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The feeling that teaching is, excuse me, education is provided by a washed-up morons, not people with the standard functions of the brain. Yes, you heard right, most people have the same brain function. With the exception of pathology, like schizophrenia. There are several thousand of them for the entire population of the planet. And autistic and paranoid. These are slightly more, but their pathology is more modest. Whether that man should live with the illusions that are indistinguishable from reality. A serious hint of an increasing number of schizoids. It seems that the dumber a person is, the more normal he is, the better he fits into society. Although people are judged by their best representatives, that is – morons, idiots, psychopaths, sociopaths, finished. What is generally regarded as the norm? The norm is something that fits well into the existing overall picture of the world. I mean – communism is the norm to be a Communist; when liberalism – goofball; under Nazism – criminal. What is normal?! From what to wage direct? In my opinion, the norm for man is to live in accordance with the laws of nature, in accordance with evolution. Not progress. Progress is like needles on a twig. It is necessary to progress individually, and to evolve all society – here as I imagine it. By the way, creativity is an exit to wealth for people who do not have higher education. In the work, enough average. Even in General, you can not have any education and at the same time engage in creativity, and quite successfully. Another question is if you want to beat the competition and establish yourself. It is clear that without education it will not work. Even if you refuse to sit in lectures at the Institute, you still have to regularly engage in self-education. Without education it turns out that you two/three works at the level of everyday or religious thinking did the rest of the time the t-shirts sold, paper stars with autographs, caps. Would go to trade at once Korean noodles in the lane – it was given to you this creativity. I say, art is the way to wealth, for people who do not have an education document. The latter will still be formed in the process of working on masterpieces and hits. However, success requires so many creative intellectual products that what can we say – not everyone is given to cope. The unit of measurement of the text in the literature – the author’s sheet, accommodating ten pages of A4 or twenty – book (A5). Series of novels – the normal work of the authors. Two hundred/three hundred novels are not the limit for creative thought. On the other hand, it has come to the point that literature writes about literature. The writer writes about how he writes. It would be in these series, really, something valuable. Going to the Laundry, to the bakery, to the garage, if they are not written by the hand of the master, does not make much sense. In any case, apart from the illusion of creating an interlocutor in the process of reading, the reader receives nothing else – no quality knowledge. Although, I have written principle, “while the thoughts in the mind of the swarm, it is urgent to put”. I write with my fingers, and before my eyes I have panoramas of historical events, panoramas of the evolution of labor, panoramas of the evolution of mankind, panoramas of the future – space. When a writer (devil-worshipper, admirer, preacher) rereads kilometers of other authors ' text to then create a novel of a domestic character, through a line quoting Confucius, or someone else, he/she, in fact, does not want to think independently, he still needs support, instead of himself already being a support for other authors. I think that all this is unprofessional competence. Although, maybe, I will come to this myself, but so far, I do not read much. When I learned to write, I read a lot. But now – little. I am no longer surprised by the witty antics of Joyce, melting melancholy Virginia Woolf, the ferocious pressure of Jack London, the intellectual grinder of Michael Weller, the dizzying flight of thought of Vladimir Makanin, one hundred percent pride of Mikhail Lermontov, the quack savagery or village intellectualism of Leo Tolstoy, which, by the way, I myself am endowed with; I will not be surprised by the rebellious romanticism of Edgar Allan PoE, the original mysticism of ryunoske Akutagawa, the quiet water of Nabokov’s eroticism, the savvy arrogance of Julio Cortazar, the Bunin rootedness of Yuri Kazakov, rural jokes mixed with the bitter tears of Vasily Shukshin, the revolutionary cunning of Mikhail Zoshchenko, the Odessa earthiness of Isaac Babel, latent homosexuality Somerset Maugham. It is rare for me to read or reread something, and it made an impression on me. Basically, I read reference books, encyclopedias, historical essays, where I draw direct knowledge, with regards to those issues that concern me, or at the moment necessary. In the literature nothing surprises me. However, a banal trip to the Laundry, the hand of the master can twist and extract from this such that coming from the last page, the reader will either cry or burn with joy, or even think so deeply that he forgets the name of the one who wrote “Going to the bakery.” Forget to put five stars in the ranking and write a positive review. These masters and giants of literature, almost all my life are in the status of “no name”. Underground there is a foreign word, the semantic value of which is under the earth. In part, they are not particularly interested in popularity or recognition. They already know where they’re going. They are perfectly oriented in the space of history. Often, they are completely impassive to the process of creative work, but at the same time, get pleasure when it is possible to spin a successful scene, figure, image, phrase, thought, and satisfaction when it is possible to complete the job. “Me would in the sky, me would the sky… here I was, and there I not was…” – sings St. Petersburg artist from husky radio. Give me this place. I want him! There, you see, just above Joyce by a quarter of his head. He is by no means my authority. It annoys me that this guy is so high up. Maybe you don’t need to, but I do! I want him. Don’t talk me out of it! I don’t need to keep! Leave me alone! Let me climb to the throne of world literature. I can already see myself sitting on a throne with a flaming crown on my head. The crown should burn – it should not hang on the ears! Why won’t you let me go? What do you care about that? Ah, envy. I know… I hate upstarts, too. So you’re just unlucky. You badly wanted. You had enough time, but you wasted it. You had patience, but you whined. You had enough money, but you were greedy. What do you even care about me? You never loved me. You only pretended to love. And sometimes they didn’t. What is it to you that I’m gonna be the size of a world scale? I deserve it. What do you want from me? But I definitely don’t want anything from you. You just let me get where I want to go. I really want to, you can be sure of that. I’ll slit their throats myself – they won’t do anything to you. Then what are you afraid of? I’ll keep you safe from there. It’s much easier for me to do it there. I sometimes come down to earth where you will be able to allow you to love without response. Give me! I want that very much. Well, to hell with you! Curious history of American musician of the seventies Sixto Rodriguez. He has recorded only two albums in his entire musical career. But what! The scope of his talent is not inferior to that of Bob Dylan, Janis Joplin, Hendrix, Demi. The only drawback – he did not know how to work with the audience. Whether shy, do not know how to keep themselves within the or too was closed on itself. In General, he recorded two great albums, but they sold badly in America. CFU/where he performed, but mainly played anywhere: in bars, at various gatherings and parties. Well, he couldn’t get into the music world. Maybe the fashion was not too appropriate. Maybe he was just writing too rebellious songs. But his records penetrated into South Africa and became wildly popular. Rodriguez himself had no idea about it. And in General, he gave up music, got married and began to work at construction sites as a laborer. Over time, it became a legend, they say, committed suicide, doused himself with gasoline right on stage and burned, or performed the last song at the party, pulled a gun and shot himself. And he, meanwhile, worked on construction. And his records, meanwhile, sold out half a million copies in the South. And his honestly earned on the gorgeous songs, the money was gone in a strange, smart-ass pocket. But among the fans of his work in Africa, there were enthusiasts who found Rodriguez and took to South Africa to give concerts. Here, then, came to him huge success in his old age. He now travels the world, and happily stands in front of an audience. But he’s already so old that its these songs forty years ago do not produce the desired impression. Such is the irony of fate: Bob Dylan was a success, and all the rest managed, and Rodriguez – only in my old age. Well, you can see he’s like an ancient Chinese sage – preferred exile. Almost all people are endowed with complete wisdom, would prefer the exile. Even the Dalai Lama was expelled from Tibet
