P Platonic unknown flower. Platonov andrey unknown flower. The most beautiful flowers grow from mud

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Andrey Platonov
unknown flower

There lived a small flower in the world. No one knew that he was on earth. He grew up alone in a wasteland; cows and goats did not go there, and the children from the pioneer camp never played there. Grass did not grow in the wasteland, but only old gray stones lay, and between them was dry, dead clay. Only one wind walked through the wasteland; like a grandfather-sower, the wind carried the seeds and sowed them everywhere - both in the black damp earth and on the bare stone wasteland. In the black good earth, flowers and herbs were born from seeds, and in stone and clay, the seeds died.

And once one seed fell from the wind, and it sheltered in a hole between stone and clay. This seed languished for a long time, and then it was saturated with dew, disintegrated, let out thin hairs of the root, stuck them into stone and clay, and began to grow.

So that little flower began to live in the world. He had nothing to eat in stone and clay; raindrops that fell from the sky descended over the top of the earth and did not penetrate to its root, but the flower lived and lived and grew little by little higher. He lifted the leaves against the wind, and the wind died down near the flower; dust particles fell from the wind onto the clay, which the wind brought from the black fat earth; and in those dust particles there was food for the flower, but the dust particles were dry. To moisten them, the flower guarded the dew all night and collected it drop by drop on its leaves. And when the leaves were heavy with dew, the flower lowered them, and the dew fell down; it moistened the black earthen dust that the wind brought, and corroded the dead clay.

During the day, the flower was guarded by the wind, and at night by the dew. He worked day and night to live and not die. He grew his leaves large so that they could stop the wind and collect the dew. However, it was difficult for a flower to feed on only dust particles that fell from the wind, and still collect dew for them. But he needed life and patiently overcame his pain from hunger and fatigue. Only once a day did the flower rejoice: when the first ray of the morning sun touched its weary leaves.

If the wind did not come to the wasteland for a long time, then it became bad for a small flower, and it no longer had the strength to live and grow.

The flower, however, did not want to live sadly; therefore, when he was quite sad, he dozed off. Yet he constantly tried to grow, even if his roots gnawed at bare stone and dry clay. At such a time, its leaves could not be saturated with full strength and become green: one of their veins was blue, the other red, the third blue or gold. This happened because the flower lacked food, and its torment was indicated in the leaves by different colors. The flower itself, however, did not know this: after all, it was blind and did not see itself as it is.

In the middle of summer, the flower opened a corolla at the top. Before that, he looked like grass, but now he has become a real flower.

end of introduction

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Unknown flower. Andrey Platonov. (Fairy tale) There lived a small flower in the world. No one knew that he was on earth. He grew up alone in a wasteland; cows and goats did not go there, and the children from the pioneer camp never played there. Grass did not grow in the wasteland, but only old gray stones lay, and between them was dry, dead clay. Only one wind walked through the wasteland; like a grandfather-sower, the wind carried the seeds and sowed them everywhere - both in the black damp earth and on the bare stone wasteland. In the black good earth, flowers and herbs were born from seeds, and in stone and clay, the seeds died. And once one seed fell from the wind, and it sheltered in a hole between stone and clay. This seed languished for a long time, and then it was saturated with dew, disintegrated, let out thin hairs of the root, stuck them into stone and clay, and began to grow. So that little flower began to live in the world. He had nothing to eat in stone and clay; raindrops that fell from the sky descended over the top of the earth and did not penetrate to its root, but the flower lived and lived and grew little by little higher. He lifted the leaves against the wind, and the wind died down near the flower; dust particles fell from the wind onto the clay, which the wind brought from the black fat earth; and in those dust particles there was food for the flower, but the dust particles were dry. To moisten them, the flower guarded the dew all night and collected it drop by drop on its leaves. And when the leaves were heavy with dew, the flower lowered them, and the dew fell down; it moistened the black earthen dust that the wind brought, and corroded the dead clay. During the day, the flower was guarded by the wind, and at night by the dew. He worked day and night to live and not die. He grew his leaves large so that they could stop the wind and collect the dew. However, it was difficult for a flower to feed on only dust particles that fell from the wind, and still collect dew for them. But he needed life and patiently overcame his pain from hunger and fatigue. Only once a day did the flower rejoice: when the first ray of the morning sun touched its weary leaves. If the wind did not come to the wasteland for a long time, then it became bad for a small flower, and it no longer had the strength to live and grow. The flower, however, did not want to live sadly; therefore, when he was quite sad, he dozed off. Yet he constantly tried to grow, even if his roots gnawed at bare stone and dry clay. At such a time, its leaves could not be saturated with full strength and become green: one of their veins was blue, the other red, the third blue or gold. This happened because the flower lacked food, and its torment was indicated in the leaves by different colors. The flower itself, however, did not know this: after all, it was blind and did not see itself as it is. In the middle of summer, the flower opened a corolla at the top. Before that, it looked like grass, but now it has become a real flower. His corolla was made up of petals of a simple light color, clear and strong, like that of a star. And, like a star, it shone with a living flickering fire, and it was visible even on a dark night. And when the wind came to the wasteland, it always touched the flower and carried away its scent with it. And then one morning the girl Dasha was walking past that wasteland. She lived with her friends in a pioneer camp, and this morning she woke up and missed her mother. She wrote a letter to her mother and took the letter to the station so that it would reach her sooner. On the way, Dasha kissed the envelope with the letter and envied him that he would see his mother sooner than she did. At the edge of the wasteland, Dasha felt a fragrance. She looked around. There were no flowers near, only small grass grew along the path, and the wasteland was completely bare; but the wind was blowing from the wasteland and bringing a quiet smell from there, like the calling voice of a small unknown life. Dasha remembered a fairy tale, her mother told her a long time ago. The mother spoke of a flower that was always sad for its mother - a rose, but it could not cry, and only in the fragrance passed its sadness. “Perhaps it is the flower that misses its mother there, as I do,” thought Dasha. She went to the wasteland and saw that small flower near the stone. Dasha had never seen such a flower before - neither in the field, nor in the forest, nor in the book in the picture, nor in the botanical garden, nowhere. She sat down on the ground near the flower and asked him: - Why are you like this? “I don’t know,” answered the flower. - And why are you different from others? The flower again did not know what to say. But for the first time he heard the voice of a man so closely, for the first time someone looked at him, and he did not want to offend Dasha by silence. “Because it’s hard for me,” answered the flower. - What is your name? Dasha asked. - Nobody calls me, - said a small flower, - I live alone. Dasha looked around in the wasteland. - Here is a stone, here is clay! - she said. - How do you live alone, how did you grow out of clay and not die, such a small one? “I don’t know,” answered the flower. Dasha leaned towards him and kissed his luminous head. The next day, all the pioneers came to visit the little flower. Dasha brought them, but long before reaching the wasteland, she ordered everyone to breathe and said: - Hear how good it smells. This is how he breathes. The pioneers stood around a small flower for a long time and admired it like a hero. Then they walked around the whole wasteland, measured it with steps and counted how many wheelbarrows with manure and ashes would need to be brought to fertilize the dead clay. They wanted the land to become good in the wasteland as well. Then even a small flower, unknown by name, will rest, and beautiful children will grow from its seeds and not die, the best flowers shining with light, which are not found anywhere else. Pioneers worked for four days, fertilizing the land in a wasteland. And after that they went to travel to other fields and forests and did not come to the wasteland again. Only Dasha came once to say goodbye to a small flower. Summer was already ending, the pioneers had to go home, and they left. And the next summer, Dasha again came to the same pioneer camp. All through the long winter she remembered the little flower, unknown by name. And she immediately went to the wasteland to visit him. Dasha saw that the wasteland was now different, it was now overgrown with herbs and flowers, and birds and butterflies were flying over it. There was a fragrance from the flowers, the same as from that little worker flower. However, last year's flower, which lived between stone and clay, was gone. He must have died last fall. The new flowers were also good; they were only slightly worse than that first flower. And Dasha felt sad that there was no former flower. She walked back and suddenly stopped. A new flower grew between two narrow stones, just like the old flower, only a little better and even more beautiful. This flower grew from the middle of the shy stones; he was lively and patient, like his father, and even stronger than his father, because he lived in stone. It seemed to Dasha that the flower was reaching out to her, that he was calling her to him with the silent voice of his fragrance.

(Fairy tale-true)

There lived a small flower in the world. No one knew that he was on earth. He grew up alone in a wasteland; cows and goats did not go there, and the children from the pioneer camp never played there. Grass did not grow in the wasteland, but only old gray stones lay, and between them was dry, dead clay. Only one wind walked through the wasteland; like a grandfather-sower, the wind carried the seeds and sowed them everywhere - both in the black damp earth and on the bare stone wasteland. In the black good earth, flowers and herbs were born from seeds, and in stone and clay, the seeds died.

And once one seed fell from the wind, and it sheltered in a hole between stone and clay. This seed languished for a long time, and then it was saturated with dew, disintegrated, let out thin hairs of the root, stuck them into stone and clay, and began to grow.

So that little flower began to live in the world. He had nothing to eat in stone and clay; raindrops that fell from the sky descended over the top of the earth and did not penetrate to its root, but the flower lived and lived and grew little by little higher. He lifted the leaves against the wind, and the wind died down near the flower; dust particles fell from the wind onto the clay, which the wind brought from the black fat earth; and in those dust particles there was food for the flower, but the dust particles were dry. To moisten them, the flower guarded the dew all night and collected it drop by drop on its leaves. And when the leaves were heavy with dew, the flower lowered them, and the dew fell down; it moistened the black earthen dust that the wind brought, and corroded the dead clay.

During the day, the flower was guarded by the wind, and at night by the dew. He worked day and night to live and not die. He grew his leaves large so that they could stop the wind and collect the dew. However, it was difficult for a flower to feed on only dust particles that fell from the wind, and still collect dew for them. But he needed life and patiently overcame his pain from hunger and fatigue. Only once a day did the flower rejoice: when the first ray of the morning sun touched its weary leaves.

If the wind did not come to the wasteland for a long time, then it became bad for a small flower, and it no longer had the strength to live and grow.

The flower, however, did not want to live sadly; therefore, when he was quite sad, he dozed off. Yet he constantly tried to grow, even if his roots gnawed at bare stone and dry clay. At such a time, its leaves could not be saturated with full strength and become green: one of their veins was blue, the other red, the third blue or gold. This happened because the flower lacked food, and its torment was indicated in the leaves by different colors. The flower itself, however, did not know this: after all, it was blind and did not see itself as it is.

In the middle of summer, the flower opened a corolla at the top. Before that, it looked like grass, but now it has become a real flower. His corolla was made up of petals of a simple light color, clear and strong, like that of a star. And, like a star, it shone with a living flickering fire, and it was visible even on a dark night. And when the wind came to the wasteland, it always touched the flower and carried away its scent with it.

And then one morning the girl Dasha was walking past that wasteland. She lived with her friends in a pioneer camp, and this morning she woke up and missed her mother. She wrote a letter to her mother and took the letter to the station so that it would reach her sooner. On the way, Dasha kissed the envelope with the letter and envied him that he would see his mother sooner than she did.

At the edge of the wasteland, Dasha felt a fragrance. She looked around. There were no flowers near, only small grass grew along the path, and the wasteland was completely bare; but the wind was blowing from the wasteland and bringing a quiet smell from there, like the calling voice of a small unknown life. Dasha remembered a fairy tale, her mother told her a long time ago. The mother spoke of a flower that was always sad for its mother - a rose, but it could not cry, and only in the fragrance passed its sadness.

“Perhaps it is the flower that misses its mother there, as I do,” thought Dasha.

She went to the wasteland and saw that small flower near the stone. Dasha had never seen such a flower before - neither in the field, nor in the forest, nor in the book in the picture, nor in the botanical garden, nowhere. She sat down on the ground near the flower and asked him:

Why are you like this?

I don't know, replied the flower.

And why are you different from others? The flower again did not know what to say. But for the first time he heard the voice of a man so closely, for the first time someone looked at him, and he did not want to offend Dasha by silence.

Because it's hard for me, - answered the flower.

What is your name? Dasha asked.

Nobody calls me, - said a small flower, - I live alone.

Dasha looked around in the wasteland.

Here is a stone, here is clay! - she said. - How do you live alone, how did you grow out of clay and not die, such a small one?

I don't know, - answered the flower. Dasha leaned towards him and kissed him on the luminous head.

The next day, all the pioneers came to visit the little flower. Dasha brought them, but long before reaching the wasteland, she ordered everyone to breathe and said: - Hear how good it smells. This is how he breathes.

The pioneers stood around a small flower for a long time and admired it like a hero. Then they walked around the whole wasteland, measured it with steps and counted how many wheelbarrows with manure and ashes would need to be brought to fertilize the dead clay.

They wanted the land to become good in the wasteland as well. Then even a small flower, unknown by name, will rest, and beautiful children will grow from its seeds and not die, the best flowers shining with light, which are not found anywhere else.

Pioneers worked for four days, fertilizing the land in a wasteland. And after that they went to travel to other fields and forests and did not come to the wasteland again. Only Dasha came once to say goodbye to a small flower. Summer was already ending, the pioneers had to go home, and they left.

And the next summer, Dasha again came to the same pioneer camp. All through the long winter she remembered the little flower, unknown by name. And she immediately went to the wasteland to visit him.

Dasha saw that the wasteland was now different, it was now overgrown with herbs and flowers, and birds and butterflies were flying over it. There was a fragrance from the flowers, the same as from that little worker flower.

However, last year's flower, which lived between stone and clay, was gone. He must have died last fall. The new flowers were also good; they were only slightly worse than that first flower. And Dasha felt sad that there was no former flower. She walked back and suddenly stopped. A new flower grew between two narrow stones, just like the old flower, only a little better and even more beautiful. This flower grew from the middle of the shy stones; he was lively and patient, like his father, and even stronger than his father, because he lived in stone.

There lived a small flower in the world. No one knew that he was on earth. He grew up alone in a wasteland; cows and goats did not go there, and the children from the pioneer camp never played there. Grass did not grow in the wasteland, but only old gray stones lay, and between them was dry, dead clay. Only one wind walked through the wasteland; like a grandfather-sower, the wind carried the seeds and sowed them everywhere - both in the black damp earth and on the bare stone wasteland. In the black good earth, flowers and herbs were born from seeds, and in stone and clay, the seeds died.

And once one seed fell from the wind, and it sheltered in a hole between stone and clay. This seed languished for a long time, and then it was saturated with dew, disintegrated, let out thin hairs of the root, stuck them into stone and clay, and began to grow.

So that little flower began to live in the world. He had nothing to eat in stone and clay; raindrops that fell from the sky descended over the top of the earth and did not penetrate to its root, but the flower lived and lived and grew little by little higher. He lifted the leaves against the wind, and the wind died down near the flower; dust particles fell from the wind onto the clay, which the wind brought from the black fat earth; and in those dust particles there was food for the flower, but the dust particles were dry. To moisten them, the flower guarded the dew all night and collected it drop by drop on its leaves. And when the leaves were heavy with dew, the flower lowered them, and the dew fell down; it moistened the black earthen dust that the wind brought, and corroded the dead clay.

During the day, the flower was guarded by the wind, and at night by the dew. He worked day and night to live and not die. He grew his leaves large so that they could stop the wind and collect the dew. However, it was difficult for a flower to feed on only dust particles that fell from the wind, and still collect dew for them. But he needed life and patiently overcame his pain from hunger and fatigue. Only once a day the flower rejoiced; when the first ray of the morning sun touched its weary leaves.

If the wind did not come to the wasteland for a long time, then it became bad for a small flower, and it no longer had the strength to live and grow. The flower, however, did not want to live sadly; therefore, when he was quite sad, he dozed off. Yet he constantly tried to grow, even if his roots gnawed at bare stone and dry clay. At such a time, its leaves could not be saturated with full strength and become green: one of their veins was blue, the other red, the third blue or gold. This happened because the flower lacked food, and its torment was indicated in the leaves by different colors. The flower itself, however, did not know this: after all, it was blind and did not see itself as it is.

In the middle of summer, the flower opened a corolla at the top. Before that, it looked like grass, but now it has become a real flower. His corolla was made up of petals of a simple light color, clear and strong, like that of a star. And, like a star, it shone with a living flickering fire, and it was visible even on a dark night. And when the wind came to the wasteland, it always touched the flower and carried away its scent with it.

And then one morning the girl Dasha was walking past that wasteland. She lived with her friends in a pioneer camp, and this morning she woke up and missed her mother. She wrote a letter to her mother and took the letter to the station so that it would reach her sooner. On the way, Dasha kissed the envelope with the letter and envied him that he would see his mother sooner than she did.

At the edge of the wasteland, Dasha felt a fragrance. She looked around. There were no flowers near, only small grass grew along the path, and the wasteland was completely bare; but the wind was blowing from the wasteland and bringing a quiet smell from there, like the calling voice of a small unknown life.

Dasha remembered a fairy tale, her mother told her a long time ago. The mother spoke of a flower that was always sad for its mother - a rose, but it could not cry, and only in the fragrance passed its sadness. "Perhaps it is the flower that misses its mother there, as I do," thought Dasha.

She went to the wasteland and saw that small flower near the stone. Dasha had never seen such a flower before - neither in the field, nor in the forest, nor in the book in the picture, nor in the botanical garden, nowhere. She sat down on the ground near the flower and asked him: - Why are you like this? “I don’t know,” answered the flower. - And why are you different from others?

The flower again did not know what to say. But for the first time he heard the voice of a man so closely, for the first time someone looked at him, and he did not want to offend Dasha by silence.

Because it's hard for me, - answered the flower.

What is your name? Dasha asked.

Nobody calls me, - said a small flower, - I live alone.

Dasha looked around in the wasteland. - Here is a stone, here is clay! - she said. - How do you live alone, how did you grow out of clay and not die, such a small one?

I don't know, replied the flower.

Dasha leaned towards him and kissed his luminous head. The next day, all the pioneers came to visit the little flower. Dasha brought them, but long before reaching the wasteland, she ordered everyone to breathe and said: - Hear how good it smells. This is how he breathes.

The pioneers stood around a small flower for a long time and admired it like a hero. Then they walked around the whole wasteland, measured it with steps and counted how many wheelbarrows with manure and ashes would need to be brought to fertilize the dead clay. They wanted the land to become good in the wasteland as well. Then even a small flower, unknown by name, will rest, and beautiful children will grow from its seeds and not die, the best flowers shining with light, which are not found anywhere else.

Pioneers worked for four days, fertilizing the land in a wasteland. And after that they went to travel to other fields and forests and did not come to the wasteland again. Only Dasha came once to say goodbye to a small flower. Summer was already ending, the pioneers had to go home, and they left.

And the next summer, Dasha again came to the same pioneer camp. All through the long winter she remembered the little flower, unknown by name. And she immediately went to the wasteland to visit him. Dasha saw that the wasteland was now different, it was now overgrown with herbs and flowers, and birds and butterflies were flying over it. There was a fragrance from the flowers, the same as from that little worker flower. However, last year's flower, which lived between stone and clay, was gone. He must have died last fall. The new flowers were also good; they were only slightly worse than that first flower. And Dasha felt sad that there was no former flower. She walked back and suddenly stopped. A new flower grew between two narrow stones, just like the old flower, only a little better and even more beautiful. This flower grew from the middle of the shy stones; he was lively and patient, like his father, and even stronger than his father, because he lived in stone. It seemed to Dasha that the flower was reaching out to her, that he was calling her to him with the silent voice of his fragrance.

Rated the book

The most beautiful flowers grow from mud..

At one request, she conducted an open lesson in literature for sixth graders. I don’t remember if we went through this fairy tale, but Andrei Platonov is generally good.

Allegory of the fairy tale: it is obvious that in the fairy tale there were "Unknown Flower" it is said about the difficult life path of many people, and not only about the fate of the plant that grew among the wasteland, clay and sand. The flower fought desperately for its life. He tried at all costs to overcome all difficulties, and fate smiled at him. Kind girl Dasha accidentally noticed a lonely flower and wanted to help him. Dasha was lonely, like this flower, she missed her mother. We can say that the described plant is one warrior in the field. And the difficulties that he had to face are an incentive to fight. Ah, if the sixth grade could see this allegory and compare the life of a flower with the life of people on their own. In this tale, the author conveyed to the reader a very interesting idea: creatures that grow up in difficult conditions turn into perfection and beauty. The harder our life is, the richer and fuller it is. Difficulties in life sometimes seriously harden, a person develops immunity, it will be easier to endure any obstacles. It's the same with the flower. Only one "follower" of this flower has become even more beautiful than the original flower. After all, this second flower was born in stone, and accordingly it went through its difficult path through obstacles, hardened and began to smell fragrant. A fairy tale that teaches not to give up, but to try to overcome any difficulties. Such obvious, at first glance, truths permeate the whole fairy tale. We all know that if you work constantly, you can achieve the almost impossible, that true happiness lies in the ability to give your love to others, that the meaning of life is to take care of your loved ones. And there is no other way on earth to understand - you are developing, you are not standing still, and overcoming difficulties, you are growing up, like this flower. The biggest challenge can turn into a huge win. The biggest victories were once the same difficulties.

I would like the younger generation to know that the difficulties encountered on their way are inevitable, since the road of life cannot always be even, there will definitely be bumps, hillocks, and mountains that can and should be stepped over , jump over, swim over, crawl over. Overcoming is the path to liberation. From what you actually overcome.

Rated the book

Tales of Platonov are dark water in which it is not known what is hidden. Maybe nothing, maybe bright pebbles, maybe a fat catfish with a huge mustache or a toothy pike, or maybe there is nothing there, not even the bottom, only thick viscous darkness with grave cold and icy tentacles. Although Platonov has a little gothic coldness, his darkness is simpler, closer to the earth, and does not rush to heaven with lancet arches.

Platonov surprisingly knows how to combine fairy-tale stereotypes and rebellion against them in some moments. It looks organic and you immediately understand that although the whole narrative is based on classical folklore elements and plots, they are not squeezed into the vice of typicality, but breathe freely and live on their own. It is impossible to predict the development of a fairy tale, what will happen in the finale? A beautiful princess, her alternative cooler version, a toad in a well, or even nothing at all? At the same time, the fairy tale teaches the same reasonable-kind-eternal: be a good boy, think with your own head, do not jump from the roof if everyone is jumping.

The "Magic Ring" in childhood confused me a little, with some kind of internal spite. I could not understand the king with a crystal bridge, some very stupid joke that came true so terribly. And I imagined this bridge, rather, with fear: slippery surfaces, fragile railings, under your feet you see a swaying seething world and now you will fall. Then a much kinder and warmer cartoon was superimposed on this picture, where everything is so ruddy and popular that you are not afraid of either the bridge or the life of the protagonist. In Platonov, I still never was sure whether the main character would live to see the finale at all, he could well have done so. However, just the "Magic Ring" ends quite nicely.

It is interesting that this fairy tale is included in a huge number of school programs. Why? I dont know. It is strange to choose Platonov with his double-edged magic for the fifth graders.