January 18 is considered to be the birthday of Novy Mir magazine. This year the publication is 85 years old.
The Novy Mir magazine is one of the oldest in modern Russia monthly literary and artistic and socio-political magazines.
The idea of creating the magazine belonged to the then editor-in-chief of Izvestia, Yuri Steklov, who proposed creating a monthly literary, artistic and social media publication based on the Izvestia publishing house. political magazine, which was carried out. The magazine began publication in 1925.
For the first year, the monthly was led by Anatoly Lunacharsky, People's Commissar for Education, who remained a member of the editorial board until 1931, and Yuri Steklov.
In 1926, the leadership of the magazine was entrusted to critic Vyacheslav Polonsky, who turned the new edition into a central literary magazine that time. Polonsky directed the magazine until 1931, and already in the early 1930s, Novy Mir was recognized by the public as the main, main magazine of the then Russian Soviet literature.
After the war, the well-known writer Konstantin Simonov, who headed the magazine from 1946 to 1950, became the editor-in-chief, and Alexander Tvardovsky replaced him in 1950. This first tenure of Tvardovsky as editor-in-chief was short-lived. In 1954, he was removed from the leadership, but in 1958 he again became the editor-in-chief, and a period in the history of the magazine was inextricably linked with his name. Thanks to Tvardovsky, the small story "One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich" by the Ryazan teacher Alexander Solzhenitsyn could appear on the pages of the magazine, which became a milestone not only in the literary, but also in the political life of the country. In 1970, Tvardovsky was removed from his post as chief editor, and soon died.
After Tvardovsky's death until 1986, Novy Mir was headed first by Viktor Kosolapov, then by Sergei Narovchatov and Vladimir Karpov.
In 1986, for the first time, the magazine was headed by a non-partisan writer - prose writer Sergei Zalygin, under whom the circulation of the magazine rose to a record high of two million seven hundred thousand copies. The success of the magazine was associated with the publication of many previously banned books in the USSR, such as Doctor Zhivago by Boris Pasternak, Pit by Andrei Platonov, but especially Alexander Solzhenitsyn's works The Gulag Archipelago, In the First Circle, Cancer Ward.
The most high-profile publications of the magazine in its entire history were: "The Black Man" by Sergei Yesenin (1925); "Not by Bread Alone" by Vladimir Dudintsev (1956); "One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich" by Alexander Solzhenitsyn (1962); "Blach" by Chingiz Aitmatov (1986); "Advances and Debts" by Nikolai Shmelev (1987); "Pit" by Andrey Platonov (1987); Doctor Zhivago by Boris Pasternak (1988); The Gulag Archipelago by Alexander Solzhenitsyn (1989); "Sonechka" by Lyudmila Ulitskaya (1993); "Prisoner of the Caucasus" by Vladimir Makanin (1995); "Freedom" by Mikhail Butov (1999) and many others.
In 1947-1990 the magazine was an organ of the Union of Writers of the USSR. But since 1991, thanks to new funds legislation mass media, the magazine "New World" has become a truly independent publication, not directly associated with any of the creative unions or public organizations.
With the development of perestroika, the editorial charter changed, and at some point Zalygin was already voluntarily elected editor-in-chief by the editors. But in 1998, the five-year term for which he was elected expired and Sergei Pavlovich refused to run.
In 1998, literary critic Andrey Vasilevsky was elected editor-in-chief of the journal.
Today, like all “thick” magazines, Novy Mir is forced to survive in the market situation. The impossibility of existence without sponsorship, the inability of most potential readers to acquire a relatively expensive magazine, the inevitable decline in public interest - all this forced a change in editorial policy.
If earlier the basis of the magazine was novels, published with a continuation from issue to issue, today the magazine has reoriented itself to "small" forms - a short story, a cycle of stories.
The current circulation of the magazine hovers around the figure of only 7,000.
Currently, Novy Mir is published on 256 pages. In addition to novelties of prose and poetry, the magazine offers the traditional headings "From Heritage", "Philosophy. Story. Politics", "Far Close", "Times and Mores", "A Writer's Diary", "The World of Art", "Conversations", "Literary Criticism" (with the subheadings "The Struggle for Style" and "In the Course of the Text"), "Reviews . Reviews”, “Bibliography”, “Foreign book about Russia”, etc.
The editor-in-chief is Andrey Vasilevsky. Responsible secretary prose writer Mikhail Butov. Ruslan Kireev is in charge of the prose department. The department of poetry is headed by Oleg Chukhontsev, the department of criticism - Irina Rodnyanskaya, the department of history and archives - Alexander Nosov. Freelance members of the editorial board (and now the Public Council) are Sergei Averintsev, Viktor Astafiev, Andrei Bitov, Sergei Bocharov, Daniil Granin, Boris Ekimov, Fazil Iskander, Alexander Kushner, Dmitry Likhachev and other respected writers.
The material was prepared by the editors of rian.ru based on information from RIA Novosti and open sources
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Yuri Buyda
The cat has nine deaths
Narrative in stories
Seven
Oh Seven! The real - postal - her name will not say anything to the heart. In the former East Prussia, from where the last native German was deported back in forty-eight and which was quickly, hastily settled by residents from the regions of Novgorod and Pskov, Moscow and Yaroslavl, Kalinin - Tver and Smolensk, as well as from neighboring Belarus, the names of the streets and villages were given in a hurry , so dozens of Vishnevka and Nekrasovka happened, the German Taplakken was renamed Taplaki, Ramau to Rivne, and the tasty popular name of the central square of the regional center - Three Marshals Square (huge portraits of Vasilevsky, Bagramyan and Zhukov stood on it for a long time) was replaced with the insipid name of the leader of the Russian revolution .
But we are talking about the Seven! About Seven!
Except for the corner house with bookstore, which equally belonged to the Seven and Lipova, then it began with the house where the universal liar Zhopsik lived, the innocent owner of a green heart, - once, then - the house where the silent Casimir lived - two, the hospital - three, the yellow narrow house with his flock of blond brothers - football players - four, Kindergarten- five, the house under the helmet (its small-scale tiled roof painfully resembled the Kaiser's steel helmet with a cone) - six, the house of the Fascist and his eternally hungry fascists - seven, Buyanikha's house - eight, our house - nine, on the contrary - a store and warehouses, arranged in a former church - ten, a house with a couple of young Jewish women - davalok, languid Larisa and lively red-haired Valka - oh, how sweet were their fire-breathing mouths! - eleven, the house of Kuvalda - twelve, the house of the old woman Three Cats, who died in the basement on a mattress stuffed with crumpled three-rouble notes - thirteen, the house of Ivan Tikhonin, a brave ratai with green devils, whom he, after the eighth bottle of vodka, began to pick out from his hand with a fork, - fourteen , the house of the director of a paper factory, who lived alone and loved to pluck live chickens in the bathroom with his own hands, - fifteen, the house of the most talkative old woman in the world Grammophonikha - sixteen, the house without a number - seventeen, the house of grandfather Mukhanov, who smoked exclusively poisonous cigarettes stuffed instead of tobacco with black Georgian tea the highest grade - eighteen, the house is like a house - nineteen, the house of evil dogs and outsiders entrance forbidden - twenty, the house of teachers - twenty-one, the house of Kolka Urblyud, who managed to drink everything except the starry sky - twenty-two, the house of my secret lover, who never knew about it, because the waves of spring Pregol dragged her to the bottom so that she crossed the Baltic Sea under water and surfaced at the feet of the bronze Mermaid in Copenhagen - twenty-three, a house with a nest of hornets in the wall - twenty-four, a factory club, a former German officers' casino with a brothel, where dances were held on Saturdays and Sundays that had no right miss not a single owner of a folding knife over thirteen years old - twenty-five, and, finally, the house of railroad trackmen Ryzhy and Ryzhey - twenty-six! .. Total - twenty-six, in which, in addition to those mentioned, there were dozens of families, dogs, cats, cows , mice, spiders, about which there is no need to talk, because they themselves are able to stand up for themselves in front of my knowledge and my memory.
From the very beginning, from Lipovaya, the street was paved with cobblestones, and then - with red brick in several layers - for a thousand years you won’t erase it, you won’t rub it to the ground - to a grating of vast pines filled with amber, in the nests of which rested gray boulders from moraines left prehistoric glaciers; from the beginning to the end of the street, densely lined with lindens, one could walk in the pouring rain and not soak a single thread.
On one side ran parallel to the street. Railway, and on the other, down from the orchards - kitchen gardens - a swampy plain cut by reclamation ditches with a stadium in the center, resting on a high dam, behind which carried its yellowish-green waters of Pregol, with a dam and a sluice, with the Babsky coast, where the old and young and where for the first time in my life I really drowned and was brought back to life.
Behind the factory club rose an old park with zigzags of trenches swollen and overgrown with blackberries, with which the unreasonable fascists tried to stop the heroic onslaught of our troops. Behind the park stood the Tower, which in the spring served to lower the hollow water from the river into the reclamation canals stretching towards Insterburg.
Oh Seven! These rebellious women, who in the summer wore satin robes with one button, sometimes under the pressure of their stomachs shot their opponent not in the eyebrow, but in the eye, and in the winter they put on coats, hard as the doors of attics and basements, with the skins of unknown animals on the collar! These serene men - alcoholics, with whitish eyebrows fused at the bridge of the nose, in rusty ruble shoes that looked like dead rats, men who worked hard for pennies in factories and factories, toiled with pigs and rabbits, because it was impossible to live on a salary, on weekends while listening to vodka they listened to the radio and played dominoes, and on weekdays they hit their offspring with a belt on the ass, sincerely convinced that the head was not good for admonition. These hundred-year-old half-blind and half-mad old women in black plush jackets, headscarves and tulle hats that look like kites, who ate a bucket of plums at a time and walked arm in arm along the street, leaving a wet trail behind them ... These children, finally, who were ready to kill me just because I went out into the street with a piece of bread sprinkled with sunflower oil and protected by a ritual spell: "Forty-seven - I'll eat it myself!" But it was white bread! When - under Khrushchev - they introduced coupons for wheat flour and, it seems, for white bread, my younger sister brutalized old women threw her off the porch of the store: she took too much in one hand, although everything was correct in terms of the number of coupons. Thank God, the city madman Vita Little Head managed to catch the girl, otherwise she would have fallen headlong on the paving stones - although Vita actually hated children, because they strove to spit at him every time they met ...
Oh Seven! These scarlet tiled roofs in a flood of linden greenery, this thin scarlet dust over the red-brick pavement, so beautifully illuminated by the setting sun, this stupid lilac, with a lush chest falling out through the fence of the kindergarten, this state of bliss, incomprehensibly beautiful in its banality, when you lie behind the park in high dandelions , you look at the stupidest piercing blue flowing sky and think, of course, about immortality ...
We are alive as long as we are immortal.
Oh Seven! Unfortunately, you are immortality: the world is above all mind.