Analysis of the read work


S.E. Kaledin “Stroybat”


student gr. LA. 141

Semenikhin M.S.


literature teacher

Markova O.V.


Work plan

Biography of the writer (S.E. Kaledin)………………………………….……………3-4

Brief description of creativity……………………………………………………….4-6

Analysis of the read work (time of writing, history of creation, idea, theme, problems, main characters, meaning of the name, connection with modernity)…………………………………………..………………… ………….6-9

My attitude to the read work…………………………………….. 10

List of used literature……………………………………………………..11

Biography of the writer

Kaledin Sergei Evgenievich (b. 1949), prose writer. Born on August 28 in Moscow, in the family of an engineer. The upbringing was carried out by the mother, a translator-turkologist, later a member of the joint venture, who had a great influence on the future writer. After graduating from school, he entered the Institute of Communications, from which he left after the first year, realizing that this was not his calling. He leaves for the army, voluntarily choosing a construction battalion, where there was less ideological education. Served in Angarsk.

After the army, he worked, changing many professions: he was a carpenter, a locksmith, a gravedigger at a cemetery. In 1972 he entered the Literary Institute. M. Gorky to the department of criticism. After studying for several years, he moves from full-time to part-time. In 1978, when it was time to defend his diploma, Kaledin was on Sakhalin “on the Sabbath”, so he instructed his wife to write a critical article to defend his diploma. When he returned, he learned that the article was not accepted, and then hastily wrote the story “The Humble Cemetery”, which became a thesis, successfully defended. In 1979 he graduated from the institute.

The author offered “Humble Cemetery” for publication to various publishing houses for several years, but only in 1987 did the Novy Mir magazine decide to publish it. The story was a resounding success. Having become famous, the author in the same year published the novel-chronicle “Corridor”, which included “Ku-ku”, “Gleb Bogdyshev’s Coven” and other stories.

In 1988, the story “Stroybat” was published, which also attracted the attention of readers. In 1990, the director of the Leningrad Maly Drama Theater L. Dodin staged a performance based on this story, which was a great success in the theater’s tours of Russia and other countries. In 1991, a new story of the writer – “The Priest and the Worker” was published. Kaledin’s last story – “Tahana Merkazit” (which means in Hebrew – “Main Bus Station”) – appeared in “Continent” in 1996. Kaledin lives and works in Moscow.

Brief description of creativity



Pop and Worker (1991)

Humble Cemetery (1979)

Stroybat (1988)

Tahana merkazit [Main Bus Station] (1996)

Black and white cinema (2013) (16+)

Analysis of the read work

Demobilized. Have a rest. My friend, a Muscovite, went to wash his hands on the wedding day, but instead he cut his veins and became a cripple.

Urgently went to Leningrad to find the remaining brother-soldiers. I did not find it: three were sitting, one went crazy. This alignment made an indelible impression on me, to put it nicely, and I sat down at Stroybat.

Wrote and took to the “New World”. The story was quickly put in the tenth issue of 1988. I was surprised and even slightly offended by the ease with which the issue of publication was resolved. And by the way, why be offended: in the yard there is freedom, damn it, perestroika, grace! Live – I do not want!

Glavlit did not endorse the made-up issue of the magazine. And without a Glavlit visa, the printing house has no right to print even a match label, not to mention a candy wrapper.

The magazine decided: a misunderstanding. Well, okay, they banned the Gulag Archipelago. Everything is clear: the author is an enemy, a traitor, a traitor and a slanderer, and his Nobel speech is also of little use. Grigory Medvedev’s “Chernobyl Notebook” was also gored with the best of intentions: as if panic from the radiation scattered all over the wide world could not catch up with the reader. Everything is correct. Like notes. But “Stroybat” did not please? A fictitious story twenty years ago: a shabby construction battalion, soldiers and machine guns have never been seen. Combat weapons – pick and shovel. Well, also a master, of course.

An, no … Not everything is so simple.

Glavlit, and in full rank – the Main Directorate for the Protection of State Secrets in the Press under the Council of Ministers of the USSR, returned the layout of Stroybat, sternly warning that the story would not be considered by military censors without a visa. So that, therefore, do not worry in vain.

– Very good, – Feodosiy Konstantinovich Vidrashku, Deputy Editor-in-Chief, reassured me, rubbing his hands. – Now we will quickly send it to the military censorship, and everything will be in order. Let’s put it in the twelfth number.

– No need for military censorship! I yelled, dropping to my knees. – I ask God by Christ: do not! ..

The editor-in-chief – by the way, the only non-partisan among the “fat” chiefs – grimaced:

– Quiet … Let them read, since itching …

– Exactly, – the deputy podeldyknul and turned to me: – You’re in a car, so take me. Kropotkinskaya, nineteen.

– Go, – the editor-in-chief nodded.

With my own hands, I shoved the layout of “Stroybat” into a narrow, fearless slot of a wooden mailbox with a handwritten inscription across it: “For materials.” The box was guarded by a pimply soldier with a bayonet. There was a grin in his eyes: “Where are you going, goat?”

And it began.

“General Staff of the Armed Forces of the USSR, Main Military Censorship,

September 15, 1988, N 382/145, 103160, Moscow, K-160.

Chief Editor Zalygin S.P.

Copy: to the head of the Main Directorate for the Protection of State

secrets in the press under the Council of Ministers of the SSR comrade. Boldyrev V.A.

S. Kaledin’s story “Stroybat” shows the exceptionally low political and moral state of the personnel of the military unit of the Soviet army.

The same assessment of its content is given in the conclusion of the Main Political Directorate of the SA and the Navy.

Due to the fact that the mentioned information is subject to existing censorship restrictions, in our opinion, the story cannot be published.

Acting Chief Military Censor of the General Staff

Colonel Sysoev.

– Well, what can you do now? – the deputy spread his hands sadly, smiling sourly. – All that remains is: sit down and remake your construction battalion into a disbat. Then they take another look.

– Disbat?! It’s a military prison! I was not there.

– Well then, I really don’t know … Why are you so upset ?! You are still so young…

And he smiled wickedly again.

Okay, I guess I won’t get upset. I’m still so young. But I won’t give up either. Painfully ignominiously it turns out: they pressed down and flowed. Once I got involved, I’ll frolic.

I’m calling the military censor.

– The author of the banned story “Stroybat” worries. I would like to speak with management.

– And what to say, everything is said. We sent a letter to the editor-in-chief.

– The fact is that I have here … a pre-infarction condition. And the thought of suicide…

At the other end of the phone they hesitated, an irritated voice came:

– I’m connecting with the chief military censor, Major General Sergey Alekseevich Filimonov.

I hiccupped, coughed my voice, tuned my memory to memorization.

– General Filimonov is listening.

Me: Hello, Sergey Alekseevich. This is Kaledin, a prose writer. I would like to receive some additions to the conclusion of Colonel Sysoev regarding my story.

Filimonov: And what kind of explanation do you want?

Me: Well, for you to explain in more detail what is considered a low political and moral state of the personnel of a military unit.

Filimonov: If from our side, then I can say that it is that you give a political and moral state for the whole part. For some reason, the majority of you there turned out to be all the defendants in this part … We must rely on the facts … But this should not be … We also turned to the builders. You have everything there in a generalized form, such a picture appears, it calls into question …

Me: (interrupting): Sergey Alekseevich, but not only I, but also the recent decision of the Politburo called into question …

Filimonov: (interrupting): Let’s not do this, let’s not do this… No one authorized us, and you probably do not own for everyone. According to our list, if we are talking about a particular case, if there is one, well, two people, you can show it. When we start to make a generalization based on the fact of two or three people… No, you have an artistic side there, present, and you pour it out, although they are construction.

Me: The editor-in-chief of the magazine offered the censorship and the Main Political Directorate a complete carte blanche…

Filimonov: Whom?

Me: I offered to give a review, a review, a comment – anything in the same issue where the story is …

Filimonov: We will not come to anything …

Me: So you think that you and I will not find a common language?

Filimonov: Why? I still have a common language.

Me: Let’s make an appointment, shall we?

Filimonov: Let’s go, although it’s useless.

The stationery folder with the inscription “Squabble” (the history of “Stroybat”) began to swell.

At the end of October 1988, I entered the old mansion on Kropotkinskaya for the second time. Home military censorship. The officer on duty, having checked my passport, called the lieutenant. He led by secret passages and at the next door handed over to the colonel. The colonel, straightening his uniform, knocked on the door of the right office, entered and, nodding in my direction, gloomily said to the general rising from the table: “Here.” And went to the wall.

– Good afternoon, Sergei Evgenievich, – the old gray-haired general said cordially. – How are you feeling? Have a seat.

“As for clarifications,” I reminded him guiltily, taking the chair appointed by the general’s finger. – But health is nowhere, I’m crying at night.

“Pills, maybe some,” the general sympathized.

At first, our conversation stalled, did not catch on, tediously repeating the phone call. Nevertheless, I ground something, appealing to the Politburo.

– The Politburo should not be touched, – the general suddenly abruptly changed the loose course of the conversation … – There is a list.

He took a red book out of the safe and, leafing through it, kept saying:

– First of all, you are a writer… You can’t be in the know. There is a list of information … Glavlit is guided by it …

– Let me take a look.

– Yes, you yourself, probably have?

I spread my arms theatrically.

-Where? We don’t have anything. Golyak.

At the same time, I lecherously twisted my neck, trying to look into the little book lying in front of the general. The general blocked the text with his elbow.

“You’re just like a repeater, Sergey Evgenievich,” he scolded in a fatherly way, “you want to write off …

– You hit the mark, comrade general; I am a repeater, in the ninth grade they kicked me out to …

The general blossomed.

– That’s what I think: a writer, and such words …

I nodded.

– Everything is correct, Sergey Alekseevich, everything is correct … Would you like to take a look, eh? In a familiar way, in a military way: you are a general, I am a private.

“So it’s secret,” the censor fought back languidly. But it was felt that I wanted to show.

– What there secrets, my God! – I smacked nonsense, clinging to the edge of the treasured brochure. _ You show me, I’ll tell my guys, friends, comrades in the pen: Markov Georgy Mokeevich, Proskurin Petr Lukich, Bondarev … I’ll tell them what we can, what we can’t.

– Are you familiar with them? – respectfully surprised the general.

– And then. We are friends at home, we go to the bathhouse, the women discuss our styles …

And the general gave in. He turned the text towards me, covering the paragraph numbers above and below with his palms, leaving only a narrow gap for reading.

“Just a little more,” I playfully begged the censor. – Ka-appel. Only a paragraph.

With the same enthusiasm, I once persuaded persons of the opposite sex to love. In this case, we were more like a blue couple.

But the general was cool.

– You don’t need a paragraph! – barked, nullifying my harassment. – What I can – I give. And will be!

In the gap between the cleanly washed general’s palms was the following:

“List of information in the armed forces of the USSR,

prohibited from open publication.

SECRET N2651 “I approve” July 31, 1988

S. Akhromeev

The mention of the low political and moral state of the personnel of the Armed Forces of the USSR, including the negative relations between military personnel …

Information about the unsatisfactory state of military discipline (general assessment, nature, penalties, quantity …) in the central and district open types of information … “

– We already tried this way and that … – the general sighed, – all the same, the political and moral climbs out … You, Sergey Evgenievich, think that you are assembled in the construction battalion …

– I don’t think I served in this construction battalion, Comrade General. In 1969 we were expelled from all the construction battalions of the country, an objectionable bastard, for various reasons, and were driven to correction in Bilyutui, in Transbaikalia. You know, there are uranium developments. There, soldiers serve half a year less, but then they don’t give offspring, they don’t breed their own kind. Sexual atrophy.

The General shook his head, catching me in a blatant lie.

– But you gave something, Sergey Evgenievich, I mean offspring.

– So I was not taken to uranium. They slowed down in Angarsk.

The general perked up.

– Special case, special case. An exceptional case cannot be imposed on all armed forces. You have a fight there, company to company …

– Yes, I myself participated in it.

– Anyway: a special case. Two or three people, even a group – please. And the whole part – not on-ado. This will be wrong. Everyone in the editorial office knows. The deputy chief editor knows. The list was approved by Marshal Akhromeev.

– What a marshal we have, however, interesting! With one hand he approves censorship, and with the other he assures Reagan that we have freedom of speech. It doesn’t work out well.

Our conversation took a second turn. The general had lunch. Subordinates timidly squeezed into the office, silently reminding the boss of the timely meal, but the general got into a conversation.

– I even, frankly, was surprised how this magazine takes such a story. You also have a Jew there … You have a political one there. It smells of nationalism… Soldiers fuck women in the barracks… It’s not ethical.

– Have you read “One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich”? I interrupted the general.

The colonels stuck to the wall twitched in unison, looking reproachfully at me as if I had farted at the wrong time. But the general was not embarrassed, only shook his shoulder straps.

– Yes. I know such a novel … The pages have been provided to you, and you are glad …

I wake up.

– All the best, Comrade General.

The censor escorted me to the door and, handing me over to the stagnant colonel, fatherly asked me not to tell anyone about our conversation.

But I spoiled all the comfort for him.

-Dear Sergey Alekseevich! I give my word of honor that as soon as I get out of military censorship, I will immediately try to tell as many people as possible about our meeting. Don’t claim.

My paternal grandfather, an old Jew, loved to groan.

“Oh-oh,” he muttered, shaking his head in the traditional way, “oh-oh.” Then he suddenly froze and, theatrically spreading his arms to the sides, asked the emptiness a sacramental question: “And what, in fact, oh-oh?”

“What, actually, oh-oh?” I thought, going out. “Firstly, they let me out, the ribs are intact. Secondly, the information: the general is twisting, shifting responsibility to the PUR.

Posters hung everywhere in the reception room of the Main Political Directorate: the forefinger of a gloomy warrior threatened the visitor: “Remember military secrets.” I went to the local telephone booth. The phone was silent. I began to rummage around my eyes in search of instructions and found it: “Close the door tightly!” He pulled the door tighter – the phone buzzed.

The deputy head of the department of culture, Colonel Voloshin, was found right there. I went with a broken trump card: I’m in a heart attack and I’m starting to kill myself right here, in a telephone booth.

– Wait!

Handsome Colonel Voloshin, my age, went down the steps with a light trot. He held slips of paper in his hand.

– Maybe an ambulance, Sergey Evgenievich?

– No need for an ambulance, tell me better, will you print?

The colonel courageously moved his beautiful head.

– N-no! We will not. Bad story. Sergei Evgenievich. Very bad. He shook the papers in his hand. – This is the conclusion of the PUR.

“Give me,” I asked in a thin voice.

The colonel, committing an official sin, was afraid to refuse a dying man, unclenched his fingers.

“… S. Kaledin collected all the negative facts, all the rudeness, all the cruelty and senselessness that are scattered throughout the country’s construction battalions … In our days, so hot with the aggravation of interethnic relations, to print the story “Stroybat” in a magazine with a huge circulation – it means playing into the hands of the enemies of perestroika, the nationalists…

The story does not need to be printed. However, the management of the journal, referring to democracy and openness, can publish it. After that, it would be nice to organize several operational reviews. It would be better to keep silent about it in the press, but this is unlikely …

O.A. Fenko, member of the Writers’ Union of the USSR.

And then I realized that it seems “Stroybat” will be printed. There are too many fools forbidding it.

The editor-in-chief was dissatisfied with my behavior.

– Stop amateur performances! … I have been in literature for fifty years, but I have not seen an author behave so shamelessly! Stop gossip!

The deputy opened the office door a crack and handed two newspapers through the crack.

– What, what is it?! exclaimed the editor, taking the press. – “Moscow News”, “Komsomolskaya Pravda”!… Are you advertising yourself?! Are you generating excitement? What else do you intend to do?

I sighed heavily.

– Send a telegram to the Council of Ministers with a complaint against Glavlit.

– Don’t you dare! squealed the deputy.

The chief, without saying goodbye, went to his office.

In the evening, I put in order the documentation on “Stroybat” and planned the next demarches. The neighbor came. He asked if I was listening to “Freedom” now.

I turned on the transistor. “Svoboda” read “Stroybat” in the voice of Yulian Panich.

– Olya! I yelled to my wife in the kitchen. – Sushi crackers!

A day or two has not passed … “Stroybat” has been read, repeated, but I have not yet been taken away. Still other times.

In the mailbox I found a simple envelope, in the corner – the fish “Cockerel”, which I bred in my childhood in an aquarium. In such modest postal envelopes, grandmother Lipa sent me shabby rubles from her pension to the construction battalion. In this case, “Cockerel” in his beak brought Filimonov’s letter. Not a general, not the head of the military censorship, just a modest letter, signed neatly and smallly “Filimonov” at the bottom. No date or outgoing number. An amazing coincidence with the late grandmother: she also signed letters without a date and geography, at home: “Grandma Lipa.” True, in her letters there was always money.

“During our conversation, Sergey Evgenievich, I explained to you why there are objections to the publication of the Stroybat story. “…

“Look at how he was led!” I thought. “I could easily not write, but I did!”

“… The construction battalion in the story is the daily drinking of personnel, persistent misanthropy, an arrogant attitude towards Turkmens, Uzbeks, Moldovans … All of them are referred to only as: “chocks”, “Khokhls”, “Jews” … “


In the meantime, deputations were arriving at the magazine. And what guests have arrived!… And without security!… Colonel-General Stefanovsky, deputy head of the PUR, a mysterious general with blue epaulettes of a pilot.

The generals spent half a day beguiling the editor-in-chief. They referred not only to their department, they called the main obstacle “the top” – the union ideologist Vadim Medvedev, only through whose corpse “Stroybat” can get to the reader.

The general’s spirit had not yet dissipated, the head of the department of fiction, Glavlita Solodin, came to visit.

Naturally, I was not invited to the conversation and decided to pay a visit to Solodin at the Main Directorate for the Protection of State Secrets in the Press under the USSR Council of Ministers.

Solodin was there and ordered to be let in.

I put my briefcase on a chair near his desk and took out a folder that had grown fat after half a year of hassle with the updated inscription “Squabble” from it. The folder was three fingers thick. One and a half fingers were acquired naturally, and the bottom one and a half were unused blank paper. For solidity. I left the briefcase open and clicked the lighter in its insides.

Solodin fidgeted, frowned, reached for the dark interior of the briefcase.

– Why are you so worried, Vladimir Alekseevich, there is no tape recorder, only pieces of paper … – I rattled around the censor with documentation.

Solodin smoked.

– Do you know what they call you in the West? … Singer of the Soviet bottom.

– Come on! … And you know everything!

“We all know about you,” Solodin smiled enigmatically. – Someday in time I will show you a lot of interesting things. The wife is an editor, I suppose?

– Senior. By prose. We got married with intent: I write, she publishes in the Soviet Writer. Family contract. There the director was a very good uncle, his name was Eremenko, as soon as he found out that we were married, he kicked my book out of the plan. So watchful. Now something, thank God all nothing. Soon “Stroybat” will be released – we’ll buy a beer, shrimp …

– Do not buy, Sergei Evgenievich. “Stroybat” will not come out. The thing is disgusting. You hate both our country and the army…

Solodin spoke in a low, insinuating voice.

– So, you do not like my work, Vladimir Alekseevich. Sorry, you have bad taste. But the spouses Gorbachev, do not take it for boasting, they like it …

Solodin choked on smoke.

– They read? he asked disinterestedly.

– Well, Raisa Maksimovna definitely read, she’s a professor, she reads quickly, hop – and you’re done. Yes, and Mikhail Sergeevich, too, I think, counted. The story is from Gulkin, I’m sorry, hell. But with adultery. Dope. Fight. The fight, by the way, goes according to the documents. Gorbachev also has documents.

The story had to be rushed. I got busy.

– Where are you going, Sergei Evgenievich? Solodin said. – Let’s sit down and talk.

– Perestroika, hedgehog your copper! – I yelled again according to my script. – Alternative!… All the best! I’m running! … He promised to call Gorbachev. Raisa Maksimovna…

Two days later, the censorship called the magazine and said that they had received permission to publish “Stroybat”.

And I gave the story to Gorbachev. Whether he read it or not, I don’t know, I won’t lie.

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