Book. AND HERE WE ARE BUILDING OUR LOVE … ROMAN. Joseph Gaysanyuk novel was or not was, she walked and walked as if not all, but road and trees swaying rhythmically, around her surrounded, but no roads, no trees she had not seen not seen houses Shaking, usually seen as, as always saw whirling all swam and she swam, the blind, unconscious, was carried away by thoughts somewhere else, like a bad dream, and questioned neighbors, and neighbors of the court, chili, noticing how it goes but no answer it to them or, perhaps, answered, smiling at a lost, far away smiling, as if through a veil of hazy, dream bud, then, that the neighbor was not tried, they say, is Pevelutsa, "health-are" not saying they are not looking, do not smile gives, or has not been neighbors at all, they dreamed it, the pro-reschilis here, where should stand, where the fences have always been, and she smiled at his far-fetched notion, nym, or maybe not smiling, but it seemed to her, though smiling, and it was all about other people's , confusing, unkind was at home, and trees, and neighbors to meet like floating, as if about to stumble Pevelutsa on them, then suddenly moved away everything, trees falling, home-sewn Roux, as through the land, neighbors failed, ne-ed eyes mirage one stretched, sickening faintness of heart sank. She came to her home in the free-him at the gate, among the din woke bird, Intermedia crowing, quacking, the chickens with her chickens, pet-hee with ducks, unfed, in the morning nepoennye early, to meet her, poured out, there is requested, at the feet of cat las tilas, phlegmatic Terkush dragged to the porch at night in a kennel he podremyval at night barking bass power neighborhood was read, they say, here I am, an old campaigner, I do not sleep, do not doze, all guard, a chain of Gre-chalk Terkush poor fellow, with a reproachful whine, or joy at the sight of the mistress of the gate, and she looked at her eyes glaring in at the beaks splayed, her Pevelutsu, band-vuschie, begging food, like mapping sleep awake, "Lord, I have a bird early in the morning hungry Mast …"
Pelevin. Literature there is no per se. There is a game in the literature. Valery Kuznetsov Moscow – a huge metropolis. Naturally, the book contains all the major literary forces of Russia. In the capital of writers far more opportunities publish in a particular edition, author of the book in print publishing, there are a great many, and, commercial. Not surprisingly, the plain-old TV series, shot on the novels of authors in Moscow, like as two peas similar to each other, and nothing but the rejection did not cause. The same soap opera, only implicated in the crime.
Or take the humor and satire, which lead to so-called "netlenki" long scribbled M. Zhvanetsky, and does not hold water M. Zadornov, who took the fashion to read out from the pillars is not quite well-written ad citizens to Stebaev then over them, and krivlyayas ernichaya of television screens. Or from year to year taldychit about how everything in America is good, but we have terribly uncivilized. Not a writer, and a procurator. But, let's talk about the writers of the Kuban.
Who do you think is worthy of attention? Victor Bogdanov: There is no doubt one of the the most talented writers in the Kuban region – is a member of the Russian Writers Union, novelist Nicholas Ivenshev from the village of Poltava. The writer is from God. A prolific, but not graphomaniac. A bright, thoughtful and original. In each of his works, whether story, novella or novel, to discover something new.