Кладезь безумия. Записки психиарта

Boris Khersonskiĭ, odin iz naibolee izvestnykh poėtov nashego nelegkogo veka.Ponimanie samoĭ suti, prirody cheloveka, proiskhodit ot ego professii vracha-psikhiatra, psikhoterapevta.Novai͡a kniga - doveritelʹnyĭ razgovor, rasskaz o vremeni, o sebe, o li͡udi͡akh. Risunki i oblozhka vypolneny spet͡sialʹno dli͡a ėtoĭ knigi khudozhnikom Aleksandrom Roĭtburdom.Zakanchivaetsi͡a kniga takimi stikhami: * * *V nashem dvore,kak vo mnogikh dvorakh Odessy,stoi͡al kolodet͡s, tochnee,ego imitat͡sii͡a: pod zemlei͡u byla t͡sisterna,kuda zalivali vodu, teperʹ, konechno,ėti t͡sisterny pusty, ili ikh zavalilistroitelʹnym musorom posle remonta doma.*Kolodet͡s byl pust, kogda i͡a byl rebenkom,vmesto vody tam poselilisʹ zvuki,kak v morskoĭ rakovine. Ėffekt tot zhe,no zvuki sovershenno drugie,ne shum morskoĭ, a shipenʹei nerazborchivyĭ shepot.Ėto bylo chutʹ zhutkovato,no my li͡ubili, sklonivshisʹnad kolodt͡sem, slushatʹ, pytai͡asʹrazobratʹ slova, no cherez minutuėto zani͡atie nadoedalo.*Zhenshchina v chernom, s malenʹkoĭ golovoi͡u,zamotannoi͡u platkom, kak bintom,blednai͡a, s vodi͡anistym vzgli͡adom,opiravshai͡asi͡a na kostylʹ (amputirovannye stopy,nogi sognuty, podushechki na koleni͡akh),sovershenno bezumnai͡a - vot kto slushal chasami.396Ona byla nepodvizhna, lit͡so zastyvalo:namorshchennyĭ lob, podni͡atye brovi,esli khotite, nazyvaĭte ėto katatonieĭ,paramimieĭ, verbalʹnym galli͡ut͡sinozom.Bozhe, kak my ee boi͡alisʹ!*Ona khodila po gorodu, opirai͡asʹna kostylʹ, grozi͡a komu-to rukoi͡u,i govorila vse vremi͡a, vernee,chto-to vykrikivala, no u kolodt͡saona byla sovershenno bezmolvna.I ėto bylo eshche strashnee.*Pomni͡u, vo vremi͡a grozy, i͡a stoi͡al u okna i videl,kak ona medlenno peresekala ploshchadʹ,pod prolivnym dozhdem, pri vspyshkakh molniĭ,i vse krichala, vse grozila rukoi͡u.Vse moi druzʹi͡a ee pomni͡at, no chto ona govorila,ne pomnit nikto, khoti͡a my ponimali:to, chto ona govorit, podslushano u kolodt͡sa.Odesskiĭ kolodet͡s, antichnyĭ orakul,beznogai͡a Pifii͡a, detskie strakhi.Kladezʹ bezumii͡a, vot chto ėto bylo.

Boris Hersonsky, one of the most famous poets of our difficult century.Understanding the very essence, the nature of man, comes from his profession as a psychiatrist, psychotherapist.The new book is a confidential conversation, a story about time, about yourself, about people. The drawings and the cover were made especially for this book by the artist Alexander Roitburd.The book ends with these verses: * * *In our yard, as in many yards of Odessa, there was a well, or rather, an imitation of it: there was a cistern under the ground where water was poured, now, of course, these cisterns are empty, or they were filled with construction debris after the renovation of the house.* The well was empty when I was a child, and instead of water, it had sounds like a seashell. The effect is the same, but the sounds are completely different, not the noise of the sea, but hisses and indistinct whispers.It was a little creepy, but we loved leaning over the well, listening, trying to make out the words, but after a minute, this activity got boring.A woman in black, with a small head wrapped in a handkerchief like a bandage, pale, with watery eyes, leaning on a crutch (amputated feet, legs bent, knee pads), completely insane – that's who listened for hours.396 She was motionless, her face frozen:a wrinkled forehead, raised eyebrows, if you want, call it catatonia, paramymia, verbal hallucinosis.God, how we were afraid of her!*She was walking around the city, leaning on a crutch, shaking her hand at someone, and talking all the time, or rather, shouting something, but at the well she was completely silent.And that was even scarier.* I remember, during a thunderstorm, I stood at the window and saw her slowly crossing the square, in the pouring rain, with flashes of lightning, and she kept shouting, shaking her hand.All my friends remember her, but no one remembers what she said, although we understood that what she was saying had been overheard at the well.Odessa well, ancient oracle, legless Pythia, children's fears.A mine of madness, that's what it was.