Viktor Pelenyagre - poet, whose songs today are often heard at all. Multiple winner of "Song of the Year" nominee of the most prestigious music awards.
-For all your shortcomings, you are, it turns out esche and the landlord. What you mean house? And I do want the house poet?
-When they say that the poet must go about, to fend on bread and water, I just fall into a rage. All those in ¬ measures contained in the proof of this "beggar theory" - from Villon to Yesenin - I besyat. I know what I say: he quarter-century wandering in strange corners. And so far, I assure you, not amassed a palace - the rumors about my today's gentry are greatly exaggerated ... that the poet should be able to all.
House - this is really a fortress. But over the years understand that investing in this proverb British.
-Who helped you build your castle? And who so cleverly thought out its interior "
-Somehow things went. There was no preconceived solutions interiors was not. For the comfort needs a woman's hand. Women, unlike us, very kind to settlement life. Where do these sofas, curtains, bedspreads - is a great mystery. My wife says to you, and good to put this box, you absentmindedly nods and rests on his forehead at night the same night.
"You're somewhere noticed that above the poet in Russia is no one. And what is the poet's life?
Tak and write: Pelenyagre scribbled sea of paper, well played roulette, and was, as he said Gogol, a pleasant man in all respects. And write that danced in Barcelona at weddings, hunting in India layers ¬ electrons in Nagasaki was fond of geishas, and in Acapulco Steal cars. And always pay at any point on earth at personal, and not some kind of plastic cards. Is "The Storm" Ostrovsky wrote? "Storm" written by Russian river Volga. So my life defines my writings. But the best answer to this question Alexander Blok in his diaries. I do not remember verbatim, but the sense of something like this: "First of August: get drunk in the pub on the Cheka. Second August: get drunk again in the pub on Gorokhovaya. Third August: get drunk in the pub at Gorokhovaya under the gramophone. Why have bought a coat. " So the poet's life: joy at a gramophone. Drunk and for some reason you buy a coat.
We still had a long conversation that evening. Wandered suite, thrashed billiards, whipping each other brooms in the pair and noisily plunk into the pool. Washed down with red wine, an Italian non-vegetarian eatables ...
The day was coming to an end - had to go. Victor, standing on the balcony, a little sad. I wanted to tell him something encouraging. I thought - and not said. Probably, so you need such evenings. Solitary, quiet. And then there are good poems.
M & D