Писатель Илья Розенфельд

Power and freedom. Two sides of the same coin. Everyone wants power in order to gain freedom. But what they receive is a golden cage. Introduction People think that power is when you give orders and others obey. A mistake. Power is when you are obligated to give orders just to feel alive. And freedom is not "doing what you want." It is "not knowing what to do." And that drives one mad faster than a prison. Chapter I. Power (The Parasite Crown) In Evgeny Shvarts's fairy tale, the knight kills the dragon and becomes a dragon himself. This is not a metaphor. This is biology. Power is a symbiotic virus (like Venom ). The crown is a helmet that grows into the skull. It gives the wearer superpowers (an army, money, the right to execute), but in return, it devours their personality. Look at any dictator at the beginning of their journey and at the end. At the beginning: "I want to save the people!" At the end: "The people are expendable materi...

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...

Part I. The Living String Silence hung in the philharmonic hall , dense and viscous, like coagulated blood. The orchestra froze. Seventy people held their breath, staring at the thin back of the man on the podium. Maestro von Stern slowly lowered his hands. The baton in his fingers did not waver, but the second violin—a young man with a pale face—flinched as if struck by a whip. “Stop,” Stern’s voice was quiet, but in the acoustics of the hall, it sounded like a gunshot. “Second violin. Stand up.” The young man rose. The bow in his hand was shaking uncontrollably. “Maestro, I... the tuner shows perfect pitch ...” “Tuner,” Stern pronounced the word like a curse. He stepped off the podium and walked slowly, with a predatory gait, toward the musician. “A tuner hears the frequency of oscillations, young man. But I hear your cowardice. In this passage, you are supposed to be dying, tearing your chest open. And you... you are just politely squeaking.” The Maestro stepped up close...

"I have little time," the prominent politician nervously fingered his cufflink . "I need a photo. I must be in the ballroom of the Ritz Hotel today, exactly at 20:00. I must look kind and open. It is a matter of life and death." "I understand," the Master replied dryly. He put on his smart glasses and loaded an up-to-date 3D model of the Ritz interior into them. His studio virtually transformed: a virtual grid of columns, crystal chandeliers , and carpet runners lay over the dark curtains. "A little to the left," commanded the Master, moving the light stand. "Imagine there is a Christmas tree to your left." He began to "stitch" the situation from the void. The Master set up tiny light sources so that glares from non-existent candles appeared in the politician's eyes. He added warm backlight simulating the glow of chandeliers. In the glasses, the illusion looked absolutely real. "Now, the main thing," th...

The agency " The Weavers " agency did not deal in textiles. Hans and Christina were conceptualists , specialists in reality management . Their office was sterile white, just like their reputation. The Emperor (and in our version — the President, whose rule had dragged on for thirty years, and the title of Emperor fitted him perfectly) received them in a closed bunker. He was old, cynical, and suffered from paranoia. — "I need something special for the Independence Day parade ," he said, drumming his fingers on the table. — "Ratings are falling. The people are whispering. I need a symbol." — "We don't sew clothes, Your Majesty," Hans answered softly. — "We sew loyalty."   — "We offer you a fabric made of the 'Matter of Pure Truth'," Christina chimed in. — "Its unique property is that it is invisible to traitors, fools, and those who are not in their rightful place. Only a true patriot can see it."...

Chapter 1. The Blind Bet There was no time here. It had been abolished as unnecessary, just as medicines are abolished when they can no longer save. Windows were missing, as were clocks. Only harsh white electrical light beat into the eyes, creating unnaturally sharp shadows. In the center of the room, blinded by the electric light, stood a table. The rest of the space drowned in thick shadow that smelled of dust and stale tension. Four people sat at the table. The one who sat at the head placed his palms on the green baize. His fingers, long and nervous, felt the nap of the fabric, as if trying to read a text written in Braille . But the baize was empty. — Bets are made, — he pronounced. His voice sounded confident, with those velvety, commanding notes that brook no objections. He looked straight ahead, but his gaze, covered by a cloudy whitish film, passed through his interlocutors, through the walls, resting on nonexistent horizons. He had not seen reality for a lo...

Introduction For centuries, people have wondered: What do ministers actually do? Do they sit in their offices, solving the nation’s problems? Or do they sip coffee, staring out their windows at pigeons? Governments always respond with riddles, but if you take their titles literally, the answers become obvious. It’s simpler—and far more absurd—than anyone imagined. In this collection, ministries are reimagined exactly as their names suggest. Minister of the Treasure ( שר האוצר ) Each morning, the Minister of the Treasure dons an Indiana Jones hat, grabs a shovel, and leads their team of national archaeologists into the Negev Desert. With metal detectors in hand, they dig tirelessly for the country’s "hidden budget." To boost morale, the Ministry hosts treasure hunt livestreams. However, protesters outside the Ministry chant: "Gold doesn’t pay our bills!" The Minister reassures them: "The treasure is close. Just keep believing!" Minis...