I want to go left.

[Just Alexander]

Hi all. I am 36, my wife is 33.4 years old. The relationship is simply wonderful, soul to soul. BUT. Before marriage, he was a terrible womanizer. There is a strong desire to be able to go left. She is categorically against it. No matter how I explain to her that there is no threat to our relationship, she doesn’t think so. I’ll leave you right away. Well, I don’t want to lose her, she is a wonderful wife and will be the best mother for our children. Does anyone have any experience on how to get permission from your wife to go to the left?
I thought about fucking her to the point of impossibility, so that she would already suffer from the amount of sex, but this is impossible) She has a libido like mine at 18 years old, she wants it always, everywhere and a lot.
And in recent months I began to cool off towards her in bed. I want to feel like a male and a winner when I take a new girl to bed. And I feel like I’m not a male, but simply someone who is entitled to sex according to the status of “husband,” this is terribly not interesting.
Here is the dilemma. Thanks for reading. Sex to everyone)
P. S. I don’t want to deceive, extinguish, hide, it’s somehow humiliating. Of course, I’m not going to tell her how great I had time with someone else, because that would hurt her dignity. But it would be great to know that she doesn’t mind. And apparently it’s unrealistic

[red_fox]

Fat! It looks like trolls from Vumana are migrating here. Stupid wires starting with the words "I want..." and "Why...".

[Sidor]

She has a libido like mine at 18 years old, she wants it always, everywhere and a lot

Well, what do you want? Live and enjoy life with such a wonderful wife.

[Xenophon]

I like such individuals! They not only need to mess up, but also in front of the eyes and with the approval of others.

[Just Alexander]

Well, what do you want? Live and enjoy life with such a wonderful wife.

So I’m happy)

[Tolkala]

Hello everyone. I am 36, my wife is 33.4 years old. The relationship is simply wonderful, soul to soul. BUT. Before marriage, he was a terrible womanizer. There is a strong desire to be able to go left. She is categorically against it. No matter how I explain to her that there is no threat to our relationship, she doesn’t think so. I’ll leave you right away. Well, I don’t want to lose her, she is a wonderful wife and will be the best mother for our children. Does anyone have any experience on how to get permission from your wife to go to the left?
I thought about fucking her to the point of impossibility, so that she would already suffer from the amount of sex, but this is impossible) She has a libido like mine at 18 years old, she wants it always, everywhere and a lot.
And in recent months I began to cool off towards her in bed. I want to feel like a male and a winner when I take a new girl to bed. And I feel like I’m not a male, but simply someone who is entitled to sex according to the status of “husband,” this is terribly not interesting.
Here is the dilemma. Thanks for reading. Sex to everyone)
P. S. I don’t want to deceive, extinguish, hide, it’s somehow humiliating. Of course, I’m not going to tell her how great I had time with someone else, because that would hurt her dignity. But it would be great to know that she doesn’t mind. And apparently it’s unrealistic

first fuck your wife with some friend, and then demand concessions for yourself. Induce her to MZHM or MZHMZH. And you will have variety

[Gourmet]

They don’t want to go to the left...they go to the left))

[Hmmmm]

Go ahead!
And let the wife go!
Go, everyone!

[Keep the change for yourself]

Go!
And let the wife go!
Go, everyone!

And let the grandfather go
And the grandmother
And the granddaughter
And a bug
And a cat
And a mouse
And a turnip.

Let everyone go and collect chlamydia

[weak intestine]

There aren’t enough farts in your life

[Hair shirt]

I think you just got married early. There was no need to do this.
Or, if we were to marry, we should have married a female friend. So that this friend of yours, just like you, shares your concerns about women.
One married woman once told me - if someone says that they are fucking me besides my husband, then they are fucking him and me.
And if a husband fucks some woman, we fuck her.
That is, you need a woman with approximately this approach.
So I don’t even know what to advise you in this situation.

[1020]

hair shirt, the first adequate comment

[Connecting rod]

For some reason you forgot to say how long you have been married, 10 years, 3 years, 3 days? If you want to go left, go. What do you want to hear from us, advice or practical guidance? You can do it yourself if you are a "womanizer". Only she will know. He may not notice a casual affair, but he will feel it later. You say "soul to soul" you live - an empty phrase. Your relationship is in a deep crisis if you openly persuade her that you want to party, and she threatens to leave. Actually, there are a lot of inconsistencies in your post.

[Hair shirt]

Vasyanitsa, the first adequate comment

And all my comments are adequate. Although someone complains that there are a lot of letters.

[Tolkala]

Vasyanitsa, the first adequate comment

And all my comments are adequate. Although someone complains that there are a lot of letters.

.. There are a lot of letters, but they are all the same and repeated many times. We need variety.

[Richard Sorge]

Hello everyone. I am 36, my wife is 33.4 years old. The relationship is simply wonderful, soul to soul. BUT. Before marriage, he was a terrible womanizer. There is a strong desire to be able to go left. She is categorically against it. No matter how I explain to her that there is no threat to our relationship, she doesn’t think so. I’ll leave you right away. Well, I don’t want to lose her, she is a wonderful wife and will be the best mother for our children. Does anyone have any experience on how to get permission from your wife to go to the left?
I thought about fucking her to the point of impossibility, so that she would already suffer from the amount of sex, but this is impossible) She has a libido like mine at 18 years old, she wants it always, everywhere and a lot.
And in recent months I began to cool off towards her in bed. I want to feel like a male and a winner when I take a new girl to bed. And I feel like I’m not a male, but simply someone who is entitled to sex according to the status of “husband,” this is terribly not interesting.
Here is the dilemma. Thanks for reading. Sex to everyone)
P. S. I don’t want to deceive, extinguish, hide, it’s somehow humiliating. Of course, I’m not going to tell her how great I had time with someone else, because that would hurt her dignity. But it would be great to know that she doesn’t mind. And apparently it’s unrealistic

Read Pushkin’s notes. He went through all this and very carefully analyzed his feelings, conclusions from the betrayal, changes in his relationship with his wife after the betrayal. In general, I entered this road, there is no turning back.

[Cujoi]

What’s the point of going to the left there are 3 boobs or there is such a thing as the Kama Sutra there is a lot of new stuff there. Otherwise, most people are sure that in sex there are only three positions I don’t understand why get married if you then go to the left .

[Hair shirt]

Read Pushkin’s notes. He went through all this and very carefully analyzed his feelings, conclusions from the betrayal, changes in his relationship with his wife after the betrayal. In general, I have taken this road, there is no turning back.

Thank you for downloading the book in the free electronic library Royallib.ru
All books author
The same book in other formats

Happy reading!



Pushkin A S
Secret notes of 1836-1837

Pushkin A. S.
Secret notes of 1836-1837
REQUIRED PREFACE
In 1976, I decided to emigrate to America. To raise money to leave, I began selling my library.
A series of friends and acquaintances, and then strangers, flowed into my room, wanting to buy my books. One day an old and handsome man came to me. He introduced himself as an acquaintance of an acquaintance of mine, whose name I could not remember. However, at that time I no longer cared who came to me, the main thing was that he bought books.
My guest called himself Nikolai Pavlovich. In his eyes lived the light of ancient times, which over the years does not weaken, but intensifies. Nikolai Pavlovich chose several books on Russian history, but, having found out the price, he bought only one. He said that he had no more money with him and that he would come by tomorrow evening to pick up the rest of the books. He came as promised and we started talking. I offered him some tea; he happily agreed.
His white teeth hit the cup loudly, and he embarrassedly explained that he was not yet accustomed to the new denture.
Nikolai Pavlovich directly asked me if I was going to leave. "If they let me go," I said. He perked up noticeably when he learned of my intention, and was already silently handling the second cup of tea.

In the conversation it turned out that he lives alone, not far from me, in a communal apartment. He is a historian by profession, and the subject of his research is the first half of the 19th century. When I told about myself, he asked me to let him read my poems. I gave him several sheets. He did not read the poems in front of me, but rolled the sheets of paper into a tube, put them in the inner pocket of his jacket and said that he would read them at home. I liked it. I generally liked him.
Slender and agile beyond his years, he could pass for a middle-aged man if you looked at him from the back. Only his face, neck and hands left no doubt about his age.
A few days later Nikolai Pavlovich came to me again, and we talked about poetry until late. He asked if I was going to take my manuscripts with me.
I said that I would try to smuggle them through the Dutch ambassador. And then he asked to hand over his manuscript to the ambassador. When I asked what this manuscript was about, he carefully assured me that there was nothing anti-Soviet in it and that these were diary notes from the late thirties of the last century. These notes were encrypted, and Nikolai Pavlovich worked on deciphering them for many years.

A particular difficulty was that the notes were written in French, with the exception of certain Russian words and expressions, but impeccable knowledge of the language helped Nikolai Pavlovich complete the matter and, having deciphered it, translate everything into Russian language.
I asked whose notes these were, but he replied that it would be a surprise for me if I agreed to give them to the Dutch ambassador. I agreed.
Nikolai Pavlovich decided to bring the notes the evening before my departure for Moscow - then I had already received permission and rushed around the city, obtaining various certificates necessary to obtain a visa.

- Why don’t you try to publish the notes here? - I asked him naively. - After all, if they are of historical interest, they can be published - a century and a half will protect any events.
“You are mistaken, young man,” Nikolai Pavlovich objected to me, no matter how many centuries have passed, the idol - if it is still an idol - remains inviolable.
Nikolai Pavlovich was late, and I was already desperate to see him. There was a taxi at the entrance that was supposed to take me to the Moscow station. There was less than an hour left before the train left. Nikolai Pavlovich didn’t have a phone number, I didn’t know his address, and I had already decided to leave when the doorbell rang. It was he. In his hands he held a folder with ribbons. He was breathing heavily. The elevator was broken and he had to climb to the fifth floor. I put the folder in my bag, and Nikolai Pavlovich walked me to the taxi.
- I’ll call you. God help you. - he said. saying goodbye to me.

In the taxi, I greedily opened the folder: on the first page it was written in large letters: "A.S. Pushkin. Secret notes of 1836 - 1837". I turned the page - the handwriting was so small and ornate, and it was so dark in the car that I couldn’t make out anything and decided to read the notes on the train.
My place was on the bottom shelf. Opposite me was a fat woman with the face of a trade union activist. There were also bodies on the top shelves.
The train departed without delay. I took my bag and began to squeeze into the toilet, hoping to read there. But the huge queue did not bode well for quiet reading.
I returned to the compartment, the lights had already been turned off, and everyone was asleep. My night light was not working, and I decided to put off reading - it was already past midnight, the train was arriving early in the morning, and a hard day lay ahead. I thought that I would have time to read the notes before the opening of the Dutch embassy.

But approaching the embassy, ​​I saw a long line along which policemen were walking. I stood in line and realized that it was better not to go anywhere if I wanted to get an appointment with the ambassador today. But I didn’t dare read while in line.
When the embassy finally opened and it was my turn to enter the ambassador’s office, the thought of strange coincidences struck me: I received Pushkin’s notes from the namesake of Nicholas the First, and I am passing them on through the Dutch envoy, who was once the ill-fated Heeckeren, to be sent to the West, where Pushkin unsuccessfully dreamed of going...
The ambassador responded to a request memorized in English to forward my manuscripts with a sluggish refusal. Then I decided to leave the bag with manuscripts and notes, as if out of forgetfulness. I placed it on the floor next to the chair on which I was sitting and asked the ambassador some question to divert his attention. Then I realized that he perfectly understood my intentions.
I said goodbye and headed towards the exit, in fear that they would call me and ask me to pick up my bag. But no one called out to me.
I returned to Leningrad light, freed from the burden of my own and other people’s creativity. I couldn’t wait to see Nikolai Pavlovich so I could take a copy of his notes and read them without interference. But Nikolai Pavlovich did not call me and did not come to see me. I had neither the time nor the opportunity to look for him, not knowing his name or address. And before leaving, I only had a few bustling days left.

...A year after my arrival in America, I received a package with my manuscripts and notes from Pushkin. I immediately began reading the notes and, I must admit, was stunned by the level of frankness in the description of intimate details.
I knew that Pushkin’s famous diary notes end in 1835, that there is a legend about his notes of the last months, which he allegedly bequeathed to be published no earlier than a hundred years after his death. I’ve read stories about the hunters who hunted these notes and the crimes they committed to get their hands on their loot.
However, you didn’t have to be a Pushkin scholar to notice that the notes that ended up in my hands were very far from Pushkin’s language and style. I explain this by the fact that Nikolai Pavlovich translated from French and did not have the talent of a stylist. Maybe it’s even better that the notes were written in French: the translation made it possible to introduce modern intonations into the narrative, bringing it closer to modern times.

So Shakespeare, whose speech becomes more and more alien for each new generation of English readers, is still modern in Russia, because his language is constantly refreshed by new translations. No matter how beautiful a writer’s language may be, it ages and dies, and only the ideas expressed by the writer will continue to live with humanity, being reborn in the new flesh of translations and retellings. Therefore, it is not the writer’s language, but his ideas that will be the impetus for translating his works in the future. Isn’t it paradoxical that the time will come when only rare linguists will read Shakespeare in the original, and foreign readers will admire him through new translations, and in order to maintain interest in him in his homeland, Shakespeare will have to be retold in the English language of the future. A Russian example is “The Tale of Igor’s Campaign,” which is readable only in paraphrases and translations.

That is why the French language of Pushkin’s notes will allow them to sound like modern Russian not only today, but always.
Naturally, after reading the notes, I had a lot of questions that I would so like to ask Nikolai Pavlovich: where is the original of the notes and how did they fall into his hands?, what code were they encrypted with?, aren’t these Are the notes fake?, does anyone, except Nikolai Pavlovich, know about the existence of the notes?
And finally, the question I asked myself: is it necessary to publish these notes?
Meanwhile, I retyped them on a typewriter in case I had to show the notes to someone. This was very prudent, since I soon went on a business trip, and Nikolai Pavlovich’s manuscript inexplicably disappeared from my apartment. Fortunately, my typewritten copy was kept separate from the original, and it remained in its original place.

This event made me seriously think about publishing the notes. I was afraid to show them to anyone, because I felt they were “explosive” and understood that if the notes got to an unscrupulous person, he would publish them without my knowledge.
I was also afraid that during publication they would be subjected to "moral censorship" so as not to "defame" the holy name, for Pushkin is an idol not only in the USSR, but also for all admirers of Russian literature in West.

However, after much thought and doubt, I finally decided to publish the manuscript received from Nikolai Pavlovich.
Pushkin’s literary reputation is so strong that his personal reputation cannot shake it, but it promises to be a wonderful tool for the study of human nature, which, thanks to its immutability, connects us with both the past and the future.
Mikhail Armalinsky Minneapolis, 1986

Pushkin A.S.
Secret notes of 1836-1837
Dedicated to my wife.
* * *
Fate comes true - I challenged Dantes to a duel. Isn’t this the violent death from the fair-haired man that the German woman predicted for me? And I feel the power of fate - I see how it comes true, but it cannot be prevented, for dishonor is worse than death.

Dishonor is a storm that has grown from the wind that I have sown. She’s destroying me. Dantes became fate’s retribution for my weak character. By calling Dantes, I become like Jacob, who fought with God. If I win, then I will refute God’s laws, and Cunt will reign unhindered in my heaven.
Contemporaries should not know me as much as I allow distant descendants. I should protect the honor of N. and the children while they are alive. But I cannot resist putting my soul on paper, and this is the incurable disease of writing. The disease is often fatal, for my contemporaries will kill me for the revelation of my soul, for a true revelation, if they find out about it.

And my descendants will no longer be able to do anything with me, not only with me, but also with my great-great-grandchildren, because distance in time makes the most reprehensible actions just history. Unlike the present, the story is not dangerous or offensive, but merely entertaining and educational.
I do not want to take my sins, mistakes, torments to the grave - they are too great not to become part of my monument.

[Richard Sorge]

Read Pushkin’s notes. He went through all this and very carefully analyzed his feelings, conclusions from the betrayal, changes in his relationship with his wife after the betrayal. In general, I have taken this road, there is no turning back.

Thank you for downloading the book in the free electronic library Royallib.ru
All books author
The same book in other formats

Happy reading!



Pushkin A S
Secret notes of 1836-1837

Pushkin A. S.
Secret notes of 1836-1837
REQUIRED PREFACE
In 1976, I decided to emigrate to America. To raise money to leave, I began selling my library.
A series of friends and acquaintances, and then strangers, flowed into my room, wanting to buy my books. One day an old and handsome man came to me. He introduced himself as an acquaintance of an acquaintance of mine, whose name I could not remember. However, at that time I no longer cared who came to me, the main thing was that he bought books.
My guest called himself Nikolai Pavlovich. In his eyes lived the light of ancient times, which over the years does not weaken, but intensifies. Nikolai Pavlovich chose several books on Russian history, but, having found out the price, he bought only one. He said that he had no more money with him and that he would come by tomorrow evening to pick up the rest of the books. He came as promised and we started talking. I offered him some tea; he happily agreed.
His white teeth hit the cup loudly, and he embarrassedly explained that he was not yet accustomed to the new denture.
Nikolai Pavlovich directly asked me if I was going to leave. "If they let me go," I said. He perked up noticeably when he learned of my intention, and was already silently handling the second cup of tea.

In the conversation it turned out that he lives alone, not far from me, in a communal apartment. He is a historian by profession, and the subject of his research is the first half of the 19th century. When I told about myself, he asked me to let him read my poems. I gave him several sheets. He did not read the poems in front of me, but rolled the sheets of paper into a tube, put them in the inner pocket of his jacket and said that he would read them at home. I liked it. I generally liked him.
Slender and agile beyond his years, he could pass for a middle-aged man if you looked at him from the back. Only his face, neck and hands left no doubt about his age.
A few days later Nikolai Pavlovich came to me again, and we talked about poetry until late. He asked if I was going to take my manuscripts with me.
I said that I would try to smuggle them through the Dutch ambassador. And then he asked to hand over his manuscript to the ambassador. When I asked what this manuscript was about, he carefully assured me that there was nothing anti-Soviet in it and that these were diary notes from the late thirties of the last century. These notes were encrypted, and Nikolai Pavlovich worked on deciphering them for many years.

A particular difficulty was that the notes were written in French, with the exception of certain Russian words and expressions, but impeccable knowledge of the language helped Nikolai Pavlovich complete the matter and, having deciphered it, translate everything into Russian language.
I asked whose notes these were, but he replied that it would be a surprise for me if I agreed to give them to the Dutch ambassador. I agreed.
Nikolai Pavlovich decided to bring the notes the evening before my departure for Moscow - then I had already received permission and rushed around the city, obtaining various certificates necessary to obtain a visa.

- Why don’t you try to publish the notes here? - I asked him naively. - After all, if they are of historical interest, they can be published - a century and a half will protect any events.
“You are mistaken, young man,” Nikolai Pavlovich objected to me, no matter how many centuries have passed, the idol - if it is still an idol - remains inviolable.
Nikolai Pavlovich was late, and I was already desperate to see him. There was a taxi at the entrance that was supposed to take me to the Moscow station. There was less than an hour left before the train left. Nikolai Pavlovich didn’t have a phone number, I didn’t know his address, and I had already decided to leave when the doorbell rang. It was he. In his hands he held a folder with ribbons. He was breathing heavily. The elevator was broken and he had to climb to the fifth floor. I put the folder in my bag, and Nikolai Pavlovich walked me to the taxi.
- I’ll call you. God help you. - he said. saying goodbye to me.

In the taxi, I greedily opened the folder: on the first page it was written in large letters: "A.S. Pushkin. Secret notes of 1836 - 1837". I turned the page - the handwriting was so small and ornate, and it was so dark in the car that I couldn’t make out anything and decided to read the notes on the train.
My place was on the bottom shelf. Opposite me was a fat woman with the face of a trade union activist. There were also bodies on the top shelves.
The train departed without delay. I took my bag and began to squeeze into the toilet, hoping to read there. But the huge queue did not bode well for quiet reading.
I returned to the compartment, the lights had already been turned off, and everyone was asleep. My night light was not working, and I decided to put off reading - it was already past midnight, the train was arriving early in the morning, and a hard day lay ahead. I thought that I would have time to read the notes before the opening of the Dutch embassy.

But approaching the embassy, ​​I saw a long line along which policemen were walking. I stood in line and realized that it was better not to go anywhere if I wanted to get an appointment with the ambassador today. But I didn’t dare read while in line.
When the embassy finally opened and it was my turn to enter the ambassador’s office, the thought of strange coincidences struck me: I received Pushkin’s notes from the namesake of Nicholas the First, and I am passing them on through the Dutch envoy, who was once the ill-fated Heeckeren, to be sent to the West, where Pushkin unsuccessfully dreamed of going...
The ambassador responded to a request memorized in English to forward my manuscripts with a sluggish refusal. Then I decided to leave the bag with manuscripts and notes, as if out of forgetfulness. I placed it on the floor next to the chair on which I was sitting and asked the ambassador some question to divert his attention. Then I realized that he perfectly understood my intentions.
I said goodbye and headed towards the exit, in fear that they would call me and ask me to pick up my bag. But no one called out to me.
I returned to Leningrad light, freed from the burden of my own and other people’s creativity. I couldn’t wait to see Nikolai Pavlovich so I could take a copy of his notes and read them without interference. But Nikolai Pavlovich did not call me and did not come to see me. I had neither the time nor the opportunity to look for him, not knowing his name or address. And before leaving, I only had a few bustling days left.

...A year after my arrival in America, I received a package with my manuscripts and notes from Pushkin. I immediately began reading the notes and, I must admit, was stunned by the level of frankness in the description of intimate details.
I knew that Pushkin’s famous diary notes end in 1835, that there is a legend about his notes of the last months, which he allegedly bequeathed to be published no earlier than a hundred years after his death. I’ve read stories about the hunters who hunted these notes and the crimes they committed to get their hands on their loot.
However, you didn’t have to be a Pushkin scholar to notice that the notes that ended up in my hands were very far from Pushkin’s language and style. I explain this by the fact that Nikolai Pavlovich translated from French and did not have the talent of a stylist. Maybe it’s even better that the notes were written in French: the translation made it possible to introduce modern intonations into the narrative, bringing it closer to modern times.

So Shakespeare, whose speech becomes more and more alien for each new generation of English readers, is still modern in Russia, because his language is constantly refreshed by new translations. No matter how beautiful a writer’s language may be, it ages and dies, and only the ideas expressed by the writer will continue to live with humanity, being reborn in the new flesh of translations and retellings. Therefore, it is not the writer’s language, but his ideas that will be the impetus for translating his works in the future. Isn’t it paradoxical that the time will come when only rare linguists will read Shakespeare in the original, and foreign readers will admire him through new translations, and in order to maintain interest in him in his homeland, Shakespeare will have to be retold in the English language of the future. A Russian example is “The Tale of Igor’s Campaign,” which is readable only in paraphrases and translations.

That is why the French language of Pushkin’s notes will allow them to sound like modern Russian not only today, but always.
Naturally, after reading the notes, I had a lot of questions that I would so like to ask Nikolai Pavlovich: where is the original of the notes and how did they fall into his hands?, what code were they encrypted with?, aren’t these Are the notes fake?, does anyone, except Nikolai Pavlovich, know about the existence of the notes?
And finally, the question I asked myself: is it necessary to publish these notes?
Meanwhile, I retyped them on a typewriter in case I had to show the notes to someone. This was very prudent, since I soon went on a business trip, and Nikolai Pavlovich’s manuscript inexplicably disappeared from my apartment. Fortunately, my typewritten copy was kept separate from the original, and it remained in its original place.

This event made me seriously think about publishing the notes. I was afraid to show them to anyone, because I felt they were “explosive” and understood that if the notes got to an unscrupulous person, he would publish them without my knowledge.
I was also afraid that during publication they would be subjected to "moral censorship" so as not to "defame" the holy name, for Pushkin is an idol not only in the USSR, but also for all admirers of Russian literature in West.

However, after much thought and doubt, I finally decided to publish the manuscript received from Nikolai Pavlovich.
Pushkin’s literary reputation is so strong that his personal reputation cannot shake it, but it promises to be a wonderful tool for the study of human nature, which, thanks to its immutability, connects us with both the past and the future.
Mikhail Armalinsky Minneapolis, 1986

Pushkin A.S.
Secret notes of 1836-1837
Dedicated to my wife.
* * *
Fate comes true - I challenged Dantes to a duel. Isn’t this the violent death from the fair-haired man that the German woman predicted for me? And I feel the power of fate - I see how it comes true, but it cannot be prevented, for dishonor is worse than death.

Dishonor is a storm that has grown from the wind that I have sown. She’s destroying me. Dantes became fate’s retribution for my weak character. By calling Dantes, I become like Jacob, who fought with God. If I win, then I will refute God’s laws, and Cunt will reign unhindered in my heaven.
Contemporaries should not know me as much as I allow distant descendants. I should protect the honor of N. and the children while they are alive. But I cannot resist putting my soul on paper, and this is the incurable disease of writing. The disease is often fatal, for my contemporaries will kill me for the revelation of my soul, for a true revelation, if they find out about it.

And my descendants will no longer be able to do anything with me, not only with me, but also with my great-great-grandchildren, because distance in time makes the most reprehensible actions just history. Unlike the present, the story is not dangerous or offensive, but merely entertaining and educational.
I do not want to take my sins, mistakes, torments to the grave - they are too great not to become part of my monument.

Read Pushkin’s notes. He went through all this and very carefully analyzed his feelings, conclusions from the betrayal, changes in his relationship with his wife after the betrayal. In general, I have taken this road, there is no turning back.

Thank you for downloading the book in the free electronic library Royallib.ru
All books author
The same book in other formats

Happy reading!



Pushkin A S
Secret notes of 1836-1837

Pushkin A. S.
Secret notes of 1836-1837
REQUIRED PREFACE
In 1976, I decided to emigrate to America. To raise money to leave, I began selling my library.
A series of friends and acquaintances, and then strangers, flowed into my room, wanting to buy my books. One day an old and handsome man came to me. He introduced himself as an acquaintance of an acquaintance of mine, whose name I could not remember. However, at that time I no longer cared who came to me, the main thing was that he bought books.
My guest called himself Nikolai Pavlovich. In his eyes lived the light of ancient times, which over the years does not weaken, but intensifies. Nikolai Pavlovich chose several books on Russian history, but, having found out the price, he bought only one. He said that he had no more money with him and that he would come by tomorrow evening to pick up the rest of the books. He came as promised and we started talking. I offered him some tea; he happily agreed.
His white teeth hit the cup loudly, and he embarrassedly explained that he was not yet accustomed to the new denture.
Nikolai Pavlovich directly asked me if I was going to leave. "If they let me go," I said. He perked up noticeably when he learned of my intention, and was already silently handling the second cup of tea.

In the conversation it turned out that he lives alone, not far from me, in a communal apartment. He is a historian by profession, and the subject of his research is the first half of the 19th century. When I told about myself, he asked me to let him read my poems. I gave him several sheets. He did not read the poems in front of me, but rolled the sheets of paper into a tube, put them in the inner pocket of his jacket and said that he would read them at home. I liked it. I generally liked him.
Slender and agile beyond his years, he could pass for a middle-aged man if you looked at him from the back. Only his face, neck and hands left no doubt about his age.
A few days later Nikolai Pavlovich came to me again, and we talked about poetry until late. He asked if I was going to take my manuscripts with me.
I said that I would try to smuggle them through the Dutch ambassador. And then he asked to hand over his manuscript to the ambassador. When I asked what this manuscript was about, he carefully assured me that there was nothing anti-Soviet in it and that these were diary notes from the late thirties of the last century. These notes were encrypted, and Nikolai Pavlovich worked on deciphering them for many years.

A particular difficulty was that the notes were written in French, with the exception of certain Russian words and expressions, but impeccable knowledge of the language helped Nikolai Pavlovich complete the matter and, having deciphered it, translate everything into Russian language.
I asked whose notes these were, but he replied that it would be a surprise for me if I agreed to give them to the Dutch ambassador. I agreed.
Nikolai Pavlovich decided to bring the notes the evening before my departure for Moscow - then I had already received permission and rushed around the city, obtaining various certificates necessary to obtain a visa.

- Why don’t you try to publish the notes here? - I asked him naively. - After all, if they are of historical interest, they can be published - a century and a half will protect any events.
“You are mistaken, young man,” Nikolai Pavlovich objected to me, no matter how many centuries have passed, the idol - if it is still an idol - remains inviolable.
Nikolai Pavlovich was late, and I was already desperate to see him. There was a taxi at the entrance that was supposed to take me to the Moscow station. There was less than an hour left before the train left. Nikolai Pavlovich didn’t have a phone number, I didn’t know his address, and I had already decided to leave when the doorbell rang. It was he. In his hands he held a folder with ribbons. He was breathing heavily. The elevator was broken and he had to climb to the fifth floor. I put the folder in my bag, and Nikolai Pavlovich walked me to the taxi.
- I’ll call you. God help you. - he said. saying goodbye to me.

In the taxi, I greedily opened the folder: on the first page it was written in large letters: "A.S. Pushkin. Secret notes of 1836 - 1837". I turned the page - the handwriting was so small and ornate, and it was so dark in the car that I couldn’t make out anything and decided to read the notes on the train.
My place was on the bottom shelf. Opposite me was a fat woman with the face of a trade union activist. There were also bodies on the top shelves.
The train departed without delay. I took my bag and began to squeeze into the toilet, hoping to read there. But the huge queue did not bode well for quiet reading.
I returned to the compartment, the lights had already been turned off, and everyone was asleep. My night light was not working, and I decided to put off reading - it was already past midnight, the train was arriving early in the morning, and a hard day lay ahead. I thought that I would have time to read the notes before the opening of the Dutch embassy.

But approaching the embassy, ​​I saw a long line along which policemen were walking. I stood in line and realized that it was better not to go anywhere if I wanted to get an appointment with the ambassador today. But I didn’t dare read while in line.
When the embassy finally opened and it was my turn to enter the ambassador’s office, the thought of strange coincidences struck me: I received Pushkin’s notes from the namesake of Nicholas the First, and I am passing them on through the Dutch envoy, who was once the ill-fated Heeckeren, to be sent to the West, where Pushkin unsuccessfully dreamed of going...
The ambassador responded to a request memorized in English to forward my manuscripts with a sluggish refusal. Then I decided to leave the bag with manuscripts and notes, as if out of forgetfulness. I placed it on the floor next to the chair on which I was sitting and asked the ambassador some question to divert his attention. Then I realized that he perfectly understood my intentions.
I said goodbye and headed towards the exit, in fear that they would call me and ask me to pick up my bag. But no one called out to me.
I returned to Leningrad light, freed from the burden of my own and other people’s creativity. I couldn’t wait to see Nikolai Pavlovich so I could take a copy of his notes and read them without interference. But Nikolai Pavlovich did not call me and did not come to see me. I had neither the time nor the opportunity to look for him, not knowing his name or address. And before leaving, I only had a few bustling days left.

...A year after my arrival in America, I received a package with my manuscripts and notes from Pushkin. I immediately began reading the notes and, I must admit, was stunned by the level of frankness in the description of intimate details.
I knew that Pushkin’s famous diary notes end in 1835, that there is a legend about his notes of the last months, which he allegedly bequeathed to be published no earlier than a hundred years after his death. I’ve read stories about the hunters who hunted these notes and the crimes they committed to get their hands on their loot.
However, you didn’t have to be a Pushkin scholar to notice that the notes that ended up in my hands were very far from Pushkin’s language and style. I explain this by the fact that Nikolai Pavlovich translated from French and did not have the talent of a stylist. Maybe it’s even better that the notes were written in French: the translation made it possible to introduce modern intonations into the narrative, bringing it closer to modern times.

So Shakespeare, whose speech becomes more and more alien for each new generation of English readers, is still modern in Russia, because his language is constantly refreshed by new translations. No matter how beautiful a writer’s language may be, it ages and dies, and only the ideas expressed by the writer will continue to live with humanity, being reborn in the new flesh of translations and retellings. Therefore, it is not the writer’s language, but his ideas that will be the impetus for translating his works in the future. Isn’t it paradoxical that the time will come when only rare linguists will read Shakespeare in the original, and foreign readers will admire him through new translations, and in order to maintain interest in him in his homeland, Shakespeare will have to be retold in the English language of the future. A Russian example is “The Tale of Igor’s Campaign,” which is readable only in paraphrases and translations.

That is why the French language of Pushkin’s notes will allow them to sound like modern Russian not only today, but always.
Naturally, after reading the notes, I had a lot of questions that I would so like to ask Nikolai Pavlovich: where is the original of the notes and how did they fall into his hands?, what code were they encrypted with?, aren’t these Are the notes fake?, does anyone, except Nikolai Pavlovich, know about the existence of the notes?
And finally, the question I asked myself: is it necessary to publish these notes?
Meanwhile, I retyped them on a typewriter in case I had to show the notes to someone. This was very prudent, since I soon went on a business trip, and Nikolai Pavlovich’s manuscript inexplicably disappeared from my apartment. Fortunately, my typewritten copy was kept separate from the original, and it remained in its original place.

This event made me seriously think about publishing the notes. I was afraid to show them to anyone, because I felt they were “explosive” and understood that if the notes got to an unscrupulous person, he would publish them without my knowledge.
I was also afraid that during publication they would be subjected to "moral censorship" so as not to "defame" the holy name, for Pushkin is an idol not only in the USSR, but also for all admirers of Russian literature in West.

However, after much thought and doubt, I finally decided to publish the manuscript received from Nikolai Pavlovich.
Pushkin’s literary reputation is so strong that his personal reputation cannot shake it, but it promises to be a wonderful tool for the study of human nature, which, thanks to its immutability, connects us with both the past and the future.
Mikhail Armalinsky Minneapolis, 1986

Pushkin A.S.
Secret notes of 1836-1837
Dedicated to my wife.
* * *
Fate comes true - I challenged Dantes to a duel. Isn’t this the violent death from the fair-haired man that the German woman predicted for me? And I feel the power of fate - I see how it comes true, but it cannot be prevented, for dishonor is worse than death.

Dishonor is a storm that has grown from the wind that I have sown. She’s destroying me. Dantes became fate’s retribution for my weak character. By calling Dantes, I become like Jacob, who fought with God. If I win, then I will refute God’s laws, and Cunt will reign unhindered in my heaven.
Contemporaries should not know me as much as I allow distant descendants. I should take care of N.’s honor. and children while they are alive. But I cannot resist putting my soul on paper, and this is the incurable disease of writing. The disease is often fatal, for my contemporaries will kill me for the revelation of my soul, for a true revelation, if they find out about it.

And my descendants will no longer be able to do anything with me, not only with me, but also with my great-great-grandchildren, because distance in time makes the most reprehensible actions just history. Unlike the present, the story is not dangerous or offensive, but merely entertaining and educational.
I do not want to take my sins, mistakes, torments to the grave - they are too great not to become part of my monument.

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