Писатель Илья Розенфельд

Этот текст — часть цикла «Легенды о…» Мы привыкли думать о войне как о событии. Как о пожаре, который вспыхивает и гаснет. Какая наивность. Война — это не событие. Это форма жизни. Древний, совершенный суперхищник, который делит с нами эту планету. Мы для неё — не враги. Мы — кормовая база. Рождение и юность В начале времён Война была одноклеточной. Примитивной, как амеба. Камень бил о камень, дубина дробила череп. Она питалась грубо, отрывая куски плоти, и быстро засыпала. В средние века она вступила в пубертатный период. У неё случился скачок роста. Война стала жадной, неопрятной и прожорливой. Она выкашивала целые города, не заботясь о завтрашнем дне. Столетняя война была её подростковым бунтом — бессмысленным и беспощадным. Она жрала так много, что чуть не погубила носителя. Во время эпидемий чумы и бесконечных битв человечество едва не кончилось. Война испугалась. Она поняла главный закон паразита: нельзя убивать хозяина . Если умрут все люди, ей некем будет питаться. ...

There are lies, damned lies, and statistics. This is the science of how to turn a thousand unique, bleeding tragedies into one boring, convenient number. Statistics is the meat grinder of reality, producing a uniform mince of "indicators" at the output. Gods of Chaos create individuality. Gods of Order create statistics. And the latter are far more terrifying. The Average Human In the Chamber of Weights and Measures, inside a vacuum flask, lives the creepiest creature in the Universe. His name is the Average Man . He has one breast. One testicle. One and a half legs. In his stomach, there is always 200 grams of alcohol splashing, and 0.3 packs of cigarettes settle in his lungs. He has 1.7 children, whom he loves 54%. He is neither man nor woman. He is the Norm. Gods fear him. Because he is invulnerable. You cannot kill him — if you kill a thousand people, the Average Man will just slightly frown and change the mortality rate by 0.001%. He is the anchor of our world....

They say that language was given to man to conceal his thoughts. This is only partially true. Language was given to plebeians to lie. Diplomacy , however, was granted to the chosen few to conceal the absence of thoughts. What is diplomacy? It is the art of saying "Go to hell!" with such warmth and concern that the opponent immediately begins packing their bags, anticipating an exciting journey. It is the ability to pet a dog while the muzzle is not yet ready. The First Consultant The history of diplomacy began not in the embassy offices of Vienna, but in the Garden of Eden. The Serpent was not a villain. He was the first cultural attaché. When the Serpent offered Eve the apple, he didn't lie. God forbid, diplomats don't lie—they "contextualize the truth." — "Will you die?" the Serpent asked ingratiatingly, adjusting an invisible tie. — "What vulgar simplifications. Let's put it this way: consumption of this agricultural produc...

Have you stood in a queue recently? A familiar sensation? A slight tingling in the legs, a dull hatred for the back of the head in front of you, and existential anguish in your gaze? If you think a queue is just an unfortunate coincidence, you are deeply mistaken.  A queue is not a social phenomenon. It is a chthonic monster . An ancient serpent devouring the only thing we have — time. The Evolution of Patience It all began long before the appearance of man. Paleontologists (the smarter ones) know: the first queue arose in the primordial soup.  Two amoebas simultaneously swam up to the only warm geothermal spring. There was enough resource for only one. By the laws of the jungle, they should have fought. But an unknown law of the Universe kicked in. One amoeba, instead of consuming its rival, suddenly froze and extended a pseudopod with a silent question:  — "Excuse me, are you the last one?"  The second amoeba, taken aback by such impudence, grunted in the langu...

The legend says: Antonio Stradivari sold his soul to the Devil. Otherwise, where would such a sound in a piece of wood come from? A sound that doesn't just caress the ear, but crawls under the ribs and squeezes the heart. People whispered that the master mixed the varnish for his violins with bat blood and ash from the underworld, and dried the strings on hellfire. The truth was much more boring. And much scarier. Stradivari was not a sorcerer. One day, as a child, he heard an angelic choir in a dream. For the rest of his life, Stradivari tried to recreate this sound. He didn't want power or gold. He just wanted to build a wooden trap for God . Antonio was obsessed. He tapped on tree trunks like a doctor listening to a patient's lungs. He was looking for "the one" tree. And nature, as if in mockery, gave him the perfect material. The 17th century in Europe was called the "Little Ice Age" ( Maunder Minimum ). Winters were fierce, summers were sho...

Act 1. Vienna , 1913 Autumn that year was rainy. A small, smoke-filled bar in the center of Vienna smelled of dampness, expensive tobacco, and anxious anticipation. Arthur sat at a corner table. He looked about fifty: an impeccable tweed suit, gray at the temples, calm hands resting on the tabletop. He wasn't drinking. He was observing. Arthur knew the old world was living out its final months. Swords had grown dull, cannons obsolete. The coming century required new management. His gaze slid over the patrons. At the bar, a heavy, corpulent man resembling a prosperous banker was haggling with a waiter. He was dressed to the nines but was greedily finishing off the free nuts. — You shortchanged me by a crown, — he mumbled, wiping greasy lips with a napkin. — Wastefulness will lead this empire to ruin faster than bullets. Arthur nodded to his own thoughts. This was Marcus . A man capable of creating a deficit with a single stroke of a pen. A little further away, by the window,...

In the app, he was called simply "Ch." The car was a black sedan, so polished that it reflected not the street, but the sins of passersby. The interior smelled of ozone and expensive leather . No smell of dampness or mire. The Corporation went through a rebranding back in the 90s. Ch. hated conversations. Not because he was gloomy, as the myths claimed. But because the " Olympus-Taxi " algorithm lowered the rating for "excessive engagement." The rules were strict: Do not look the passenger in the eye (only in the rearview mirror). Do not take tips (payment is deducted automatically: not in money, but in the client's most vivid memory. Reach the destination — and forget your mother's face. Such is the price of fuel). Deliver from Point A (Morgue) to Point B (Distribution) silently. If the rating dropped below 4.5, the driver was stripped of immortality and sent down, to the clients. This was called " Urshan...

In the beginning was the Word. But it was not spoken immediately. First, the Creator looked into the Abyss for a long time. The Abyss looked back at him with mute reproach, hinting that the deadlines were burning. The Creator sighed, brewed himself some tea made of stardust, adjusted his pillow, and said: "Just five more minutes." According to the apocrypha , the world was supposed to be created in one day. Instantly. A snap of the fingers — and done. But the Almighty was a perfectionist with the makings of a procrastinator. On Monday, he created Light, but decided he would separate the Darkness tomorrow because "one needs to evaluate with a fresh eye." On Tuesday, he created the Firmament, but decided to pour the water on Wednesday, since "the riverbed needs to be prepared." By the seventh day, when the " Genesis 1.0 " project was due according to the schedule, the Creator looked at the platypus, at the giraffe, and at how strangely the ...

In the beginning, there was Chaos. And Chaos was beautiful, but absolutely non-functional. The Gods created worlds, hurled lightning bolts, and lit stars, but no one recorded the coordinates. As a result, entire galaxies were lost in the folds of eternity, and heroes who performed feats could not receive their due ambrosia because they were not listed on the payroll. It was then that this figure emerged. No one knows his name. The Sumerians claimed the stranger emerged from the waters of the Tigris , clutching a lump of raw clay. The Egyptians whispered that he was born from the shadow of the Sphinx. We, however, shall call him the First Clerk .  He looked at the riot of elements, adjusted his non-existent glasses, and uttered the first bureaucratic spell in history:  — "And where is the permit for the creation of light?" The Gods were taken aback. They were not used to questions. They were used to hymns.  — "I am the Alpha and the Omega!" thundered the Creator...