The image of Volodya in the work of bread for a dog. Methodological development in literature

In the text proposed for analysis, the famous Russian writer V. F. Tendryakov raises the problem of bad deeds.

The author in his own way comprehends and reveals this problem. The writer tells that he had to do bad deeds many times: he “lied to the teachers”, and also “given the word not to fight and did not restrain him”, but his last act made him think about what he had done earlier. Despite the fact that each soldier in the company was given a certain amount of bread, he decided to steal more, because “he hadn’t eaten anything for five days,” but his colleagues quickly noticed the loss. Having experienced a huge herd and humiliation for what he had done, the author changed his idea of ​​\u200b\u200blife and no longer stole, even tried to gain self-respect by doing good deeds.

VF Tendryakov expresses his point of view clearly and unambiguously. He believes that bad deeds make a person ugly and ugly, however, in order to realize this, a person must feel all the shame and humiliation for what he has done.

I fully share the position of the author. Indeed, we all do something bad in life, someone is tormented by conscience, and he immediately tries to apologize to others, others get used to it and therefore do their vile deeds again and again. It all depends on the person himself and on whether he has a conscience or not.

In support of my opinion, I want to cite as an example the work of M. Gorky “Chelkash”, in which the main character, Grishka Chelkash, having gone on a “case” with a young guy named Gavrila, gets into a fight with him over the proceeds for the work done. Gavrila was very young and inexperienced, seeing a large amount of money in the hands of Chelkash, decides to rob him, taking all the proceeds. The author in his work showed how terrible the actions of people who succumbed to human vices can be.

F. M. Dostoevsky in his work “Crime and Punishment” shows the beggar Rodion Raskolnikov, who killed two innocent people and robbed an apartment. He did not think about morality, he thought about his problems, overshadowing his mind. After what was done, Rodion realized his mistakes, realized that he had done terrible things in order to test his “theory”.

Thus, people who have committed a bad deed sooner or later come to their senses, because every person has such a feeling - conscience. It helps a person to look at himself from the outside and understand what he was guilty of. However, some simply need to feel shame and humiliation for what they have done, because only in this way they will be able to see how “ugly and ugly” they have become from the outside.

Source text.

We all spent a month in a reserve regiment across the Volga. We, this is so, are the remnants of the units defeated beyond the Don, which have reached Stalingrad. Someone was again thrown into battle, and we were taken to the reserve, it would seem - lucky, some kind of rest from the trenches. Rest ... two heavy lead biscuits a day, cloudy water instead of stew. Sending to the front was greeted with joy.

Another farm on our way. The lieutenant, accompanied by the foreman, went to clarify the situation.

Half an hour later the foreman returned.

- Guys! he announced enthusiastically. - I managed to knock out: two hundred and fifty grams of bread and fifteen grams of sugar on the snout!
Who will get bread with me?.. Come on! “I was lying next to him, and the foreman pointed his finger at me.
a thought flashed in my mind ... about resourcefulness, cowardly, nasty and dull.
Right on the porch, I spread my raincoat, and loaves began to fall on it - seven and half more.
The foreman turned away for a second, and I put half a loaf under the porch, wrapped the bread in a raincoat, and put it on my shoulder.
Only an idiot would expect the foreman not to notice the disappearance of a loaf cut in half. No one touched the resulting bread, except for him and me. I am a thief, and now, right now, in a few minutes this will become known ... Yes, to those who, like me, have not eaten anything for five days. As I!
In my life, I happened to do bad things - I lied to teachers so that they would not put a deuce, more than once I gave my word not to fight and did not keep my word, once while fishing I stumbled upon someone else's confused line, on which a chub was sitting, and took it off the hook ... But every time I found an excuse for myself: I didn’t learn the task - I had to finish reading the book, I fought again - so he climbed first, took a chub from someone else’s rope - but the rope was swept away by the current, mixed up, the owner himself would never have found him ...
Now I'm not looking for excuses. Oh, if only I could go back, get the hidden bread, put it back in the cape!
From the side of the road towards us with an effort - every bone aches - soldiers began to rise. Gloomy, dark faces, bent backs, lowered shoulders.

The sergeant-major opened his cape, and the heap of bread was greeted with respectful silence.

In this respectful silence, a bewildered voice was heard:

— And where?.. There was half a loaf!

There was a slight movement, dark faces turned towards me, from all sides - eyes, eyes, a terrible alertness in them.

- Hey, you! Where?! I ask you!

I was silent.
An elderly soldier, whitened blue eyes, wrinkled cheeks, a gray chin from stubble, a voice without malice:

“It will be better, boy, if you confess.
There is a grain of strange, almost unbelievable sympathy in the voice of the elderly soldier. And it is more unbearable than swearing and amazement.

- Why talk to him! One of the guys raised his hand.

And I involuntarily twitched. And the guy just adjusted his cap on his head.

- Don't be afraid! he said contemptuously. - Beat you ... get your hands dirty.

And suddenly I saw that the people around me were strikingly beautiful - dark, exhausted by the campaign, hungry, but their faces were somehow faceted, clearly stuccoed. Among beautiful people, I am ugly.
Nothing is worse than feeling unable to justify yourself to yourself.
I was lucky, in the communications company of the Guards Regiment, where I ended up, there was no one who would see my shame. By petty deeds, over and over again, I won self-respect - I climbed first on a line break under heavy fire, tried to take on a coil with a heavier cable , if he managed to get an extra pot of soup from the cook, he did not consider it his prey, he always shared it with someone. And no one noticed my altruistic "exploits", they thought it was normal. And this is what I needed, I did not pretend to exclusivity, I did not even dare to dream of becoming better than others.
I never stole again in my life. Somehow I didn't have to.

Malikova Lyudmila Anatolyevna, teacher of Russian language and literature, MAOU secondary school No. 54, Tomsk

Lesson topic “... nothing can us

Calm down among worldly sorrows;

Nothing, nothing...one

Is it conscience?

Lesson Objectives:the formation of communicative and socio-cultural competencies through the comprehension and analysis of a literary text.

Tasks: 1) improve the skills of analyzing a literary text;

2) to form a civic position through understanding the historical past of the country and fundamental moral concepts;

3) through the organization of group work to develop the communication skills of students.

During the classes:

Materials for the lesson

"How to work in a group".

Be respectful and kind to each member of the group. Listen to everyone. Speak to the point.

Read carefully and listen to the assignment. Make sure everyone understands everything in it.

Discuss the question in the group. Formulate the answer accurately, competently and beautifully.

Write each answer in your draft.

If necessary, ask for an explanation from the senior student, dictionaries.

Inspiration, patience, good luck.

Tasks for groups

(Groups perform in the order in which the tasks are written)

Experts - historians

What do you know about this era from the text of the work?

Look at the illustrations on page 115 in the textbook (“Athletes Parade” and “Starving Children”). What is the purpose of putting these photos on one page? What is your relationship with them?

What episodes do you consider significant for creating the appearance of the era?

Why does VF Tendryakov raise this topic in his work? What is its meaning? Are such works necessary in literature?

Experts - literary critics

The story begins with a terrible description of the exiles, "kurkuli". Find their description, what literary device does the author use for this description and why?

Follow the text, what detail of the portrait does the author pay attention to when creating images of his characters? What epithets does he use? How do you understand them? What are they used for ?

See the end of this story. How do you understand the expression “I did not feed a shabby dog ​​with pieces of bread, but my conscience”? What is the name of the artistic technique used by the author? What is its role?

Reference material

Metaphor- a type of trail, a hidden figurative comparison, likening one object, a phenomenon to another (for example: a fire of a red mountain ash).

Epithet- figurative, artistic definition.

Antithesis- opposition, opposition.

Oxymoron- a stylistic turn that combines semantically contrasting words that create an unexpected semantic unity, for example: a living corpse, wretched luxury.

(Remember the expression “The eyes are the window to the soul.”)

He (kurkul) fell out from among the people. (p.104)

On duty, the head of the station wandered along the platform in a brand new uniform cap with a flashy red top. He looked down at his feet and remained silent.(page 105)

I steal away thieves did not finish what my mother put in front of me. I thief uploaded honestly saved three pieces of bread into my pockets ... In broad daylight, I went out to thieves' business- on the secret hunt for, the hungriest. (Think about why a good deed is "performed" by thieves?) pp.108-109

Out of annoyance - and hunger too - I ate bread on the spot. He was unexpectedly very tasty and ... poisonous.

How did you understand the meaning of the expression "the heart is pissed off"? Which character can you say that about?

What is the role of the proverb in this work: “You cannot scoop up the sea with a teaspoon”? (Who says it, with what intonation, what does the hero feel at the same time?)

Experts - psychologists

Reread the passage on p. 108 (slide with text on the board). Can it be called a dialogue? Who are its members? Why is this fragment included by the author in the work? How does it relate to the section we are studying?

Different qualities can manifest themselves in different people in different ways. Draw on a straight line (on an A3 sheet) how such a quality manifests itself as conscience, for the heroes of V.F.Tendryakov (from the smallest manifestation of this quality to the greatest manifestation). Where on this straight line will the main character Volodya Tenkov, his father, the head of the station, Volodya's brother, policeman Vanya Dushnoy, a woman nicknamed Belch, be located? Justify your opinion.

What meaning does the author put into the phrase (p. 115): “I did not feed a shabby dog ​​with pieces of bread, but my conscience. I will not say that my conscience liked this suspicious food so much. My conscience continued to inflame, but not so much, not life-threatening”?

Your generalization, what is “conscience” and what role did the story of V. Tendryakov play in our understanding of it?

Vladimir Fedorovich Tendryakov

Born in the family of a rural employee. The next morning after school graduation, he went to the front. He did not have a chance to fight for long, but at the most difficult time of the war. In 1943 he was seriously wounded and demobilized.

Thus began "civilian life." Vladimir Fedorovich went to teach military affairs at school. Then he began to work as a secretary of the Komsomol organization.

After the war, Tendryakov began working as a journalist - correspondent for the Ogonyok magazine. He wrote essays about the village. Prose collections devoted to social and ethical problems were published annually. At the center of his prose is a man who, through his own fault or due to tragic circumstances, has been torn out of the normal course of life.

The main themes of the writer's work are life in the countryside in the 1940s and 1950s, school and teenagers, human spirituality. The fundamental concept in his code of ethics is conscience. In the story "Three Bags of Weed Wheat" clearly expresses the most important ideological motive for Tendryakov: there is no such good, such a "high" goal, for which it would be worth neglecting a particular individual.

The works of VF Tendryakov almost always caused heated debate. He posed questions to readers in which the country's economy, its ideology and morality are interconnected. The writer does not offer unambiguous answers. Many of his things today sound extremely topical.

Conscience

Mercy

Hunger

The price of life

BREAD FOR DOG

The reading time for the story is 43 minutes.

Summer 1933.
Near the smoked-out, state-owned ocher station building, behind a peeled-off fence, there is a through birch public garden. In it, right on the trodden paths, on the roots, on the surviving dusty grass, lay those who were no longer considered people.
True, everyone in the bowels of a dirty, lousy rag should be kept, if not lost, a soiled document certifying that the bearer of this bears such and such a surname, name, patronymic, was born there, on the basis of such and such a decision was exiled with deprivation of civil rights and confiscation of property. But no one cared anymore that he, the nameless, dispossessed, admissible, did not reach the place, no one was interested that he, the nameless, deprived, did not live anywhere, did not work, did not eat anything. He dropped out of the people.
For the most part, these are dispossessed peasants from near Tula, Voronezh, Kursk, Orel, from all over Ukraine. Together with them, the southern word "kurkul" also arrived in our northern places.
Kurkuli did not even look like people.
Some of them are skeletons covered with dark, wrinkled, seemingly rustling skin, skeletons with huge, meekly burning eyes.
Others, on the contrary, are tightly inflated - the skin, blue from tension, is about to burst, the bodies sway, the legs look like pillows, the attached dirty fingers hide behind the influx of white pulp.
And they behaved now, too, not like people.
Someone thoughtfully gnawed at the bark on a birch trunk and gazed into space with smoldering, inhumanly wide eyes.
Someone, lying in the dust, exuding a sour stench from his half-decayed rags, was squeamishly wiping his fingers with such energy and stubbornness that it seemed he was ready to peel the skin off them.
Someone blurred on the ground like jelly, did not move, but only screeched and gurgled inwardly, like a boiling titan.
And someone sadly stuffed a station trash can from the ground into his mouth ...
Most of all, those who had already died were like people. These lay quietly - slept.
But before death, one of the meek ones, who quietly gnawed the bark, ate garbage, suddenly rebelled - stood up to his full height, clasped the smooth, strong trunk of a birch with his splintered, brittle hands, pressed his angular cheek against it, opened his mouth, spaciously black, dazzlingly toothed , was about to shout a sizzling curse, but a wheeze flew out, foam bubbled. Peeling off the skin on the bony cheek, the "rebel" slid down the trunk and ... calmed down for good.
Even after death, such people did not look like people - they squeezed trees like a monkey.
The adults walked around the park. Only along the platform along the low fence wandered on duty the head of the station in a brand new uniform cap with a flashy red top. He had a swollen, leaden face, he looked at his feet and was silent.
From time to time policeman Vanya Dushnoy appeared, a sedate guy with a frozen mine - "Look at me!".
- Nobody crawled out? he asked the stationmaster.
But he did not answer, passed by, did not raise his head.
Vanya Dushnoy made sure that the turmeric did not spread out of the public garden - neither onto the platform nor on the way.
We, the boys, did not go into the square itself either, but watched from behind the fence. No horrors could stifle our animal curiosity. Petrified with fear, disgust, exhausted by hidden panic pity, we watched bark beetles, flashes of "rebels" ending in wheezing, foam, sliding down the trunk.
The head of the station - "Red Riding Hood" - once turned in our direction with an inflamed dark face, stared for a long time, finally uttered either to us, or to himself, or in general to the indifferent sky:
- What will grow out of such children? They love death. What kind of world will live after us? What kind of world?
We could not stand the square for a long time, we broke away from it, breathing deeply, as if airing all the nooks and crannies of our poisoned soul, we fled to the village.
There, where there was a normal life, where one could often hear the song:
Don't sleep, get up, curly!
Ringing in the shops
the country rises with glory
to meet the day...
As an adult, I was surprised and wondered for a long time: why I, in general, an impressionable, vulnerable boy, did not get sick, did not go crazy immediately after I first saw a kurkul, dying with foam and wheezing before my eyes.

Probably because the horrors of the square did not appear immediately and I had the opportunity to somehow get used to it, to get pissed off.
The first shock, much stronger than from Kurkul's death, I experienced from a quiet street incident.
A woman in a neat and well-worn coat with a velvet collar and an equally neat and worn face slipped before my eyes and broke a glass jar of milk that she had bought from the platform at the station. The milk spilled into the icy, unclean footprint of a horse's hoof. The woman sank down in front of him, as if in front of her daughter's grave, gave a strangled sob, and suddenly took out a simple gnawed wooden spoon from her pocket. She cried and scooped milk with a spoon from the hoof hole on the road, wept and ate, wept and ate, carefully, without greed, well-mannered.
A. I stood aside and - no, I did not roar with her - I was afraid that passers-by would laugh at me.
My mother gave me breakfast at school: two slices of black bread thickly spread with cranberry marmalade. And then the day came when, at a noisy break, I took out my bread and felt the silence around me with all my skin. I was confused, did not dare then to offer the guys. However, the next day I took not two slices, but four ...
At the big break, I took them out and, afraid of the unpleasant silence, which is so difficult to break, shouted too hastily and awkwardly:
- Who wants?!
“I’ve got shmatochek,” said Pashka Bykov, a guy from our street.
- And me! .. And me! .. Me too! ..
Hands stretched out from all sides, eyes sparkled.
- Not enough for everyone! - Pashka tried to push the attackers away, but no one retreated.
- To me! To me! A crust!..
I broke off pieces for everyone.
Probably, out of impatience, without malicious intent, someone pushed my hand, the bread fell, the rear ones, wanting to see what happened to the bread, pushed on the front ones, and several legs went through the pieces, crushing them.
- Pahoruky! Pasha scolded me.
And departed. Everyone followed him in different directions.
There was torn bread on the floor stained with marmalade. It felt like we all accidentally killed some animal in the heat of the moment.
Teacher Olga Stanislavna entered the classroom. By the way she looked away, how she asked not immediately, but with a barely perceptible hesitation, I realized that she was hungry too.
- Who is so full?
And all those whom I wanted to treat with bread, willingly, solemnly, perhaps with gloating joy, announced:
- Volodya Tenkov is full! He is!..
I lived in a proletarian country and knew well how ashamed it is to be full in our country. But, unfortunately, I really was full, my father, a responsible employee, received a responsible ration. Mother even baked white pies with cabbage and chopped egg!
Olga Stanislavna started the lesson.

Last time we took spelling ... - And fell silent. “Last time we…” She tried not to look at the crushed bread. - Volodya Tenkov, get up, pick up after you!
I obediently got up, without arguing, picked up the bread, wiped the cranberry jam from the floor with a leaf torn from a notebook. The whole class was silent, the whole class was breathing over my head.
After that, I flatly refused to take breakfast to school.
Soon I saw emaciated people with huge meek-sad eyes of oriental beauties...
And patients with dropsy with swollen, smooth, faceless physiognomies, with blue elephant legs ...
The emaciated - skin and bones - we began to call shkoletniks, those with dropsy - elephants.
And here is a birch square near the station ...
I got used to something, I didn’t go crazy.
I didn’t go crazy also because I knew that those who died in broad daylight in our railway station birch forest were enemies. It was about them that the great writer Gorky recently said: "If the enemy does not surrender, he is destroyed." They didn't give up. Well ... we got into a birch forest.
Together with other guys, I was a witness to an accidental conversation between Dybakov and one of the schoolboys.
Dybakov is the first party secretary in our district, tall, in a semi-military tunic with chopped straight shoulders, pince-nez on a thin hooked nose. He walked with his hands behind his back, arched, exposing his chest, decorated with patch pockets.
Some kind of district conference was taking place in the railwaymen's club. The entire leadership of the district, headed by Dybakov, was heading to the club along a path strewn with crushed bricks. We children, in the absence of other spectacles, also accompanied Dybakov.
Suddenly he stopped. Across the path, under his chrome boots, lay a ragged man, framed in worn, oversized leather. He was lying on the crushed brick, with his brown skull resting on the dirty knuckles of his hands, looking up from the bottom up, as all those who are dying of hunger look, with mild sorrow in their unnaturally huge eyes.
Dybakov stepped from heel to heel, crunched along the artificial path, was about to go around random relics, when suddenly these relics parted their leathery lips, flashed their large teeth, hoarsely and distinctly uttered:
Let's talk, boss.
Silence fell, it became audible how, far beyond the wasteland near the barracks, someone out of idleness tenor to the balalaika:
It's good for him to live
Who has one leg
You don't need a lot of boots
And one port.
- Are you afraid of me, boss?
Comrade Gubanov, a district committee worker, emerged from behind Dybakov's back, as always with an unfastened briefcase under his arm:
- Small-chat! Small chat! ..
The reclining man meekly looked up at him and bared his teeth terribly. Dybakov waved Comrade Gubanov aside with a wave of his hand.
- Let's talk. Ask me, and I will answer.
“Before you die, tell me ... why ... why me? .. Is it really serious for having two horses? - raspy voice.
"For this," Dybakov replied calmly and coldly.
- And confess! Well, finally...
- Small-chat! Comrade Gubanov jumped up again.
And again Dybakov casually waved him aside.
“Would you give a worker bread for pig iron?”
- What is your iron to me, with porridge?
- That's it, but the collective farm needs it, the collective farm is ready to feed the workers for pig iron. Would you like to go to the collective farm? Just be honest!
- Did not want.
- Why?
- Everyone stands up for his freedom.
- Yes, not a svobodushka reason, but horses. You feel sorry for your horses. Fed, groomed - and suddenly give it back. Feel sorry for your property! Is not it?
The goner paused, winked mournfully, and seemed even ready to agree.
- Get the horses out, chief, and stop. Why else deprive the stomach? - he said.
- Will you forgive us if we take away? Are you going to sharpen a knife on us behind our backs? Honestly!
- Who knows.
- Well, we don't know. What would you do with us if you felt - we are preparing a sharp knife for you? .. Are you silent? .. Nothing to say? .. Then goodbye.
Dybakov stepped over his interlocutor's skinny, stick-like legs and moved on, hands clasped behind his back, showing his chest with patch pockets. Behind him, squeamishly rounding the goner, the rest also moved.
He lay in front of us boys, a flat frame and rags, a skull on crumbling bricks, a skull with a human expression of humility, fatigue and, perhaps, thoughtfulness. He lay, and we looked at him accusingly. He had two horses, bloodsucker! For the sake of these horses, he would sharpen a knife for us. "If the enemy does not surrender ..." Dybakov gave him a good beating.
And yet it was a pity for the evil enemy. Probably not only me. None of the children danced over him, did not tease:
enemy enemy,
Kurkul-kulachina
Eats bark.
Voshsy beats,
Walking with kurkulika
The wind sways.
I sat down at the table at home, reached out with my hand to the bread, and the memory unfolded pictures: distant, quietly stunned eyes, white teeth gnawing at the bark, a gelatinous carcass seething inside, a gaping black mouth, wheezing, foam ... And nausea rolled down my throat.
Previously, my mother used to say about me: “I won’t complain about this, no matter what you put it down, it crackles behind the ears.” Now she raised a cry:
- Get stuck! Beware of the fat!
"I was furious with fat" alone, but if my mother started to swear, she always scolded two people at once - me and my brother. My brother was three years younger, at the age of seven he knew how to worry only about himself, and therefore he ate - "it crackles behind the ears."

Rage! We don't want soup, we don't want potatoes! Around people callous crackers are happy-radehonki. At least give you grouse.
About hazel grouse, I only read poems: "Eat pineapples, chew hazel grouse, your last day is coming, bourgeois!" I could not declare a hunger strike, I could not refuse food at all. First, the mother would not have allowed. Secondly, nausea is nausea, pictures are pictures, but I still wanted to eat, and not bourgeois hazel grouse at all. I was forced to swallow the first spoon, and then it went by itself, I dealt with the rim, got up from the table, heavy.
This is where it all started...
It seems to me that conscience tends to wake up more often in the body of well-fed people than hungry ones. A hungry person is forced to think more about himself, about getting his daily bread for himself, the very burden of hunger compels him to selfishness. A well-fed person has more opportunity to look around, to think about others. For the most part, ideological fighters with caste satiety came out of the ranks of the well-fed - the Gracchi of all times.
I got up from the table. Is it because in the square near the railway station people gnaw at the bark that I have eaten too much now?
But it's kurkuli gnaw at the bark! Are you sorry?.. "If the enemy does not surrender, they destroy him!" And this is "destroyed" like this, probably, and it should look like skulls with eyes, elephant legs, foam from a black mouth. You're just afraid to face the truth.
My father once said that in other places there are villages where all the inhabitants died of starvation - adults, old people, children. Even infants... You can't say about them: "If the enemy does not surrender..."
I am full, very full - to satiety. I have now eaten so much that, probably, five would be enough to save themselves from starvation. Didn't save five, ate their lives. Only whose - enemies or not enemies? ..
And who is the enemy?.. Is the enemy who gnaws the bark? He was - yes! - but now he has no time for enmity, there is no meat on his bones, there is no strength even in his voice ...
I ate my entire lunch by myself and shared it with no one.
I have to eat three times a day.
Somehow in the morning I suddenly woke up. I didn’t dream about anything, I just took it and opened my eyes, I saw a room in a mysteriously ashy dusk, outside the window there was a gray, cozy dawn.
Far away, on the station tracks, a shunting "sheep" shouted arrogantly. Early tits squeaked on the old linden tree. Starling-father cleared his throat, tried to sing like a nightingale - mediocrity! A cuckoo cuckooed tenderly, persuasively, from the swamps in the back. "Cuckoo! Cuckoo! How long shall I live?" And she drops and drops her peek-a-boo like silver testicles.
And all this takes place in a surprisingly calm gray twilight, in a cramped, dimmed, cozy world. In a minute I accidentally wrested from sleep, I suddenly quietly rejoice at the most obvious fact - there is a certain Volodya Tenkov in the world, a man of ten years old. There is - how wonderful it is! "Cuckoo! Cuckoo! How old am I?.."
At this time far away, somewhere at the very end of our street thundered. Rip apart the sleepy village, a loose cart approached, crushing the silver voice of the cuckoo, the squeak of tits, the efforts of the mediocre starling. Who is this and where is he hurrying so angrily at such an early hour? ..
And suddenly I was burned: who? Yes clear! The whole village talks about these early trips. Komkhozovskny groom Abram goes "to collect carrion". Every morning he drives his cart right into the birch forest near the railway station, begins to move those who are lying - is he alive or not? He does not touch the living, he puts the dead in a cart, like wood chocks.
A loose cart rumbles, a sleeping village wakes up. Thunder and subside.
After it, no birds are heard. For a minute there was just no one to hear anything. Nothing ... But strange - there is no silence. "Cuckoo! Cuckoo! .." Oh, don't! Does it matter how many years I live in the world? Do I really want to live long?
But like a downpour from under the roof, the awakened sparrows fell. Buckets rang, women's voices rang out, the gate of the well creaked.
- Repair roofs! Saw firewood! Clean up the sinks! Any work! - Strong, challenging baritone.
- Repair roofs! Saw firewood! Clean up the sinks! repeated the boyish viola.
These are also exiled kurkuli - father and son. The father is tall, bony-shouldered, bearded, sternly important, the son is wiry, thin, freckled, very serious, two or three years older than me.
Each of our days begins with the fact that they loudly, in two voices, almost arrogantly, offer the village to clean the garbage dumps.
I don't have to eat my dinners alone.
I have to share with someone.
With whom?..
Probably with the most, most hungry, even if he is an enemy.
Who is the best?.. How do you know?
Not difficult. You should go to the birch square and lend a hand with a piece of bread to the first one who comes across. You can’t make a mistake, everything is there - the most, the most, there are no others.
Reach out to one and not notice the others?.. Make one happy, and offend dozens with a refusal? And it will be truly a mortal insult. Those to whom the hand does not reach out will be taken out by the groom Abram.
Can those who are bypassed agree with you?.. Isn't it dangerous to openly extend a helping hand?..
Of course, I did not think then, not in the same words as I write now, thirty-six years later. Most likely, I did not think at all then, but felt it keenly, like an animal intuitively guessing future complications. Not by reason, but by intuition, then I realized: a noble intention - break your daily bread in half, share with your neighbor - can be done only secretly from others, only thieves!
I furtively, stealthily did not finish what my mother had put on the table in front of me. I thievishly loaded into my pockets the honestly saved three slices of bread, a fist-sized lump of millet porridge wrapped in newspaper, and a piece of refined sugar, pure as a crystal. In broad daylight, I went out on a thieves' business - on a secret hunt for the most, the most hungry.
I met Pashka Bykov, with whom I studied in the same class, lived on the same street, did not make friends, but was wary of enmity. I knew that Pashka was always hungry - day and night, before dinner and after dinner. The Bykov family - seven people, all seven live on the work cards of their father, who works as a coupler on the railway. But I did not share bread with Pashka - not the best ...
I met the crooked grandmother Obnoskova, who lived by collecting grass and roots on the roadsides, in the fields, on the edges of the forest, dried, boiled, steamed them ... Other such lonely old women all died. I did not share with my grandmother - not yet the most.
Boris Isaakovich Zilberbruner trotted past me in galoshes tied with ropes to dirty ankles. If I had met this Silberbrunsr earlier, then, who knows, I might have decided - the same one. Recently, he was one of the shackles hanging around the canteen, but he got used to making fishhooks out of wire, they even paid for them with chicken eggs.
Finally, I bumped into one of the elephants roaming around the village. Wide as a wardrobe, in a spacious peasant malakhai the color of arable land, in a Zaporozhye, Cossack hat - a rook's nest, with lush, bluish-pale legs that shook with every step like oatmeal jelly, and could only fit each one in a bath tub .
Maybe he wasn't the same one yet... Had I continued my hunt, I probably would have run into a more unfortunate one, but the remnants of dinner burned through my pockets, demanding: go away immediately!
- Uncle...
He stopped, breathing heavily, aiming his slit eyes at me from his towering height.
Close up, the pale, swollen face struck with unnatural gigantism - some kind of floating, like flabby buttocks, cheeks, a chin falling onto the chest, eyelids that completely drowned in their eyes, a wide bridge of nose stretched to the troupe of blue. Nothing can be read on such a face, no fear, no hope, no emotion, no suspicion, just a pillow.
Tearing at my pocket, I awkwardly began to free the first piece of bread.
The smoothed physiognomy trembled, the tightly puffed-up hand, with short, dirty, unbending fingers, stretched out, took a piece gently, insistently, impatiently. This is how a calf with a warm nose and soft lips takes bread from his hand.
- Thank you, boy, - the elephant said with a fistula.
I gave him everything I had.
- Tomorrow... In the wasteland... Near the piles... Something else... - I promised and rushed away with lightened pockets and a relieved conscience.
All day I was happy. Inside, in the hypochondrium, where the soul lives, it was cool and quiet.
In a wasteland, near the stacks... Yes, this time I was carrying eight pieces of bread, two slices of bacon, an old tin can full of stewed potatoes. I had to eat all this myself and did not eat it, I saved it when my mother turned away.

I ran to the wasteland skipping, holding with both hands the shirt protruding on my stomach. A shadow fell under my feet.
- Young man! Young man! Please! Take a moment!..
Am I treated so respectfully?
To me.
Across the road stood a woman in a dusty hat, known to everyone by the nickname Burp. She wasn't an elephant or a petite girl, just an invalid, disfigured by some strange disease. Her whole dry body is unnaturally crumpled, twisted, twisted - the shoulders are skewed, her back is thrown back, a small bird's head in a soiled cloth hat with a dull feather is somewhere far behind her whole body. From time to time this head makes a desperate shaking, as if the hostess is about to famously exclaim: "Oh! And I'll dance to you!" But Burp did not dance, but usually began to wink very, very strongly with her whole cheek.
Now she winked at me and said in a passionate, tearful voice:
- Young man, look at me! Do not be shy, do not be shy, be more attentive!.. Have you ever seen a creature offended by God?.. - She winked and stepped on me, I backed away. - I am sick, I am helpless, but I have a son at home ... I am a mother, I love him with all my heart, I am ready for anything to feed him ... We both forgot the taste of bread, young man! A small piece, please!
An eerily merry wink of the whole cheek, a black hand with a dirty rag to wet his eyes ... How did she know that I had bread under my shirt? The elephant, who is waiting for me in the wasteland, did not tell her. It is beneficial for the elephant to remain silent.
Ready to kneel before you. You have such a kind ... you have an angelic face! ..
How did she know about bread? scent? Sorcery?.. I did not understand then that I was not the only one who tried to feed the exiled kurkuls, that all the ingenuous saviors had an eloquent, thievish, guilty expression on their faces.
I could not resist Belch's passion, her merry wink, her crumpled dirty rag. I gave away all the bread with slices of bacon, leaving only one piece with a jar of stewed potatoes.
This is what I promised...
But Burp devoured a tin can with her magpie eyes, shook her dusty hat with a feather, groaned:
- We're dying! We are dying! Me and my son - we are dying! ..
I gave her the potatoes too. She tucked the jar under her blouse, greedily flashed her eye at the last slice of bread left in my hand, jerked her head, oh, I'll dance! She winked her cheek once more and walked away, listing on her side like a sinking boat.
I stood and looked at the bread in my hand. The piece was small, wound up in my pocket, crumpled, but I myself called - come to the wasteland, I made the hungry wait the whole day, now I will bring him such a piece. No, it's better not to be embarrassed! ..
And out of annoyance - and hunger, too - without leaving my seat, I ate bread. It was unexpectedly very tasty and... poisonous. The whole day after it, I felt poisoned: how could I - tore it out of the mouth of a hungry! How could I!..
And in the morning, looking out the window, I felt cold. A familiar elephant was sticking out under the window at our gate. He stood, dressed in his vast caftan the color of a freshly plowed field, his soft toad hands folded on his fat belly, the breeze stirred the dirty fur on his Cossack hat - motionless and tower-like.
I immediately felt like an ugly fox driven into a hole by a dog. He can stand until evening, he can stand like this tomorrow and the day after tomorrow, he has nowhere to hurry, and standing promises bread.
I waited until my mother left the house, climbed into the kitchen, rolled a heavy crust off the loaf, took out a dozen large raw potatoes from the bag and jumped out ...
The arable caftan had bottomless pockets, in which, probably, all our family stocks of bread could disappear.
- Son, ne vir vile woman. She doesn't have anyone. No son of Nem, no daughter.
I already knew about it without him - Belching was deceiving, but try to refuse her when she stands in front of you broken, winks her cheek and holds a dirty rag in her hand to get her eyes wet.
- Oh, lyho, son, lyho. Death and that grabue ... Oh, lyho, lyho. - Sighing hoarsely, he slowly set sail, dragging his magnificent legs with an effort along the splintery boards of the village sidewalk, vast as a haystack, majestic as a dilapidated windmill. - Oh, lyho think, lyho ...
I turned to the house and shuddered: my father was standing in front of me, a sunbeam plays on his smoothly shaven head, plump and dense, in a canvas tunic intercepted by a thin Caucasian strap with plaques, his face is not gloomy and his eyes are not hung with eyebrows - a calm, tired face.
He took a step towards me, put a heavy hand on my shoulder and looked somewhere to the side for a long time, finally asked:
- Did you give him bread?
- Dal.
And he peered into the distance again.
I love my father and I'm proud of him.
About the great revolution, about the civil war, songs are now sung and fairy tales are composed. This is about my father they sing about him, fairy tales are added!
He is one of those soldiers who were the first to refuse to fight for the king and arrested his officers.
He heard Lenin at the Finnish Station. He saw him standing on an armored car, alive - not on a monument.
He was a civil commissar of the 416th Revnolka.
He has a scar on his neck from a Kolchak fragment.
He received a personalized silver watch as a reward. They were later stolen, but I myself held them in my hands, I saw the inscription on the lid: "For the courage shown in the battles against the counter-revolution" ...
I love my father and I'm proud of him. And I'm always afraid of his silence. Now he’ll be silent and say: “I’ve been fighting enemies all my life, and you feed them. Are you a traitor, Volodya?”
But he quietly asked:
- Why this? Why not another?
This one turned up...
- Another one will turn up - will you?
- I-I don't know. Probably ladies.
- Do we have enough bread to feed everyone?
I was silent and looked at the ground.
- The country does not have enough for everyone. You can't scoop up the sea with a teaspoon, son. My father nudged me lightly on the shoulder. - Go play.
A familiar elephant began to wage a silent duel with me. He came under our window and stood, stood, stood, frozen, untidy, faceless. I tried not to look at him, endured, and... the elephant won. I jumped out to him with a piece of bread or a cold potato pancake. He received tribute and slowly retired.

The next day I sat on the porch in the morning with my pockets stuffed with pieces of bread. I sat and patiently waited for the same one to appear ...
She appeared, as yesterday, suddenly, silently, staring at me with empty, unwashed eyes. I moved to take out the bread, and she shied away ... But out of the corner of her eye she managed to see the bread she had taken out, she froze, stared from afar at my hands - empty, without expression.
- Go... Yes, go. But be afraid.
She looked and did not move, ready to disappear at any moment. She did not believe either the gentle voice, or the ingratiating smiles, or the bread in her hand. No matter how much I begged - it didn’t fit, but it didn’t disappear either.
After a half-hour struggle, I finally gave up the bread. Without taking her empty eyes off me, she approached the piece sideways, sideways. Jump - and ... no piece, no dog.
The next morning - a new meeting, with the same deserted glances, with the same inflexible distrust of the caress in the voice, to the benevolently extended bread. The piece was only captured when it was thrown to the ground. I could not give her the second piece.
The same thing on the third morning, and on the fourth ... We did not miss a single day so as not to meet, but we did not become closer to each other. I have never been able to teach her to take bread from my hands. I never once saw in her yellow, empty, shallow eyes any expression - not even dog fear, not to mention dog tenderness and friendly disposition.
Looks like I ran into a victim of time here too. I knew that some exiles ate dogs, lured, killed, butchered. Probably my friend fell into their hands. They could not kill her, but they killed her gullibility for a person forever. And I don't think she really trusted me. Raised by a hungry street, how could she imagine such a fool who is ready to give food just like that, without demanding anything in return ... even gratitude.
Yes, even thanks. This is a kind of payment, and it was quite enough for me that I feed someone, support someone's life, which means that I myself have the right to eat and live.
I didn’t feed a dog that was shabby from hunger with pieces of bread, but my conscience.
I will not say that my conscience liked this suspicious food so much. My conscience continued to inflame, but not so much, not life-threatening.
That month, the head of the station shot himself, who, on duty, had to walk in a red hat along the station square. He did not think of finding an unfortunate little dog for himself to feed every day, tearing bread from himself.
Docu m e n t a l rep lica.
In the midst of a terrible famine in February 1933, the First All-Union Congress of Collective Farm Shock Workers gathered in Moscow. And on it, Stalin pronounces words that for many years became winged: "Let's make the collective farms Bolshevik", "Let's make the collective farmers prosperous."
The most extreme Western experts believe that six million people died of starvation in Ukraine alone. The cautious Roy Medvedev uses more objective data: "...probably from 3 to 4 million..." across the country.
But he, Medvedev, took from the 1935 yearbook "Agriculture of the USSR" (M. 1936, p. 222) amazing statistics. I quote: "If from the harvest of 1928 less than 1 million centners of grain were exported abroad, then in 1929 13 were exported, in 1930 - 48.3, in 1931 - 51.8, in 1932 - 18.1 million centners. Even in the hungriest year of 1933, about 10 million centners of grain were exported to Western Europe!"
"Let's make all collective farmers prosperous!"
1969 - 1970

Subject - Russian literature

Class - 7 "E" class of 12-year education.

Lesson-project plan on the topic “Conscience as a moral problem in the story “Bread for the Dog” by V. Tendryakov”.

Lesson Objectives:

Form meta-subject results:

Communication skills through the analysis of the text of the story, oral and written speech;

Cognitive skills through the primary skills of working with information, the search for knowledge of the work and biography of the writer V. Tendryakov;

Regulatory skills through activity evaluation, group work.

2. To form personal results through an emotional and evaluative attitude to what is read, familiarization with literature as the art of the word;

Complex tasks:

Design assignments for the content of V. Tendryakov's story "Bread for the Dog";

Research activity on the topic of the lesson.

Work on the formation of universal educational activities (UUD).

During the classes:

– biographers

Historians

Philologists

Sociologists

Attachment 1.

Personal file of the writer Vladimir Tendryakov

After reading the story "Bread for the Dog", we found the following facts proving the autobiographical nature of the writer's work:

- “For the most part, these are dispossessed peasants from near Tula, Voronezh, Kursk, Orel, from all over Ukraine. With them to our northern places the southern word "kurkul" also arrived.
- "... my father, a responsible employee, received a responsible ration",

“I have to eat three times a day.”

Appendix 2

Student 1.

The year 1933 is associated in the history of the Republic of Soviets with one of the most tragic events - a famine that engulfed the population of almost the entire country. The famine arose as a result of a huge shortage of agricultural products, the supply of which in the required quantity could not be coped with by the collective farms, the creation of which began in 1929.

In 1933, the process of collectivization began. Outwardly, the goals were good, but what did collectivization actually represent?

Two interconnected violent processes unfolded in the villages - the creation of collective farms and dispossession. The liquidation of kulak farms had as its goal, first of all, the provision of collective farms with material resources.

From the end of 1929 to the middle of 1930, more than 320,000 peasant farms were dispossessed; their property worth more than 175 million rubles was transferred to collective farms.

Often, the middle peasants and even the poor, objectionable to the authorities, were recorded as kulaks. In some regions of the country, the number of dispossessed reached 15-20% of the population.

The devastation of villages by dekulakization led in 1932-1933 to an unprecedented famine that affected approximately 25-30 million people. The Don, Kuban, Lower and Middle Volga, part of the Central Black Earth Strip, Kazakhstan and all of Ukraine became the famine areas. The number of deaths from starvation in 1932-1933 fluctuates between 10 and 15 million people.

Student 2.

In Tendryakov's story "Bread for the Dog", the date from which the story begins directly indicates the time of action and the main event of this time: the famine that broke out in the country.

Tendryakov immediately wants to introduce the reader to the center of the tragic events in the country, including the dispossession of kulaks in 1933.

Summer 1933.

For the most part, these are dispossessed peasants from near Tula, Voronezh, Kursk, Orel, from all over Ukraine.

Someone thoughtfully gnawed at the bark on a birch trunk... And someone dejectedly stuffed a station trash can from the ground into his mouth...

The woman ... wept and scooped milk with a spoon from the hoof hole on the road, wept and ate, wept and ate, carefully, without greed, well-mannered.

Student 3 - On the other hand, industrialization, the development of industry, the construction of new plants and factories, the first hydroelectric power stations began in the Republic of Soviets:

“... we fled to the village. There, where there was a normal life, where one could often hear the song:
Don't sleep, get up, curly!
Ringing in the shops
the country rises with glory
to meet the day...

Student 4. There was an active agitation of peasants in collective farms, wages:

“Would you give a worker bread for pig iron?
- What is your iron to me, with porridge?
- That's it, but the collective farm needs it, the collective farm is ready to feed the workers for pig iron. Would you like to go to the collective farm? Just be honest!
- Did not want.
- Why?
“Everyone stands for his freedom.”

Appendix 3

Student - We made a dictionary for the story:

Name - A word that replaces someone. name or something. title; someone, such and such. (according to Ozhegov)

Disenfranchised - In the USSR, before the introduction of the Stalinist constitution, a person who was deprived of voting and other civil rights on social grounds.

Admovosylenny - an administratively expelled person for anti-social actions imputed to him

Kurkul - Peasant-fist in Ukraine.

Man - jelly - Fat man; fat, belly.

Rebel - (Obsolete) An instigator or participant in a riot.

Pahoruky - clubfoot, clumsy hands, or sick or weak hands.

Shmatochek - (Ukrainian word) - a piece

Ration - Food, issued at a certain rate for a certain period.

The disease "dropsy" is the accumulation of fluid in the cavities, tissues, organs, joints and membranes of the human body.

Dokhodyaga - An exhausted, exhausted person or animal.

Bourgeois - (an outdated colloquial ironic word) - a major industrialist.

Gracchi - Tiberius Gracchus and Gaius Gracchus - two brothers, famous Roman politicians, orators.

Appendix 4

- “Some of them are skeletons covered with dark, wrinkled, it seemed rustling skin, skeletons with huge, meekly burning eyes. Others, on the contrary, are tightly inflated - the skin, blue from tension, is about to burst, the bodies sway, the legs look like pillows, the attached dirty fingers hide behind the influx of white pulp.

- “Someone thoughtfully gnawed the bark on a birch trunk and looked into space with smoldering, inhuman wide eyes. Someone, lying in the dust, exuding a sour stench from his half-decayed rags, was squeamishly wiping his fingers with such energy and stubbornness that it seemed he was ready to peel the skin off them. Someone blurred on the ground like jelly, did not move, but only screeched and gurgled inwardly, like a boiling titan.

- “A woman in a neat and worn coat with a velvet collar and an equally neat and worn face slipped in front of my eyes and broke a glass jar of milk that she bought from the platform at the station.”

- “Teacher Olga Stanislavna entered the classroom. By the way she looked away, how she asked not immediately, but with a barely perceptible hesitation, I realized that she was hungry too.
- “... at a noisy break, I took out my bread and felt the silence around me with my whole skin. ... awkwardly shouted:
- Who wants?!

And me! .. And me! .. Me too! .. Hands stretched out from all sides, eyes sparkled. - Not enough for everyone! “I broke off a piece for everyone.”

- “- Repair the roofs! Saw firewood! Clean up the sinks! Any work! - Strong, challenging baritone.
- Repair roofs! Saw firewood! Clean up the sinks! repeated the boyish viola.
These are also exiled kurkuli - father and son. The father is tall, bony-shouldered, bearded, sternly important, the son is wiry, thin, freckled, very serious, two or three years older than me.
Each of our days begins with the fact that they loudly, in two voices, almost arrogantly, offer the village to clean the garbage dumps.

- “I met a crooked grandmother Obnoskova, who lived by collecting grass and roots on the roadsides, in the fields, on the edges of the forest, dried, cooked, steamed them ... Other such lonely old women all died.”

“I met Silberbrunsr. Recently, he was one of the thugs hanging around the canteen, but he got used to making fishhooks out of wire, they even paid for them with chicken eggs.

Appendix 5

Crossword

Appendix 6

Conscience is the ability to recognize that you have done wrong.
- Experiences of a person if you commit a bad deed

Conscience is a quality of the soul of every person. For example, a person acted wrongly, cruelly, and he himself understands this; time passes, he becomes more and more convinced that he did wrong, and begins to act - helps, apologizes, etc. Conscience dictates to a person actions that expiate his guilt.
- Conscience is a personal judge of a person. And a person who has a conscience is the person who, even when no one sees him, will act exactly the same as if the whole world were looking at him. This is the ability not to compromise with oneself in choosing between good and evil, the ability to never do the opposite to oneself, although it would be much easier that way.
- Conscience is a feeling of a person that helps to make the right choice.

Appendix 7

Quote

“It seems to me that conscience tends to wake up more often in the body of well-fed people than hungry ones. A hungry person is forced to think more about himself, about getting his daily bread for himself, the very burden of hunger compels him to selfishness. A well-fed person has more opportunity to look around, to think about others. For the most part, ideological fighters with caste satiety came out of the ranks of the well-fed - the Gracchi of all times.
“I didn’t feed a dog that was shabby from hunger with pieces of bread, but my conscience. I can't say that my conscience liked this suspicious food so much. My conscience continued to inflame, but not so much, not life-threatening.

Appendix 8

Volodya shared bread with classmates.

The boy was looking for a hungry man among the "enemies".

Volodya is tormented by his choice, because the "enemies" began to "pursue" him.

Volodya chooses a dog that does not ask him for food.

Appendix 9

The student introduces the results of the research to the class

We interviewed 310 students in grades 5-11 of our school. We asked the respondents to answer one question: “How do you understand the word “Conscience”?”. Then we processed the obtained results and systematized them into three main groups “Correctly understand the meaning of the word” - 145 students;

“They have not quite an accurate idea, but the meaning of the word” - 102 students;

“They don’t know the meaning of the word” - 63 students.

Parents Father, F. Tendryakov, people's judge, then prosecutor Basic facts of the biography (before studying at the Literary Institute) After graduating from school, he went to the front, was wounded and demobilized; he taught military affairs at school, then he was secretary of the district committee of the Komsomol. In 1946 he moved to the Literary Institute. M. Gorky, who graduated in 1951. In his student years, he begins to write stories, some of them are published by the magazines Ogonyok, Novy Mir, Our Contemporary.

Profession Writer, prose writer, screenwriter Works The story "The Fall of Ivan Chuprov" (1953), "Out of Court" (1954), "Knobs" (1956), "Miracle" (1958), "Three, Seven, Ace" (1960) , "Court" (1961), "Emergency" (1961), "Short Circuit" (1962), "Short Daylight" (1965), "Find" (1965), "Death" (1968), "Apostolic Mission ”, “Spring Changelings” (1973), “Three Bags of Weed Wheat” (1973), “The Night After Graduation” (1974), “Eclipse” (1977), “Payback” (1979), “Sixty Candles” (1980) , "A Journey of a Century" (1964); the novels The Tight Knot (1956), Behind the Running Day (1959), Appointment with Nefertiti (1964); plays, essays, stories in The Flesh of Art (1973)

Film scripts based on his own works "Alien Relatives" (1956) based on the story "Out of Court"; "Sasha enters into life" (1957) based on the story "Tight knot"; "Miracle" (1960); "Court" (1962); "Spring Changelings" (1975), All-Union Film Festival Prize; "Everyday business" (1977) based on the novel "Where are you, Lyubov Dunyashova?" Performances based on the works of V. Tendryakov "Three bags of weed wheat" (1975) Bolshoi Drama Theatre; "Without a Cross" (1963), based on the story "Miracle-working" Moscow theater "Sovremennik"

The main problems of the works The most acute issues related to the life of the village; problems of double morality, generated by the conformism of a person of both the older and younger generations; problems of education and upbringing, issues of restructuring the entire system of school education, which leveled, from the point of view of the writer, the personality of a young man; understanding the tragic events in the history of the country

Conscience is “... the inner consciousness of good and evil... the ability to recognize the quality of an act; a feeling that induces to truth and goodness, rejecting from lies and evil ... ”(Dal V.I. Explanatory Dictionary of the Living Great Russian Language) Conscience is the ability to realize that you did something bad. Conscience is a quality of the soul of every person. Conscience dictates to a person actions that expiate his guilt. They say: conscience spoke. So, conscience is something living, acting. Conscience is the highest personal judge of man. And a person who has a conscience is a person who, even when no one sees him, will act exactly the same as if the whole world were looking at him. This is the ability not to compromise with oneself in choosing between good and evil, the ability to never do the opposite to oneself, although it would be much easier that way. Conscience is a human feeling that controls the relationship between people. Conscience makes a person look at his actions from the outside. This is an internal controller that helps a person make the right choice.

KeywordsGeneral conclusion about the author's attitude (author's position)... It is natural for conscience... to wake up in the body of well-fed people... The very burden of hunger compels... to selfishness. In both passages, the key word for the author is conscience. He argues that conscience is the most important part of a person’s inner world, and its absence, both in a well-fed and a hungry person, puts a person on the verge of personality decay, turning him into a creature whose center of existence becomes his own ego, the Latin word that gave the root Russian egoism, which means, in particular, complete disregard for the life and interests of another person ... I fed pieces of bread ... my conscience ... Conscience continued to inflame ... but ... not life-threatening

In the story "Bread for the Dog" V. Tendryakov addresses the problem of conscience. The author solves this problem using the life material of childhood memories of one of the most terrible periods in the history of Russia, the famine of 1933. The appeal to this form and to the 1st person of the narrative speaks of the author's attempt to realize the degree of his guilt and responsibility for what happened. The title of the story has a metaphorical, figurative meaning, indicating that the background of the events that became the basis of the plot is the author's thoughts about time and man and the moral law, the observance of which forms the essence and meaning of the personality of each of us. The law is conscience. The hero of Tendryakov's story, ten-year-old boy Volodya Tenkov, has conscience as a powerful stimulus to action, that is, to the choice of an act, the meaning of which would not burden him with the burden of his own guilt for what he did.

For many years, man has been arguing with himself, is time to blame for the fact that a person often goes against his conscience, or is the person himself guilty of this? Tendryakov gives an unambiguous answer to this question: under all extenuating circumstances, only a person is responsible for any of his actions, because only he alone has been granted knowledge about himself, the knowledge that we compare with the concept of “conscience”. Under any conditions, it encourages a conscientious person to think about the passage of time, to listen to those of its signals that it, time, gives to a person. Tendryakov introduces a certain system of symbolic designations of time into the structure of the narrative in order to immerse the reader not only in the historical, but also in the philosophical aspect of being in order to help him understand his own "I". (man's search for his own "I" in the flow of time"

In the most difficult situation, which the adult station manager was unable to survive, the boy makes a choice not between a man and a dog, but between the possibility or impossibility of remaining a man who deserves at least a modicum of respect for himself. This self-respect is the guarantee of his possible, but, most likely, unattainable happiness.

The Problem of Happiness Happiness is not external beauty, but inner peace, which gives the hero the "mysterious ashy twilight" of the early morning; in these moments the boy does not think about what the coming day brings him; his soul is serenely calm, the harmony of his unity with the surrounding world is not broken by a single rough sound or a disturbing color, everything is simple and familiar for a long time: a titmouse, a starling, a cuckoo, their squeaking, singing “to the nightingale”, cuckooing the promise of a long life. Happiness in the feeling of the fact of one's own existence in this sweet, familiar world to the soul and heart; it is the harmony within yourself. The author argues that a child must live according to the laws of childhood, the main of which is the feeling of happiness only from the fact that you live. But real life is such that it is impossible to become happy in its conditions, to live in harmony with oneself and the world. The author shows this by arranging the composition, which includes a description of a cozy morning, in such a way that it is “inserted” into the frame of the terrible details of real life: a happy morning is preceded by the boy’s hard thoughts about whether or not one can consider an enemy dying of hunger “kurkul”, perhaps it is these thoughts that keep the hero from sleeping: "... I suddenly woke up"; the other side of the “frame” is a description of the rumble of a cart approaching the house, on which the groom Abram will now load the bodies of the “kurkuli” who died during the night. There is no simplicity in life, there is no beauty in it, comfort, tranquility of all that the hero perceives as happiness.

Why does the author put thoughts about the cruel truth of life - the horror of violence and deception - into the mouth of a child? The author's task is to show a growing soul, discovering the world for itself, looking for its place in it, its happy share, and in this search going through such trials that not every adult can endure. Tendryakov wants to show the formation of such a moral consciousness, the driving force of which in its “contact” with the world and oneself will be conscience, the only measure of inner peace, which for the writer is a synonym for happiness.

Telling the story of his childhood, from all the memories of him, the author chooses events of a tragic nature, and this choice is not accidental dictated to Tendryakov by the conscience of an adult who feels his guilt and responsibility for what happened. It seems that a ten-year-old boy can do for those unfortunates whom his circumstances have confronted? What are its capabilities in comparison with the capabilities of the state? But the hero does not ask himself, as the author admits, these "adult" questions. He submits to his first impulse of pity and commits an act: he tries to feed the hungry. Is it necessary to do this, because, as the boy’s father says, “you can’t scoop out the sea with a teaspoon”?

Analyze a selection of quotations from the text of V. Tendryakov's story "Bread for the Dog". Find key words that convey the feelings of the hero. What is the hero's responsibility? How does this attitude characterize him? What is the position of the author in the dispute between the hero and himself?

Reflections of the hero 1) He lay before us... a flat frame in rags, a skull on brick chips, a skull with a human expression of humility, fatigue... thoughtfulness. He lay, and we looked at him accusingly. He had two horses, bloodsucker! And yet, I felt sorry for the evil enemy... I sat down at the table at home, reached for the bread with my hand, and my memory unfolded pictures:... quietly stunned eyes, white teeth gnawing the bark, a gelatinous carcass seething inside, a gaping black mouth, wheezing , foam ... And nausea rolled up under the throat.

The author's attitude to the hero is revealed in the correlation of a detailed description of the starving man's appearance, the hero's confession of pity for the enemy and the boy's story about the feeling of shame that grips him every time he sits down at the table. The author sympathizes with the hero, who is experiencing a difficult internal struggle, and respects him for the pity awakened in him for the enemy, in whom he saw an unfortunate person.

The author's attitude to the hero The author conveys the hero's doubts related to his thoughts about whether it is possible to feel sorry for the enemy. These doubts, from the author's point of view, are the key to the child's future choice, and the author respects the hard inner work that is going on in the boy's soul.

Reflections of the hero 3) I am full, very full to satiety. I have now eaten so much that, probably, five would be enough to save themselves from starvation. Didn't save five, ate their lives. Only whose enemies or not enemies? And who is the enemy?.. Is the enemy who gnaws the bark? He was yes! but now he has no time for enmity, there is no meat on his bones, there is no strength even in his voice ...

The attitude of the author to the hero 3) The author shows how the feelings of the hero continue to accumulate pity towards people who are considered enemies. He emphasizes that the boy's feeling of compassion is stronger than the feeling of enmity, and he supports and respects the choice made by the hero.

Hero's Thoughts 4. I shouldn't eat my meals alone. I have to share with someone. With whom? .. Probably with the most, most hungry, even if he is an enemy. Who is the most? .. How to find out? .. To reach out to one, but not to notice the others? To make one happy, and offend dozens with a refusal? Can those who are bypassed agree with you?.. Isn't it dangerous to openly extend a helping hand?..

The author's attitude to the hero The author emphasizes that the decision made by the hero to “stretch out a hand” to the hungriest is not easy for him: the boy is again overcome by doubts, but for the author it is important that their character is already different: how to help so as not to offend anyone? The author shows the difficulty with which the boy is given his choice; that is why he builds the hero’s monologue as an internal dialogue of a dispute with himself and emphasizes that the hero’s courage and conscientiousness win in this dispute, and again shows respect for the boy who makes his own decisions, and is not content with generally accepted standards of thoughts and feelings.

Reflections of the hero 5) I stood and looked at the bread in my hand. The piece was small, wound up in my pocket, crumpled, but I myself called to come to the wasteland, I made the hungry man wait for a whole day, now I will bring him such a piece. No, it's better not to disgrace yourself!.. And out of vexation and hunger, too, I ate bread on the spot. It was unexpectedly very tasty and... poisonous. The whole day after it I felt poisoned: how could I vomit a hungry man out of his mouth! How could I!..

The author's attitude to the hero The author no longer shows the hero's struggle with himself, but the feeling of shame that arose in him for not bringing bread to the hungry: the hero repeats twice, reproaching himself: "How could I... How could I!" The author, showing the shame and confusion of the hero, sympathizes with him and again shows his respect for the fact that he so keenly feels his own, albeit involuntary, guilt before the suffering.

Reflections of the hero 6) I stood in front of them and pressed a cold jug with muddy kvass to my chest. Bread-ass-a... Crust... Do you want your hand? And suddenly, from the side, vigorously shaking the feather on his hat, Burp swooped in: Young man! Please! I beg on my knees! She really fell on her knees in front of me, wringing not only her hands, but also her back and head, winking somewhere upwards, into the blue sky, to the Lord God. And it was already too much. My eyes darkened. A strange, wild voice broke out of me in a sobbing gallop: Go away! Go away!! Bastards! Reptiles! Bloodsuckers!! Go away!

The attitude of the author to the hero 7) The author is very sympathetic to his hero, showing the despair that seized him at the thought that he did not have the opportunity to feed everyone. At the same time, the writer does not spare the hero, describing his “alien, wild voice”, which “bursts out” of him in a “sobbing gallop”, outwardly the hero becomes ugly. Introducing this portrait into the context of the narrative, the author emphasizes his sympathy for the boy: his appearance is distorted not by a bizarre illness, like Belching, but by inner pain caused by the understanding of his helplessness, which turns out to be stronger than a kind spiritual movement. From the author's point of view, this pain is an expression of internal failure, which the hero is fully aware of. The author not only sympathizes with the hero, but also pities him for this inner weakness.

Reflections of the hero 8) Probably, my hysteria was perceived by the goners as a complete cure for boyish pity. No one else stood near our gate. Am I cured?.. Perhaps. Now I would not have taken out a piece of bread for an elephant, if he had stood in front of my window, even until the very winter.

The author's attitude to the hero The author emphasizes the ambiguity of the hero's feelings: the boy, like any person, wants to be fed, but cannot be happy that there is food in his house, he suffers at the thought that every morning the groom Abram brings the bodies of dead people who could live a little longer if he held out his piece of bread to them. The author sympathizes with the hero, who has fallen into a hopeless situation: time dictates to him one choice not to spare "enemies", while his conscience prompts another decision, but he turns out to be internally powerless and refuses the dictates of conscience. In this sympathy, there is also an accusation on the part of the author against the authorities, who placed such a difficult choice on the fragile soul of a child; but in the field of view of the author, after all, it is not the problem of power, but the problem of personality, and therefore, no matter how “sinful” the power might be, a person who obeys, albeit unwittingly, its requirements, does not cause respect from the author.

Reflections of the hero 9) I seem to have found the most unfortunate creature in the village. No, no, no, yes, someone will take pity on elephants and thugs, even if secretly, ashamed, to himself, no, no, yes, and there will be a fool like me who will hand them some bread. And the dog... Even the father now felt sorry not for the dog, but for its unknown owner, "he's balding from hunger." The dog will die, and there will not even be Abram who would clean it up.

The author's attitude towards the hero The author puts into the hero's mouth the self-recognition "a fool like me", thus emphasizing a certain moment of his growing up, when he begins to understand that he is completely powerless in this situation. This growing up does not delight the author before his eyes, the hero turns into a little old man who has lost faith in himself. Is the dog out of this impasse, the author asks. He sympathizes with his hero, who has found such a way out, and at the same time, despite any considerations for age, he cannot but feel sorry for him, because the choice he made is a clear compromise with his conscience.

Reflections of the hero 10) Brought up by a hungry street, could she imagine such a fool who is ready to give food just like that, without demanding anything in return ... even gratitude. Yes, even thanks. This is a kind of payment, and it was quite enough for me that I feed someone, support someone's life, which means that I myself have the right to eat and live. I didn’t feed a dog that was shabby from hunger with pieces of bread, but my conscience. I can't say that my conscience liked this suspicious food so much. My conscience continued to inflame, but not so much, not life-threatening.

The author's attitude to the hero The author understands that the situation is hopeless for the hero, and, perhaps, no longer condemns him, because the boy condemns himself, talking about his conscience, which has not found peace. From the author's point of view, the hero was able to understand that his "help" to the dog is only an attempt to drown out inner pain and the voice of conscience; the author respects the hero precisely because he was able to understand the meaning of his act and, most importantly, condemns himself for such a choice. This condemnation is the price of growing up a child, the price of the burden that he will carry in his soul all his life. The author sympathizes with his maturing hero and appreciates in him his ability to understand the inadequacy of his own behavior to his own idea of ​​conscience.

The hero directly says that he took the path of compromising a deal with his conscience, refusing to help the starving. He condemns himself for allowing himself to be sidetracked from the truth of the choices he made in trying to feed the hungry. That is why he says about himself: "My conscience continued to inflame, but ... not life-threatening." The author, in a certain sense, agrees with the accusation that the hero makes of himself, but he also infinitely sympathizes with the child. The collision of the fragile personality of a small person with cruelty does not corrode, as the author shows, his soul: he condemns himself, does not relieve himself of guilt for refusing to help those in need. This self-condemnation allows the author to talk about the maturation of the hero, that the price of a person is not determined by the right of power given to her by the state.

Tendryakov puts the question very harshly: what will be the fate of a person who once allowed himself a compromise with himself? Tendryakov builds his principled position: he believes that in the life of every person there are questions to which he must find his own answer, without using ready-made solutions, because there are situations where only he is the judge of a person. But even here the writer is uncompromising: only those who have a conscience are able to ask themselves difficult questions, and the answer to them is an act for which you can earn respect, first of all, in your own eyes.