Joseph Brodsky, end of a beautiful era, analysis. How and when does literary fame come to a poet?

"End belle époque" Joseph Brodsky

Because the art of poetry requires words,
I am one of the deaf, bald, sullen ambassadors
second-rate power associated with this -
not wanting to rape my own brain,
handing myself clothes, I go down to the kiosk
for the evening newspaper.

The wind blows the leaves. Old light bulbs dim glow
in these sad lands, whose epigraph is the victory of mirrors,
with the assistance of puddles, it generates the effect of abundance.
Even thieves steal the orange by scraping the amalgam.
However, the feeling with which you look at yourself is
I forgot this feeling.

In these sad lands everything is designed for winter: dreams,
prison walls, coats; bridesmaid toilets - white
New Year's, drinks, second hands.
Sparrow jackets and dirt according to the number of alkalis;
Puritan morals. Linen. And in the hands of violinists -
wooden heating pads.

This region is motionless. Introducing the volume of gross
cast iron and lead, you shake your head in shock,
remember the former government on bayonets and Cossack whips.
But the eagles land like a magnet on the iron mixture.
Even wicker chairs stay here
on bolts and nuts.

Only fish in the seas know the value of freedom; but their
dumbness forces us, as it were, to create our own
labels and cash registers. And the space sticks out with a price list.
Time is created by death. Needing bodies and things
it looks for the properties of both in raw vegetables.
Kochet listens to the chimes.

To live in an era of achievements, having an exalted character,
unfortunately, it's difficult. I lifted up the beauty's dress,
you see what you were looking for, and not new marvelous divas.
And it’s not that Lobachevsky is strictly watched here,
but the widened world must narrow somewhere, and here -
this is the end of perspective.

Either the map of Europe was stolen by government agents,
maybe five-sixths of the parts remaining in the world
too far away. Either some Kind fairy
He casts a spell on me, but I can’t escape from here.
I pour myself some Cahors - don’t shout to the servant -
Yes, I’m scratching my cat...

Or a bullet to the temple, as if in the place of a mistake with a finger,
or be pulled from here across the sea by the new Christ.
And how not to mix it up with drunken eyes, stunned by the frost,
a steam locomotive with a ship - you still won’t burn with shame:
like a boat on water, it will not leave a mark on the rails
locomotive wheel.

What do they write in the newspapers in the “From the Courtroom” section?
The sentence has been carried out. Looking here,
the average person sees through tin-rimmed glasses,
how a man lies face down against a brick wall;
but doesn't sleep. For to disdain dreams
perforated right.

The vigilance of this era is rooted in those
times, incapable in their general blindness
distinguish those that have fallen out of cradles from those that have fallen out.
The white-eyed monster does not want to look further than death.
It’s a pity, there are plenty of saucers, but there’s no one to turn the table with,
to ask you, Rurik.

The vigilance of these times is vigilance for things that are dead-end.
It’s not appropriate for the mind to run wild yet,
but spitting on the wall. And it’s not the prince who wakes up the dinosaur.
For the last line, oh, you can’t snatch the bird’s feather.
To the innocent head of all things, why wait for the ax
yes green laurel.

Analysis of Brodsky's poem "The End of a Beautiful Era"

If there is no other way to speak out and be heard, then one poem can become real confession, and the most trivial plot is an encrypted message that will tell people what is going on in the poet’s soul. “The End of a Beautiful Era” became just such an outlet for Joseph Alexandrovich Brodsky (1940–1996). The poet hid so many hints in it that it is not always possible to recognize them all in one reading. But we will still make such an attempt.

The plot of the work, as stated above, is very simple - lyrical hero, on whose behalf Joseph Alexandrovich himself speaks, leaves the house to buy a newspaper. On the way to the kiosk, he glances at the street, then returns to the apartment and reads the news. However, this short walk filled with such deep observations, reflections and conclusions that the reader will never tire of being surprised.

Here, for example, is the first sentence:
Because the art of poetry requires words,
I am one of the deaf...ambassadors
second-rate power...

It conceals bitterness from the fact that since 1963 Brodsky was persecuted, tried, not published, and not allowed to speak out. The poet could not even find out how he was received, which is very important for creative person That's why he calls himself deaf. “Ambassador of a second-rate power” is an ironic alogism containing a hint of Jewish origin Joseph Alexandrovich.

One attentive glance is enough for the poet to characterize the country in which he lives. To depict this sad place, he uses gloomy epithets: “sparrow jackets,” “Puritan morals,” “wooden hot water bottles.” The author points out that here people live in harshness, are accustomed to silence, and human happiness is determined by the volume of gross product and metal production:
Or a bullet to the temple, as if in the place of a mistake with a finger,
or pull it from here across the sea with the new Christ...

The reader may notice a poignant anaphora here that equates the idea of ​​emigration with thoughts of suicide. And all these difficult thoughts are encrypted in skillful metaphors: in the “five sixths ... parts” we hear an echo of the proud slogan about greatness Soviet Union as one sixth of the entire landmass. In the expression “to distinguish those who have fallen out of the cradles from those that have fallen out of the cradles,” one can discern a saying about a child thrown out from dirty water. This is an allusion to Soviet ideology, which ignores the essence and concentrates on the little things.

There are many more such metaphors and allusions in the text of the work. It is important to note that in addition to the colossal semantic content, “The End of a Beautiful Era” is distinguished by the elegance of its composition. Each stanza has a precise aabccb structure and is written in confident amphibrachium. Thanks to its correct rhythm and piercing images, it reaches the hidden depths of the soul and makes the reader think about the ideas presented in the lines.

The end of a wonderful era
Joseph Brodsky

Because the art of poetry requires words,
I am one of the deaf, bald, sullen ambassadors
second-rate power associated with this -
not wanting to rape my own brain,
handing myself clothes, I go down to the kiosk
for the evening newspaper.

The wind blows the leaves. Old light bulbs dim glow
in these sad lands, whose epigraph is the victory of mirrors,
with the assistance of puddles, it generates the effect of abundance.
Even thieves steal the orange by scraping the amalgam.
However, the feeling with which you look at yourself is
I forgot this feeling.

In these sad lands everything is designed for winter: dreams,
prison walls, coats, brides' toilets - white
New Year's, drinks, second hands.
Sparrow jackets and dirt according to the number of alkalis;
Puritan morals. Linen. And in the hands of violinists -
wooden heating pads.

This region is motionless. Introducing the volume of gross
cast iron and lead, you shake your head in shock,
remember the former government on bayonets and Cossack whips.
But the eagles land like a magnet on the iron mixture.
Even wicker chairs stay here
on bolts and nuts.

Only fish in the seas know the value of freedom; but their
dumbness forces us, as it were, to create our own
labels and cash registers. And the space sticks out with a price list.
Time is created by death. Needing bodies and things
it looks for the properties of both in raw vegetables.
Kochet listens to the chimes.

To live in an era of achievements, having an exalted character,
unfortunately, it's difficult. I lifted up the beauty's dress,
you see what you were looking for, and not new marvelous divas.
And it’s not that Lobachevsky is strictly watched here,
but the widened world must narrow somewhere, and here -
this is the end of perspective.

Either the map of Europe was stolen by government agents,
maybe five-sixths of the parts remaining in the world
too far away. Is it some kind of good fairy?
He casts a spell on me, but I can’t escape from here.
I pour myself some Cahors - don’t shout to the servant -
Yes, I'm scratching my cat...

Or a bullet to the temple, as if in the place of a mistake with a finger,
or be pulled from here across the sea by the new Christ.
And how not to mix it up with drunken eyes, stunned by the frost,
a steam locomotive with a ship - you still won’t burn with shame:
like a boat on water, it will not leave a mark on the rails
locomotive wheel.

What do they write in the newspapers in the “From the Courtroom” section?
The sentence has been carried out. Looking here,
the average person sees through tin-rimmed glasses,
how a man lies face down against a brick wall;
but doesn't sleep. For to disdain dreams
perforated right.

The vigilance of this era is rooted in those
times, incapable in their general blindness
distinguish those that have fallen out of cradles from those that have fallen out.
The white-eyed monster does not want to look further than death.
It’s a pity, there are plenty of saucers, but there’s no one to turn the table with,
to ask you, Rurik.

The vigilance of these times is vigilance for things that are dead-end.
It’s not appropriate for the mind to run wild yet,
but spitting on the wall. And it’s not the prince who wakes up the dinosaur.
For the last line, oh, you can’t snatch the bird’s feather.
To the innocent head of all things, why wait for the ax
yes green laurel.

Because the art of poetry requires words, I - one of the deaf, bald, sullen ambassadors of a second-rate power associated with this one - not wanting to rape my own brain by handing out my own clothes, I go down to the kiosk to get the evening newspaper. The wind blows the leaves. The dim glow of old light bulbs in these sad lands, whose epigraph is the victory of mirrors, with the assistance of puddles, generates the effect of abundance. Even thieves steal the orange by scraping the amalgam. However, the feeling with which you look at yourself - I forgot this feeling. In these sad lands, everything is designed for winter: dreams, prison walls, coats, brides' clothes - New Year's white, drinks, second hands. Sparrow jackets and dirt according to the number of alkalis; Puritan morals. Linen. And in the hands of the violinists are wooden heating pads. This region is motionless. Imagining the volume of gross cast iron and lead, you will shake your head in amazement, remembering the former government on bayonets and Cossack whips. But the eagles land like a magnet on the iron mixture. Even wicker chairs are held here with bolts and nuts. Only fish in the seas know the value of freedom; but their dumbness forces us, as it were, to create our own labels and cash registers. And the space sticks out with a price list. Time is created by death. Needing bodies and things, it seeks the properties of both in raw vegetables. Kochet listens to the chimes. Unfortunately, it is difficult to live in an era of achievements with an exalted character. Having lifted up the beauty’s dress, you see what you were looking for, and not new marvelous divas. And it’s not that Lobachevsky is firmly watched here, but the expanded world must narrow somewhere, and here - here is the end of perspective. Either the map of Europe was stolen by agents of the authorities, or the five-sixths remaining in the world are too far away. Either some good fairy is casting a spell over me, but I can’t escape from here. I pour myself some Cahors - don’t shout to the servant - and scratch the cat... Either a bullet in the temple, as if in the place of an error with a finger, or yanked from here across the sea by the new Christ. And even if you don’t confuse your drunken eyes, stunned by the cold, with a steam locomotive and a ship, you still won’t burn with shame: just like a boat on the water, the locomotive’s wheel won’t leave a mark on the rails. What do they write in the newspapers in the “From the Courtroom” section? The sentence has been carried out. Looking here, the average person will see through tin-rimmed glasses how a man lies face down against a brick wall; but doesn't sleep. For dreams with holes in them have the right to disdain the dome. The vigilance of this era is rooted in those times, unable, in their general blindness, to distinguish those who fell out of their cradles from those who fell out of their cradles. The white-eyed monster does not want to look further than death. It’s a pity, there are plenty of saucers, but there’s no one to turn the table with to ask you, Rurik. The vigilance of these times is vigilance for things that are dead-end. It’s not appropriate to spread your mind over the tree yet, but like a spit on the wall. And it’s not the prince who wakes up the dinosaur. For the last line, oh, you can’t snatch the bird’s feather. The innocent head of all affairs can only wait for an ax and a green laurel.

Because the art of poetry requires words,
I am one of the deaf, bald, sullen ambassadors
second-rate power associated with this -
not wanting to rape my own brain,
handing myself clothes, I go down to the kiosk
for the evening newspaper.

The wind blows the leaves. Old light bulbs dim glow
in these sad lands, whose epigraph is the victory of mirrors,
with the assistance of puddles, it generates the effect of abundance.
Even thieves steal the orange by scraping the amalgam.
However, the feeling with which you look at yourself is
I forgot this feeling.

In these sad lands everything is designed for winter: dreams,
prison walls, coats, brides' toilets - white
New Year's, drinks, second hands.
Sparrow jackets and dirt according to the number of alkalis,
Puritan morals. Linen. And in the hands of violinists -
wooden heating pads.

This region is motionless. Introducing the volume of gross
cast iron and lead, you shake your head in shock,
remember the former government on bayonets and Cossack whips.
But the eagles land like a magnet on the iron mixture.
Even wicker chairs stay here
on bolts and nuts.

Only fish in the seas know the price of freedom, but they
dumbness forces us, as it were, to create our own
labels and cash registers. And the space sticks out with a price list.
Time is created by death. Needing bodies and things
it looks for the properties of both in raw vegetables.
Kochet listens to the chimes.

To live in an era of achievements, having an exalted character,
unfortunately, it's difficult. I lifted up the beauty's dress,
you see what you were looking for, and not new marvelous divas.
And it’s not that Lobachevsky is strictly watched here,
but the widened world must narrow somewhere, and here -
this is the end of perspective.

Either the map of Europe was stolen by government agents,
maybe five-sixths of the parts remaining in the world
too far away. Is it some kind of good fairy?
He casts a spell on me, but I can’t escape from here.
I pour myself some Cahors - don’t shout to the servant -
Yes, I'm scratching my cat...

Or a bullet to the temple, as if in the place of a mistake with a finger,
or be pulled from here across the sea by the new Christ.
And how not to mix it up with drunken eyes, stunned by the frost,
a steam locomotive with a ship - you still won’t burn with shame:
like a boat on water, it will not leave a mark on the rails
locomotive wheel.

What do they write in the newspapers in the “From the Courtroom” section?
The sentence has been carried out. Looking here,
the average person sees through tin-rimmed glasses,
like a man lying face down against a brick wall,
but doesn't sleep. For to disdain dreams
perforated right.

The vigilance of this era is rooted in those
times, incapable in their general blindness
distinguish those that have fallen out of cradles from those that have fallen out.
The white-eyed monster does not want to look further than death.
It’s a pity, there are plenty of saucers, but there’s no one to turn the table with,
to ask you, Rurik.

The vigilance of these times is vigilance for things that are dead-end.
It’s not appropriate for the mind to run wild yet,
but spitting on the wall. And it’s not the prince who wakes up the dinosaur.
For the last line, oh, you can’t snatch the bird’s feather.
To the innocent head of all things, why wait for the ax
yes green laurel.