doubt, pity, compassion - this is the way of existence of the soul in a person, because it is a “dweller of other places.” Ignatiev became faint-hearted and could not stand her presence in himself. By deciding to have the operation, he signed his own death warrant - he lost his immortal soul, he lost everything (but he thought that he had gained everything!).

Though weak, but alive, doubtful, but full of reverent fatherly love and tenderness (“he jumped with a push and rushed through the door to the barred crib”), restless, but pitying his wife and admiring her (“The wife is a saint”), Ignatiev was interesting auto RU.

Having ceased to suffer, he ceased to occupy the writer. Everyone knows what a soulless person he is.

On his blank sheet of paper he will write a complaint - the first thing he was going to do after the operation. And Tosca will never come to him again, sit on the edge of his bed, or take his hand. Ignatiev will not feel how from the depths, from the abyss, “the Living One comes out of the dugouts somewhere.” From now on, his destiny is loneliness and emptiness. Everyone leaves him - both the author and the reader, since he is now a dead man, “an empty, hollow body.”

What did Tatyana Tolstaya want to tell us? Why is she talking about what is already known? This is how we see it.

The phrases have become established: “to destroy your soul”, “to save your soul”, that is, a person, being an earthly and mortal being, has the power to save or destroy his immortal unearthly soul.

There are five men (one of them a boy) and five women in the story. Everyone is unhappy, especially women. The first is Ignatiev’s wife. The second is Anastasia, his beloved. The third is his friend's divorced wife. The fourth one left the office of the big boss in tears, who was the first to get rid of the soul. The fifth listens into the telephone receiver to the entreaties of a dark-skinned man whose “entire living space is covered in carpets.”

“Woman”, “wife” is the soul. But Tatyana Tolstaya never says this word. Creates a taboo. (Doesn't want to say it in vain?)

How does the story begin? - “The wife is sleeping.”

Ignatiev's soul sleeps. She is sick and weak. It seems that Tatyana Tolstaya is talking about her, describing Ignatiev’s wife and child: “exhausted,” “weak sprout,” “little cinder.” Could Ignatiev become strong and lead his family out of pain and sorrow? It’s unlikely, because it is said: “Whoever doesn’t have it, it will be taken away from him.”

Having removed the soul, Ignatiev immediately decides to get rid of what reminds him of it - its visible embodiment - his loved ones.

Look at the people closest to you. This is the visible embodiment of your invisible soul. How are they next to you? This is the case with you and your soul.

He affirms this idea in his small masterpiece - the story “Blank Slate”.

Notes

Thick sheet. with Yesenin with Mariengof (“There is unbridled happiness in friendship...” // Yesenin’s collected works: In 7 volumes – M.: Nauka, 1996. Vol. 4. Poems not included in the “Collected Poems” - 1996. – P. 184-185. At home // collected works in three volumes: T.1. – M.: Terra, 2000. – P. 78.

Blank slate, tell me about
What have I not told the people before?
How to share Golgotha ​​with Christ,
How not to bow to the freak prince.

How to honor honor for life,
Don't exchange grief for snotty behavior.
How can we survive and survive?
Seeing the vile...

https://www.site/poetry/1121329

Blank sheet of paper...

Blank sheet of paper
lies on the table,
Where is the inspiration?
Why is it not in a hurry?

I'll open the curtains
I'll look at the sky
Thoughts are like shackles
The whole body was shackled.

Am I strong enough?
The heart thirsts for will.
I'll give him freedom
If only there was no pain.

https://www.site/poetry/14356

Blank slates from a past life...

Children's dreams shattered
In which you and I were.
The mirror of all dreams broke,
And the lines of secret prose were erased.

And all sorrows were forgotten,
Which maybe you didn't know.
Blank sheets opened up.
“In a new way, yourself, let’s live!”

Then I needed you...

https://www.site/poetry/124289

Blank sheet in my hand

A blank sheet of paper is in my hand, and there is a pen in my pocket.
It's a rainy day, but the cloud won't cover me
Reflections in the Neva, all the bridges with palaces
Birds flying in the distance and temples with Kupala

I never get tired of looking at the creators of creation
Glory to old Peter for...

https://www.site/poetry/163952

Blank sheet

The white leaf smells fresh,
Pristine purity.
He is inexperienced, sinless.
There is still peace in it.

There is no pain or passion in him,
No sadness, no resentment.
The leaf may even be happy,
Which is quietly silent.

But the handle has already crept up.
In it...

https://www.site/poetry/1129436

Blank sheet

I want to talk to someone...you're thinking about no one...not everyone can understand you, because questions always arise in our heads exactly when we don't expect it, and it happens that the answers are right next to the questions...if you start a conversation with someone ...

https://www.site/poetry/194774

Sketch of a Blank Slate

But to admit means to understand, and no one in the world can understand, and in the end they simply agree with you. II Clean sheet- these are all kinds of boundaries and spaces. Yes! As you noticed, I repeated myself. But it's worth nothing, because it's an inglorious end for this... gray purring cat, with narrowed eyes, lazily opening them at the crackle of the fireplace. IV And here, before you sheet. It gives you endless possibilities, do whatever you want! Write poetry, write a story, an essay, a memoir, create a new formula for...

Author Tolstaya Tatyana Nikitichna

Blank sheet

The wife lay down on the sofa in the nursery and fell asleep: nothing is more exhausting than a sick child. And it’s good, let him sleep there. Ignatiev covered her with a blanket, stomped around, looked at her open mouth, her haggard face, the growing blackness of her hair - she had not pretended to be blonde for a long time - he felt sorry for her, felt sorry for the frail, white, sweating Valerik again, felt sorry for himself, left, lay down and now lay sleepless, looked at the ceiling.

Every night, longing came to Ignatiev. Heavy, vague, with her head bowed, she sat on the edge of the bed and took her hand - a sad nurse to a hopeless patient. They remained silent for hours, hand in hand.

The night house rustled, shuddered, lived; Bald spots appeared in the vague hum - there was a dog barking, there was a snippet of music, and there the elevator was tapping, going up and down on a thread - a night boat. Hand in hand, Ignatiev was silent with sadness; locked in his chest, gardens, seas, cities were tossing and turning, their owner was Ignatiev, with him they were born, with him they were doomed to dissolve into oblivion. My poor world, your ruler is stricken with melancholy. Residents, paint the sky a twilight color, sit on the stone thresholds of abandoned houses, drop your hands, lower your heads - your good king is sick. Lepers, walk along deserted alleys, ring brass bells, bring bad news: brothers, melancholy is coming to the cities. The hearths are abandoned, and the ashes have cooled, and the grass makes its way between the slabs where the market squares were noisy. Soon a low red moon will rise in the inky sky, and, emerging from the ruins, the first wolf, raising its muzzle, will howl and send a lonely cry upward, into the icy expanses, to the distant blue wolves sitting on branches in the black thickets of alien universes.

Ignatiev did not know how to cry and therefore smoked. The light flashed like small, toy lightning. Ignatiev lay there, sad, felt the bitterness of tobacco and knew that there was truth in it. Bitterness, smoke, a tiny oasis of light in the darkness - this is peace. A water tap sounded behind the wall. The sallow, tired, dear wife sleeps under a torn blanket. Little white Valerik was scattered about, a frail, painful sprout, pitiful to the point of spasm - rash, glands, dark circles under the eyes. And somewhere in the city, in one of the illuminated windows, the unfaithful, unsteady, evasive Anastasia is drinking red wine and laughing, not with Ignatiev. Look at me... but she grins and looks away.

Ignatiev turned on his side. Toska moved closer to him, waved her ghostly sleeve - ships floated out in a line. The sailors drank with the native girls in taverns, the captain sat on the veranda of the governor (cigars, liqueurs, a tame parrot), the watchman left his post to gaze at the cockfight, at the bearded woman in the motley patchwork booth; The ropes were quietly untied, the night breeze blew, and the old sailboats, creaking, left the harbor to God knows where. Sick children and little trusting boys are sleeping soundly in the cabins; snore while holding a toy in their fist; the blankets slide off, the deserted decks sway, a flock of ships floats away into the impenetrable darkness with a soft splash, and narrow pointed traces smooth out on the warm black surface.

Melancholy waved its sleeve - spread out the endless rocky desert - frost glistens on the cold rocky plain, the stars froze indifferently, the white moon indifferently draws circles, the bridle of a steadily walking camel jingles sadly - a horseman, wrapped in a striped Bukhara frozen fabric, is approaching. Who are you, rider? Why did you let go of the reins? Why did you cover up your face? Let me take your numb hands away! What is this, rider, are you dead?.. The rider’s mouth gapes like a bottomless pit, his hair is tangled, and deep mournful furrows have been drawn on his cheeks by thousands of years of flowing tears.

A wave of the sleeve. Anastasia, will-o'-the-wisps over the swamp bog. What was that booming in the thicket? No need to look back. A hot flower beckons you to step onto the springy brown hummocks. A rare, restless fog is walking - it will lie down, then hang over the kind, inviting moss; a red flower floats, blinks through white puffs: come here, come here. One step - is it scary? One more step - are you afraid? Furry heads stand in the moss, smiling, winking all over their faces. Loud dawn. Don't be afraid, the sun won't rise. Don't worry, we still have fog. Step. Step. Step. Swims, laughs, the flower bursts into flames. Don't look back!!! I think it will come to hand. I think it will work out after all. It will work, I think. Step.

E-and-and-and-and, - moaned in the next room. Ignatiev jumped into the door with a push, rushed to the barred crib - what are you, what are you? The confused wife jumped up, the sheets, Valerik’s blanket were tugging, disturbing each other - doing something, moving, fussing! The little white head tossed about in his sleep, wandering: ba-da-da, ba-da-da! Quick muttering, pushing away with his hands, calmed down, turned around, lay down... He went into dreams alone, without his mother, without me, along a narrow path under the spruce vaults.

“What is he?” - “The temperature again. I’ll lie down here.” - “Lie down, I brought a blanket. I’ll give you a pillow now.” “He’ll be like this until the morning. Close the door. If you want to eat, there are cheesecakes.” - “I don’t want, I don’t want anything. Sleep."

Toska waited, lay in a wide bed, moved, made room for Ignatiev, hugged him, laid her head on his chest, on the felled gardens, shallow seas, ashes of cities.

But not everyone has been killed yet: in the morning, when Ignatiev is sleeping, the Living One comes out of the dugouts; rakes away charred logs, plants small sprouts of seedlings: plastic primroses, cardboard oaks; carries cubes, builds makeshift huts, fills sea bowls from a child's watering can, cuts out pink, bug-eyed crabs from a blotter, and draws a dark, winding line of the surf with a simple pencil.

After work, Ignatiev did not immediately go home, but drank beer with a friend in the cellar. He was always in a hurry to take the best place - in the corner, but this was rarely possible. And while he was in a hurry, avoiding puddles, quickening his pace, patiently waiting out the roaring rivers of cars, melancholy hurried behind him, huddled among the people; here and there its flat, blunt head emerged. There was no way to get rid of her; the doorman allowed her into the cellar, and Ignatiev was happy if his friend arrived quickly. Old friend, school friend! He waved his hand from afar, nodded, smiled with his sparse teeth; thinning hair curled over his old, worn jacket. His children were already adults. His wife left him a long time ago, and he did not want to marry again. But with Ignatiev it was the other way around. They met joyfully, and separated irritated, dissatisfied with each other, but the next time everything was repeated all over again. And when the friend, out of breath, nodded to Ignatiev, making his way among the arguing tables, then in Ignatiev’s chest, in the solar plexus, the Living One raised its head and also nodded and waved its hand.

They took beer and salty snacks.

“I’m in despair,” said Ignatiev, “I’m simply in despair.” I'm confused. How complicated everything is. The wife is a saint. She quit her job and is sitting with Valera. He is sick, sick all the time. My legs don't walk well. Such a small cinder. It's a little warm. Doctors, injections, he is afraid of them. Screams. I can't hear him cry. The main thing for him is care, well, she’s just giving it her all. Everything turned black. Well, I just can’t go home. Yearning. My wife doesn't look me in the eye. And what's the point? I’ll read “Turnip” to Valera at night, but it’s still melancholy. And it’s all a lie; once a turnip is stuck, you can’t get it out. I know. Anastasia... You call and call - she is not at home. And if at home, what should she talk to me about? About Valera? About the service? It’s bad, you know, it’s pressing. Every day I promise myself: tomorrow I will wake up a different person, I will cheer up. I’ll forget Anastasia, I’ll earn a lot of money, I’ll take Valera to the south... I’ll renovate the apartment, I’ll run around in the morning... And at night I’ll be sad.

“I don’t understand,” said a friend, “why are you trying to get away with it?” Everyone has approximately the same circumstances, what's the matter? We live somehow.

You understand: here,” Ignatiev pointed to his chest, “it’s alive, alive, it hurts!”

What a fool, - a friend was brushing his tooth with a match. - That’s why it hurts because it’s alive. What did you want?

And I want it not to hurt. But it’s hard for me. But just imagine, I’m suffering. And the wife suffers, and Valerochka suffers, and Anastasia probably also suffers and turns off the phone. And we all torture each other.

What a fool. Don't suffer.

But I can not.

What a fool. Just think, the world's sufferer! You just don’t want to be healthy, cheerful, fit, you don’t want to be the master of your life.

“I’ve reached the point,” said Ignatiev, clutching his hair with his hands and looking dully into the foam-smeared mug.

Baba you. You revel in your imaginary torments.

No, not a woman. No, I don't get drunk. I am sick and want to be healthy.

And if so, realize that the diseased organ must be amputated. Like an appendix.

Ignatiev raised his head and was amazed.

So how?

I said.

In what sense amputate?

In medical. Now they are doing it.

The friend looked around, lowering his voice and began to explain: there is such an institute, it’s not far from Novoslobodskaya, so they operate there; Of course, this is still semi-official, private, but it is possible. Of course, the doctor needs to give it a go. People come out completely renewed. Didn't Ignatiev hear? In the West this is done on a grand scale, but in our country it is done under the counter. Inertness because. Bureaucracy.

Ignatiev listened stunned.

But did they at least... experiment on dogs first?

The friend tapped his forehead.

You think and then speak. Dogs don't have it. They have reflexes. Pavlov's teaching.

Ignatiev thought about it.

But this is terrible!

What's so terrible about that? Excellent results: thinking abilities are unusually sharpened. Willpower grows. All idiotic fruitless doubts cease completely. Harmony of body and... uh... brain. Intelligence shines like a spotlight. You immediately set your target, hit without missing a beat and grab the highest prize. Yes, I’m not saying anything - what am I forcing you to do? If you don't want to be treated, go sick. With your sad nose. And let your women turn off the phone.

Ignatiev was not offended, he shook his head: women, yes...

Just so you know, Ignatiev, even if she is Sophia Loren, you need to say: get out! Then he will respect you. And that’s how, of course, you don’t rank.

How can I tell her this? I bow, I tremble...

Whoa. Tremble. ...

born on May 3, 1951 in Leningrad, in the family of physics professor Nikita Alekseevich Tolstoy with rich literary traditions. Tatyana grew up in a large family where she had seven brothers and sisters. The maternal grandfather of the future writer is Mikhail Leonidovich Lozinsky, literary translator, poet. On her father's side, she is the granddaughter of the writer Alexei Tolstoy and the poetess Natalia Krandievskaya.

After graduating from school, Tolstaya entered Leningrad University, the department of classical philology (with the study of Latin and Greek), which she graduated in 1974. In the same year, she got married and, following her husband, moved to Moscow, where she got a job as a proofreader in the “Main Editorial Office of Oriental Literature” at the Nauka publishing house. Having worked at the publishing house until 1983, Tatyana Tolstaya published her first literary works in the same year and made her debut as a literary critic with the article “Glue and Scissors...” (“Voprosy Literatury”, 1983, No. 9).

By her own admission, what made her start writing was the fact that she had undergone eye surgery. “Now after laser correction, the bandage is removed in a couple of days, but then I had to lie with the bandage for a whole month. And since it was impossible to read, the plots of the first stories began to appear in my head,” said Tolstaya.

In 1983, she wrote her first story entitled “They Sat on the Golden Porch...”, published in Aurora magazine in the same year. The story was noted by both the public and critics and was recognized as one of the best literary debuts of the 1980s. The work of art was “a kaleidoscope of children’s impressions of simple events and ordinary people, who appear to children as various mysterious and fairy-tale characters.” Subsequently, Tolstaya published about twenty more stories in periodicals. Her works are published in Novy Mir and other major magazines. “Date with a Bird” (1983), “Sonya” (1984), “Clean Slate” (1984), “If you love it, you don’t love it” (1984), “Okkervil River” (1985), “Mammoth Hunt” ( 1985), “Peters” (1986), “Sleep well, son” (1986), “Fire and Dust” (1986), “The Most Beloved” (1986), “Poet and Muse” (1986), “Seraphim” ( 1986), “The Moon Came Out of the Fog” (1987), “Night” (1987), “Flame of Heaven” (1987), “Somnambulist in the Fog” (1988). In 1987, the writer’s first collection of stories was published, entitled similarly to her first story - “They were sitting on the golden porch...”. The collection includes both previously known and unpublished works: “Dear Shura” (1985), “Fakir” (1986), “Circle” (1987). After the publication of the collection, Tatyana Tolstaya was accepted as a member of the USSR Writers' Union.

Soviet criticism was wary of Tolstoy's literary works. She was reproached for the “density” of her writing, for the fact that “you can’t read a lot in one sitting.” Other critics greeted the writer’s prose with delight, but noted that all her works were written according to the same well-built template. In intellectual circles, Tolstaya gains a reputation as an original, independent author. At that time, the main characters of the writer’s works were “urban madmen” (old-regime old women, “brilliant” poets, feeble-minded invalids from childhood...), “living and dying in a cruel and stupid bourgeois environment.” Since 1989 he has been a permanent member of the Russian PEN Center.

In 1990, the writer left for the USA, where she taught. Tolstaya taught Russian literature and creative writing at Skidmore College, located in Saratoga Springs and Princeton, collaborated with the New York review of books, The New Yorker, TLS and other magazines, and lectured at other universities. Subsequently, throughout the 1990s, the writer spent several months a year in America. According to her, living abroad initially had a strong influence on her in terms of language. She complained about how the emigrant Russian language was changing under the influence of the environment. In her short essay of the time, “Hope and Support,” Tolstaya gave examples of ordinary conversation in a Russian store on Brighton Beach: “where words like “Swissloufet cottage cheese”, “slice”, “half pound cheese” and “ lightly salted salmon." After four months in America, Tatyana Nikitichna noted that “her brain turns into minced meat or salad, where languages ​​are mixed and some innuendos appear that are absent in both English and Russian.”

In 1991 he began his journalistic activities. He writes his own column “Own Bell Tower” in the weekly newspaper “Moscow News”, collaborates with the magazine “Stolitsa”, where he is a member of the editorial board. Essays, essays and articles by Tolstoy also appear in the Russian Telegraph magazine. In parallel with her journalistic activities, she continues to publish books. In the 1990s, such works as “If you love - you don’t love” (1997), “Sisters” (co-authored with sister Natalia Tolstoy) (1998), “Okkervil River” (1999) were published. Translations of her stories appear into English, German, French, Swedish and other languages ​​of the world. In 1998, she became a member of the editorial board of the American magazine Counterpoint. In 1999, Tatyana Tolstaya returned to Russia, where she continued to engage in literary, journalistic and teaching activities.

In 2000, the writer published her first novel “Kys”. The book received a lot of response and became very popular. Based on the novel, many theaters staged performances, and in 2001, a literary series project was carried out on the air of the state radio station Radio Russia, under the leadership of Olga Khmeleva. In the same year, three more books were published: “Day”, “Night” and “Two”. Noting the commercial success of the writer, Andrei Ashkerov wrote in the magazine “Russian Life” that the total circulation of the books was about 200 thousand copies and Tatyana Nikitichna’s works became available to the general public. Tolstaya receives the prize of the XIV Moscow International Book Fair in the “Prose” category. In 2002, Tatyana Tolstaya headed the editorial board of the Konservator newspaper.

In 2002, the writer also appeared on television for the first time, in the television program “Basic Instinct.” In the same year, she became a co-host (together with Avdotya Smirnova) of the TV show “School of Scandal,” aired on the Culture TV channel. The program receives recognition from television critics and in 2003 Tatyana Tolstaya and Avdotya Smirnova received the TEFI award in the category “Best Talk Show.”

In 2010, in collaboration with her niece Olga Prokhorova, she published her first children's book. Entitled “The Same ABC of Pinocchio,” the book is interconnected with the work of the writer’s grandfather, the book “The Golden Key, or the Adventures of Pinocchio.” Tolstaya said: “The idea for the book was born 30 years ago. Not without the help of my older sister... She always felt sorry that Pinocchio sold his ABC so quickly and that nothing was known about its contents. What bright pictures were there? What is it even about? Years passed, I switched to stories, during which time my niece grew up and gave birth to two children. And finally, I found time for the book. The half-forgotten project was picked up by my niece, Olga Prokhorova.” In the ranking of the best books of the XXIII Moscow International Book Fair, the book took second place in the “Children’s Literature” section.

In 2011, she was included in the rating of “The One Hundred Most Influential Women of Russia” compiled by the radio station “Echo of Moscow”, information agencies RIA Novosti, “Interfax” and Ogonyok magazine. Tolstoy is referred to as a “new wave” in literature, called one of the bright names of “artistic prose”, which has its roots in the “game prose” of Bulgakov and Olesha, which brought with it parody, buffoonery, celebration, and the eccentricity of the author’s “I.”

Talks about himself: “I am interested in people “from the margins,” that is, to whom we, as a rule, are deaf, whom we perceive as ridiculous, unable to hear their speeches, unable to discern their pain. They leave life, having understood little, often without receiving something important, and when they leave, they are perplexed like children: the holiday is over, but where are the gifts? And life was a gift, and they themselves were a gift, but no one explained this to them.”

Tatyana Tolstaya lived and worked in Princeton (USA), taught Russian literature at universities.

Now lives in Moscow.

Grade: 11

Subject: “What does it profit a man if he gains the whole world and loses his own soul?” (Gospel of Matthew ch. 16) (based on the story “Blank Slate” by T. Tolstoy)

Target:

• get acquainted with the works of T. Tolstoy;
• through linguopetic analysis of the text, to identify its ideological orientation.

During the classes

I. Organizational moment

II. Teacher's word

T. Tolstaya is a striking phenomenon in postmodern literature. Her collections “Day”, “Night”, “Raisin” attract the attention of readers of all ages. What is so attractive about her prose? First of all, the complexity and beauty of poetics. It is important not only what Tolstaya talks about, but also how she does it.

Tolstoy's style is tough and stingy. In her speech there are no words that are empty, unnecessary, or not filled with essence. Every detail is precise and expressive. Tolstoy’s heroes are sweet, sometimes sadly naive eccentrics whom she loves, even if she loves them, there seems to be no reason for them. The main thing that the author conveys to readers is the preciousness and joy of existence, the happiness of human life as such. This idea is the main one in the stories of Tatyana Tolstoy.

The story “A Blank Slate” stands out for its somewhat far-fetched plot. There is a certain fusion of reality and fantasy in it. According to A. Genis, “Tolstaya is by no means a kind wizard, and her fairy tales have a bad ending.” But even here Tolstaya remains true to her writing credo: stand next to her heroes, look around through their eyes, experience their pain, feel their misfortune and share it with them.

III. Work on the content of the story “Blank Slate”.

While working on the content of the story, you looked for key words that would help you understand its essence, the main idea.

What is unusual about the story? (realistic reality turns into fantasy)

Why does Ignatiev feel sadness every night? What kind of image is this? (Tolstaya’s metaphor is unusual and unexpected) melancholy is a sad nurse.

How are the characters in the story portrayed?

• wife – “haggard face”, “mummy”;
• Ignatiev - “I’m completely sick”, “I didn’t know how to cry and that’s why I smoked”, “I was ashamed of low thoughts”, “I bow down”, “I tremble”;
• Valerochka, Valerik - “a frail, painful sprout, pitiful to the point of spasm.”

What role does Ignatiev’s dream play in the story? (painful delirium, a person cannot free himself from the feeling of hopelessness, despair, hence the nightmare visions: a ship with sick children. A rocky desert with a dead rider, a swamp with a red flower).

The color red appears several times in the story: red wine, red flower, red dress , burning with a love flower. What is the significance of this color? (as a signal of danger, as what is desired and unattainable, as death itself -"swamp bog with red flower").

When does the conversation about the Living first begin? (conversation with a friend in the cellar).

What does Ignatiev’s friend mean by life?

What is it - alive? (soul; “the living thing hurts”, “harmony of the body and ... the brain”; “when it is transplanted to others, they do not survive, they cannot stand it”, “the living king-bell beat and buzzed in his trembling chest”; “as if anticipating something - then my chest would shrink, then I would squat down, closing my eyes, covering my head with my hands”).

Why does Ignatiev want to remove living things? (to save my son, become rich, successful, self-confident).

What is the symbolic meaning of burning your father's shirt? (this is a “vain sacrifice”. Anastasia does not love him. “He will be strong. He will burn everything that destroys barriers”).

In the corridor of the hospital, Ignatiev examines signs with “instructive medical stories”: “Gleb had a toothache.” “And the eye had to be removed”: the author’s phrase follows: (If your eye seduces you, tear it out) - How do you understand this “neighborhood”? (This is from the Gospel, about temptation. The text has a different meaning:the soul cannot be pulled out, like a bad tooth).

How did you feel when reading about supermen who were devoid of “living”? (Regret, anxiety, shock. People, literally deprived of a soul, are truly soulless. These are no longer people, but biological mechanisms: blond, N., doctor).

What is striking about the image of a doctor? (He had no eyes “From his empty eye sockets there was a black hole blowing into nowhere...” Eyes are the mirror of the soul. The doctor has no soul, therefore, no eyes. What’s even more terrible is that for money this “doctor” is capable of committing a murder of the soul, which even worse than physical murder).

What did Ignatiev become after the removal of the living? And what did this living mean for himself and for his loved ones? (without a soul, and the Living is a soul, a person ceases to be a person).

Ignatiev’s soul endured pain, suffering, tossed about, not finding peace, but at the same time it pitied, loved, and took care of the people close to him. The metamorphosis that happened to Ignatiev is terrible and natural. Again I remember his nightmare dream: “a swamp with a red flower.” In pursuit of the coveted “peace”, he lost everything, but did he gain it?...

IV. Conclusions.

Today's lesson topic is indicated by a gospel line. How do you understand it? What does T. Tolstaya make you think about? Can this story be perceived only as fantasy? (Students' reasoning).