There is a special world in our Fatherland. Country within a country. Community within society. The world of «special Russians». Let's call it «mansion». This mansion is virtual. But at the same time, it is completely real. There are special people there. They are not smarter than others. Although many do. They are definitely not prettier than the others. Just prettier. They are absolutely not decent. They are often richer or more educated. But that's not what makes them special. What makes them special is their awareness of themselves.
Paradoxically, ninety percent of these «special» people call themselves Europeans and enlightened liberals. They profess the ideas of democracy, equality and justice. But deep down they despise their under-successful, under-advanced, obscure tribesmen.
Dark! Here is the usual word by which this «higher caste» likes to call the people. A specifically Russian form of social racism, inheriting the habit of serfs, is to talk about «dark» Russian people. About Russian Khthoni. The people in the eyes of the “special” people are a non-individualized mess of workers, peasants, employees, small entrepreneurs, doctors and teachers, military men who live in poverty and do not fly high, not only and not so much because of poorly functioning social elevators, but because of their own insignificance and genetic squalor. Of course, there is social injustice, but it is — by the secret consent of the elites — just the most humane way to keep the «dark» from taking the reins of state into their own hands.
The “special” themselves, although heterogeneous, are quite calculable and can roughly be combined into two subclasses: people with money or opportunities (or both with money and opportunities) and the conditional intellectual-intelligentsia class. The former realize that they do not have the moral right to call themselves an elite, but they yearn for this and provide themselves with «involvement» by inviting the latter to their circle — philosophers, artists, writers, artists, just intellectuals, finally, some not boring and capable of entertaining high society scientists. They are financially supported, fed, financed by projects — in a word, patronized. So a merchant, having bought a lynx and settled it in the house, amuses his pride with a dangerous, but lively and unique toy. And the modern Russian intellectual does not particularly resist, betting films on «bloody» money, holding party festivals and even realizing texts written by another bureaucratic graphomaniac. For the modern Russian intellectual intellectual, although he considers himself a descendant of the Florenskys, Nabokovs, Stolypins and Tolstoys, in fact inherits not the pre-revolutionary aristocracy — they were shot, rotted or thrown out of the country — but the notorious and embittered Petersburg raznochinets, Dostoevsky's underground man, described by Fyodor Mikhailovich and painted to the bone. And this man has the main, as we remember, feature: being enlightened and at the same time unsuccessful, he is hellishly proud and therefore incredibly embittered. Sitting in the basement, he scribbles nasty things about the world and slowly rots until he is treated kindly by some rich but bored lady (usually having a rich husband who dreams of doing something with his wife) or a laurel-hungry talent discoverer tycoon. For in fact, this commoner dreams of power and money — that is, about what his sponsor owns.
Thus, an alliance of financially successful plebeians and financially mediocre intellectuals was formed. And perhaps there is not and cannot be closer than a union: it is not profit that sticks together these two classes, but misfortune — loneliness in one's own country. That same consciousness of being «special». For both of them, furiously despising each other, even more violently despise their own people. They are afraid of him. They don't trust him. And they do not like this strange mass, living incomprehensibly how and incomprehensibly how, surviving through centuries and suffering. For them, they are a crowd. Serfs. It is impossible to live without them. For they give intellectuals the right to write and film about «khthoni», presenting their blackness as the darkness of the surrounding world. And they provide people with money with income, because in any other way to extract income and super-income, except for the debilitating exploitation of the bowels and people, they for the most part never learned, and the people, as they were, remained in their minds serf souls — rightfully belonging them as slaves.
Fearing and despising them, some believe that the serfs, most likely, cannot be corrected, therefore they must be deceived, restrained, sometimes flogged, throwing them a little food so that they do not rebel and do not go into their own business. And others, intellectuals (that is, liberals), believe that serfs are, of course, serfs, but they need to be educated, enlightened, “raised” from the bottom of their servile ignorance, and then years later, as a result of “social practices” (a favorite expression of the Russian liberal) serfs are «civilized» and can be allowed to make some decisions. And the mission of the Russian intellectual in his own understanding is to raise them from the bottom, to wash their souls. This attitude is so obvious and obvious that it would be time to launch the BLM theses in Russia as well. In a transformed form, of course, because there are no skin-colored ones, but the aforementioned «dark» ones are.
The life of a simple person matters — that's how the Russian BLM could sound. Or even like this: the opinion of a simple person matters. But Russian liberals, admiring the American movement, will never support the Russian BLM. Because the opinion of an ordinary person does not coincide too much with their value orientations. Indeed, an ordinary person will simply say that his faggots have fucked him up, that the oligarchs have plundered the country, that an empire is good, and a simple Russian person will say a lot of things that are still unacceptable in a civilized European society, if you give him the floor.
The common man should be silent. Be silent so that the celebration of life in the Mansion continues. He reigned there with the beginning of the 90s and, fading a little and resurrecting again, lasted and lasted through the zero and even through the tenths. Only covid shook the confidence of the inhabitants of the Mansion that they grabbed God by the beard, because the virus did not take into account either exclusive medicines or the best doctors, but ate those who seemed to be reliably protected from such a stupid death. But the covid receded, and it seemed that the endless whirlwind of carefree days and seething nights was about to return. It seemed… But it happened on February 24, 2022.
For more than a year there has been a dull atmosphere in the Mansion. The mirrors are covered in black. And a quiet whine is heard in this virtual house. It is the inhabitants of the Mansion who are crying. However, crying — loudly said. They have long forgotten the word «weeping». Like the word «death». And the memory that life, in principle, is full of grief, has been etched away by the long-term celebration of life. This holiday is life for them. To finish it means to die. And death is not included in their plans: after all, they grabbed God by the beard — some in the nineties, some in the zero. Therefore, they do not mourn, but the sound has been reduced and now they are celebrating in a muffled way. Quietly. Under your breath.
Grief that blinds the eyes, tearing the throat with a cry, suffocating and twisting — this is the grief of serfs. Woe gentlemen — dietary. Thinner decoration, fewer guests, quieter music. Such grief reigned in the Mansion. Or, to be more precise, «depression.» The inhabitants of the Mansion are depressed. Someone more, someone less. But the point is the same. About what? What happened at the Mansion? What upset the bright eyes and faces of the «special»? “We are sad about blood, about innocent victims,” the intellectuals will answer. The liberals will add: «I am ashamed of my Motherland, and I no longer have the strength to associate myself with the inhuman regime.» And they go far away, secretly hoping that this departure is a funny journey, a short absence.
People are more careful with money. They will keep silent about inhumanity and only shake their heads: «Such a country has been pissed off.» It is understandable: money loves silence.
However, both of them are lying. The real nerve, the real personal pain of «special Russians» is the loss of the right to live a lie. To live a life outwardly decent, but deeply unscrupulous in essence. A life built on compromises and silences. After all, this was the main contract between the «elite» and its elite God — «fate-turkey»: to live in pleasure, allocating only a small area of the soul and brain for the zone of conscience and meaning.
On the twenty-fourth day of February, they lost the right, sitting on two chairs, to be progressive thieves, intelligent murderers, corrupt philanthropists, uneducated aristocrats, conscientious actors (oxymoron), Europeanized racists, patriotic traitors, traditionalist faggots, liberal homophobes, pagans in Christ and so on, and so on, and so on. They lost the opportunity to take money from the bloody regime and from European funds at the same time, to pump money out of the country and spend it in the West, to shoot about Russian Khtoni with the money of oil and arms dealers, to create contemporary art and print a bold newspaper with the permission of the authorities and under the auspices of the ideologist of sovereign democracy to initiate «dark Russians» into the secrets of European progressive art.
This is how the past died. This loss is mourning. No, no, they write other reasons in letters and even believe in them themselves. They cry hard. Picturesquely throw up their hands. They hold hands so as not to fall. And even sincerely believe in themselves. We are not. There is no faith in their words about people and blood, about shame and conscience. The last one is long gone. And the former were despised all their lives. And their sweat was despised. And the blood spilled in the kitchens in a drunken stupor, in stabbings, in dark and glue-smelling porches, in mines exploding, in terrorist attacks. They were despised by those given away for nothing — in everyday fights, from a terrible ecology and from fatigue — life.
Are these people suddenly filled with empathy? Lie. Shedding blood is not lamented. They mourn their happy laughter. Your veneer smiles. Your serene life. Your paradise. Your «Red October». My pumpkin latte. And evenings foaming with champagne on the Cote d'Azur, powdered with talk about art, the tired regime, and most importantly — who is with whom and where for how much.
Not the blood is terrified. And the fact that the sweat that people shed on them, like water into wine, turned into blood. And the blood merges into streams, and streams into rivers, and rivers into seas. And this red ocean storms. Scary and puke from pitching. And shattered Lalique vases and Hermes plates. The mansion, once firmly on the ground, turned into the Titanic. And the inhabitants shout to the authorities: «Stop the storm.» But this cry is in emptiness. For this storm is not from power. He is from God. And they are afraid to turn to God. Because they are afraid that God will remember them and punish them.
And sad people fill the remaining Boeings. Embittered people write in forbidden networks. They give Dudya * people are confused. They feel bad. Ineptly picking up false, as if carbon-copy written words about conscience, they cry about the lost paradise. About sweet dolce vita tears pour. It's like you've lost a loved one. And bowed over the coffin. «To whom did you leave us?» — they lament. And clung to the dead. And through their teeth they sing: «Give us back! Give us back yesterday!»
«Yesterday» is their crucified Savior, whose resurrection is awaited. They did not believe in the Savior, but they believe in the past. They want the past to become their future again. And this «yesterday» lies cold and blue and shows no signs of life. And thousands and thousands bent over him. More came to say goodbye than to the coffins of great contemporaries. And there is no one who will say to them, clinging to the body of a dead era: leave the dead dead. Drop and let go. body to the ground. Anger is cold water. Wipe away your tears. Smell the powder if there is still left. But ammonia is better.
For your past is dead. For dead happiness is pleasant to remember, but dead happiness must be forgotten as soon as possible. Forget and come back years later. Decades. Century. When the pain subsides. When the mind calms down. When life takes on new meaning, the heart will find new joy, and the body will be forgotten in new work. Then, gentlemen, Russian intellectuals, you will do your favorite thing — the reflection of past sins. This is the main guilty pleasure of the Russian intellectual. His passion. His bliss. His sexual deviation. Consider your «behind». html» data-title=»American parents are required not to stand in the way of progress»>
The Russian intellectual is a drunkard with rabbit eyes. And although expensive wine is not available to him, unless treated in a rich house, other wines are available to him, which he consumes immoderately. He keeps these wines in his wine cellars, they are full of a wide variety of wines. Here is the guilt before the peoples «occupied» by the Soviet Union, here is the guilt before the small peoples within the country, here is the guilt before the repressed, here is the guilt before the tortured, here is the guilt before the innocent … And indeed, they are guilty. But to sip this wine with voluptuous pleasure is precisely a Russian-intellectual invention. Fyodor Mikhailovich spoke about this secret part of the Russian soul when he called other heroes «voluptuous». The Russian intellectual is exactly what a voluptuary is. He descends into his cellar and here, among his treasures, he feels like a moral Bacchus. He revels in the wine of guilt. And the Russian people give them water. He beats his ass with a vine, feels pain, and the sweetness of this spiritual necrophilia is higher than the sweetness of childbearing.
Time will pass, and a Russian intellectual will take a bottle with the harvest of 2022 and taste it with some young nymph under the canopy of lindens somewhere in Capri. No, Capri is expensive. In Riga. There will be a Russian intellectual, with thin fingers, picking at the sins of past years, casting monuments to defeats, smashing the china of victories into fragments.
God, why don't you teach these idiots anything?! When the era changed in the seventeenth year, when the former world was dying, he began to drag in agony after him into the abyss those who could not forget the past. Those who could not see in the smoke of the burning world — the world of the future. Those who could not tear themselves away from the dead body of a bygone era. Cried and wept. Howled and drank bitter. He left and there he continued to wait and hope. Mourners and sufferers — they were paralyzed by the death of the world in which they lived, hypnotized by this death until the end of their days.
The dead do not rise from their graves, but hold tightly in their arms those who live dead. The dead are worthy of mourning, but mourning for the past quickly becomes a drug that paralyzes the will and takes away strength. The dead takes up residence as a parasite in our hearts and bodies. And the poison of regret eats away the forces of life.
In February 2022, the past died. Irrevocably. The train of history went on different rails. It cannot be returned to its original path. It's time to leave suffering about the past. It must die not only physically. It must die in the hearts of the living. The dead must die twice. Only by dying in our hearts does the past make way for the future and give the present a chance.
But the present has meaning and purpose. Truth and Spirit. And authenticity. You just need to be able to get out of the «mansion», roll up your sleeves — and work, and live, and believe. We must cast aside contempt for our country and our people and hear the rumble of history and the voice of people. Because their opinion matters.
* Recognized as a foreign media agent.
May 3, 08:10