Andrey Platonov - an unknown flower. Platonov Andrey Platonovich - Unknown flower The most beautiful flowers grow from mud

Andrey Platonov

Unknown flower

Lived in the world small flower. Nobody knew that he was on earth. He grew up alone in a vacant lot; cows and goats did not go there, and children from the pioneer camp never played there. No grass grew in the vacant lot, but only old gray stones lay, and between them there was dry, dead clay. Only the wind was blowing through the wasteland; like a grandfather sower, the wind carried seeds and sowed them everywhere - and into the black wet ground, and onto a bare stone wasteland. In the good black earth, flowers and herbs were born from seeds, but in stone and clay, the seeds died.

And one day a seed fell from the wind, and it nestled in a hole between stone and clay. This seed languished for a long time, and then it became saturated with dew, disintegrated, released thin root hairs, stuck them into the stone and clay and began to grow.

This is how that little flower began to live in the world. There was nothing for him to eat in stone and clay; drops of rain that fell from the sky fell on 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 raised the leaves against the wind, and the wind died down near the flower; specks of dust 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 became 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 dew. However, it was difficult for the flower to feed only from dust particles that fell from the wind, and also to collect dew for them. But he needed life and overcame his pain from hunger and fatigue with patience. Only once a day did the flower rejoice: when the first ray of the morning sun touched its tired leaves.

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

The flower, however, did not want to live sadly; therefore, when he was completely sad, he dozed off. Still, 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 vein was blue, another red, the third blue or gold. This happened because the flower lacked food, and its torment was indicated in the leaves. different colors. The flower itself, however, did not know this: after all, it was blind and did not see itself as it is.

In mid-summer the flower opened its corolla at the top. Before that, it looked like grass, but now it has become a real flower. Its corolla was composed of the petals of a simple light color, clear and strong, like 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 its smell with it.

And then one morning the girl Dasha was walking past that vacant lot. 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 arrive quickly. 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 nearby, only small grass grew along the path, and the wasteland was completely bare; but the wind came from the wasteland and brought from there a quiet smell, like the calling voice of a small unknown life. Dasha remembered one fairy tale, her mother told her a long time ago. The mother spoke about a flower that was still sad for its mother - a rose, but it could not cry, and only in the fragrance did its sadness pass.

“Maybe this flower misses its mother there, like me,” thought Dasha.

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

- Why are you like this?

“I don’t know,” answered the flower.

- Why are you different from others?

The flower again did not know what to say. But for the first time he heard a person’s voice so close, for the first time someone looked at him, and he did not want to offend Dasha with silence.

“Because it’s difficult for me,” answered the flower.

– What’s your name? – Dasha asked.

“Nobody calls me,” said the little 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 from clay and not die, you little one?

Rated the book

The most beautiful flowers grow from dirt...

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

Allegory of a fairy tale: it is obvious that the fairy tale “The Unknown Flower” talks about the hardship life path many people, and not just about the fate of the plant that grew among wasteland, clay and sand. The flower fought desperately for its life. He strove to overcome all difficulties at all costs, and fate smiled at him. The 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 he had to face are an incentive to fight. Oh, if only the sixth grade could see on their own this allegory and comparison of the life of a flower with the life of people. In this tale, the author conveyed a very interesting idea to the reader: creatures raised in difficult conditions turn into perfection and beauty. The harder our life, the richer and fuller it is. Difficulties in life sometimes seriously strengthen a person, a person develops immunity, and it will be easier to endure any obstacles. It’s the same with a flower. Only one "follower" of this flower became even more beautiful than the original flower. After all, this second flower was born in a stone, and accordingly it passed its difficult path through obstacles, became hardened and began to smell fragrant. A fairy tale that teaches not to give up, but to try to overcome any difficulties. The entire fairy tale is permeated with such obvious, at first glance, truths. We all know that if you constantly work, you can achieve almost the impossible, that real 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 that you are developing, you are not standing still, but by overcoming difficulties, you are growing upward, just like this flower. The biggest challenge can turn into a huge victory. The most big victories once had 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 smooth, there will definitely be bumps, hills, and mountains that can, should, 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

Platonov's fairy tales are dark water in which it is unknown what is hidden. Maybe there’s nothing, maybe bright pebbles, maybe a fat catfish with huge mustaches or a toothy pike, or maybe there’s nothing there, not even the bottom, just thick viscous darkness with grave cold and icy tentacles. Although Platonov has little gothic coldness, his darkness is simpler, closer to the earth, and does not rush into the heavens with pointed arches.

Platonov amazingly knows how to combine fairy-tale stereotypes and rebellion against them in certain moments. It looks organic and you immediately understand that although the entire narrative is based on classical folklore elements and plots, they are not squeezed in the grip 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 cooler alternative, a toad in a well, or even nothing at all? At the same time, the fairy tale teaches the same rational-good-eternal: be good boy, think with your own head, don’t jump from the roof if everyone else is jumping.

“The Magic Ring” confused me a little as a child, with some kind of inner malice. I couldn’t understand the king with the crystal bridge, some kind of very stupid joke that came to life 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’ll fall. Then this picture was superimposed with a much kinder and warmer cartoon, where everything is so ruddy and popular that you don’t fear the bridge or for the life of the main character. With Platonov, I was never sure whether he would live main character in general, before the finals, he could well have done so. However, “The Magic Ring” ends quite nicely.

It’s interesting that this particular fairy tale is included in a huge number of school curricula. Why? I don't know. It’s strange to choose Platonov with his double-edged magic for fifth-graders.

(Fairy tale)

Once upon a time there lived a little flower. Nobody knew that he was on earth. He grew up alone in a vacant lot; cows and goats did not go there, and children from the pioneer camp never played there. No grass grew in the vacant lot, but only old gray stones lay, and between them there was dry, dead clay. Only the wind was blowing through the wasteland; like a grandfather sower, the wind carried seeds and sowed them everywhere - both in the black damp earth and on a bare stone wasteland. In the good black earth, flowers and herbs were born from seeds, but in stone and clay, the seeds died. And one day a seed fell from the wind, and it nestled in a hole between stone and clay. This seed languished for a long time, and then it became saturated with dew, disintegrated, released thin root hairs, stuck them into the stone and clay and began to grow. This is how that little flower began to live in the world. There was nothing for him to eat in stone and clay; drops of rain that fell from the sky fell on 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 raised the leaves against the wind, and the wind died down near the flower; specks of dust 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 became 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 dew. However, it was difficult for the flower to feed only from dust particles that fell from the wind, and also to collect dew for them. But he needed life and overcame his pain from hunger and fatigue with patience. Only once a day did the flower rejoice: when the first ray of the morning sun touched its tired leaves. If the wind did not come to the wasteland for a long time, then the little flower became ill, and it no longer had enough strength to live and grow. The flower, however, did not want to live sadly; therefore, when he was completely sad, he dozed off. Still, 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 vein was blue, another 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 mid-summer the flower opened its corolla at the top. Before that, it looked like grass, but now it has become a real flower. Its corolla was composed of petals of a simple light color, clear and strong, like 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 its smell with it. And then one morning the girl Dasha was walking past that vacant lot. 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 arrive quickly. 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 nearby, only small grass grew along the path, and the wasteland was completely bare; but the wind came from the wasteland and brought from there a quiet smell, like the calling voice of a small unknown life. Dasha remembered one fairy tale, her mother told her a long time ago. The mother spoke about a flower that was always sad for its mother - a rose, but it could not cry, and only in the fragrance did its sadness pass. “Maybe this flower misses its mother there, like me,” Dasha thought. She went into the wasteland and saw that small flower near the stone. Dasha had never seen such a flower before - not in the field, not in the forest, not in a book in a picture, not in a 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. - Why are you different from others? The flower again did not know what to say. But for the first time he heard a person’s voice so close, for the first time someone looked at him, and he did not want to offend Dasha with silence. “Because it’s difficult for me,” answered the flower. - What's your name? - Dasha asked. “Nobody calls me,” said the little 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 from clay and not die, you little one? “I don’t know,” answered the flower. Dasha leaned towards him and kissed his glowing head. The next day, all the pioneers came to visit the little flower. Dasha led them, but long before reaching the vacant lot, she ordered everyone to take a breath and said: - Hear how good it smells. That's how he breathes. The pioneers stood around the small flower for a long time and admired it like a hero. Then they walked around the entire wasteland, measured it in steps and counted how many wheelbarrows with manure and ash needed to be brought in to fertilize the dead clay. They wanted the land in the wasteland to become good. Then the little flower, unknown by name, will rest, and from its seeds beautiful children will grow and will not die, the best flowers shining with light, which are not found anywhere. The pioneers worked for four days, fertilizing the land in the wasteland. And after that they went traveling to other fields and forests and never came to the wasteland again. Only Dasha came one day to say goodbye to the little 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. Throughout the long winter, she remembered a small flower, unknown by name. And she immediately went to the vacant lot to check on 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. The flowers gave off a fragrance, the same as from that little working flower. However, last year's flower, which lived between the stone and clay, was no longer there. He must have died last fall. The new flowers were also good; they were only a little worse than that first flower. And Dasha felt sad that the old flower was no longer there. She walked back and suddenly stopped. Grew between two tight stones new flower- exactly the same as that old color, only a little better and even more beautiful. This flower grew from the middle of the crowded 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 it was calling her to itself with the silent voice of its fragrance.

Andrei Platonovich Platonov was born at the end of the 19th century in Voronezh. According to him, his life was deprived of the period of youth, and from childhood he immediately stepped into the adult world. Nevertheless, he considered his fate to be as happy as it was tragic.

The writer spent his childhood in a large poor family, and from the age of 13 he had to work with his father so that the family could avoid hunger. By the age of 20, Andrei Platonov had mastered several professions - he worked as a janitor, a messenger, a railway lineman and a land reclamation worker. But his real calling is journalism.

Platonov's works are distinguished by depth, realism, bordering on fabulousness, but this does not lose its meaning. Many of his works are unknown to the general reader because he was “lucky” to create in Soviet times, when censorship tried to find anti-Soviet seditious thoughts behind every word, and Platonov’s works were precisely those florid and ambiguous ones that were prohibited from publication. In 1946, the writer was struck off the list of writers for his story about the broken fate of a soldier.

Fairy tale “Unknown Flower” - about the plot

The plot of this work by Platonov revolves around a small defenseless seed of a plant, which is trying to survive and sprout in an abandoned wasteland, on a lifeless clay soil. And, despite the fact that he has no chance, he still fights, looking for ways to salvation where there shouldn’t be any.

And the reward for his work and desire for life is a little girl, who is also lonely and uncomfortable in this world. With its help, the plant gains the opportunity not only to survive, but also to turn into a flower and give life to its seed children.

And this fairy tale by Platonov is filled with hidden meaning; behind a simple, at first glance, plot is hidden the mystery of survival, which lies in the character of every person, but not everyone manages to reveal and cultivate these qualities in themselves.

“Unknown flower” - the history of the creation of the work

IN recent years In his life, already being a patient with tuberculosis, Andrei Platonovich wrote a lot about children and for children. But even these works of his balanced on the brink of realism and fantasy. However, in “The Unknown Flower” fantasy is kept to a minimum, and the main emphasis is on the subtext, on what each of the readers will see in the work, what they will set for themselves as main idea and meanings.

This fairy tale was written a year before the writer’s death and became a kind of testament for his daughter and for all the children of this generation. In the fairy tale, Platonov raised eternal rhetorical questions - how to live, why to live,

Fairy tale

This is how that little flower began to live in the world. There was nothing for him to eat in stone and clay; drops of rain that fell from the sky fell 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 raised the leaves against the wind, and the wind died down near the flower; specks of dust fell from the wind onto the clay, which the wind brought from the black, fat earth; and in those specks of dust

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 became 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.

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

The flower, however, did not want to live sadly; therefore, when he was completely sad, he dozed off. Still, 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 vein was blue, another 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 mid-summer the flower opened its corolla at the top. Before that, it looked like grass, but now it has become a real flower. Its corolla was composed of petals of a simple light color, clear and strong, like 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 its smell with it.

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

“Maybe this flower misses its mother there, like me,” thought Dasha.

She went into the wasteland and saw that small flower near the stone. Dasha had never seen such a flower before - not in the field, not in the forest, not in a book in a picture, not in a 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.

- Why are you different from others?

The flower again did not know what to say. But for the first time he heard a person’s voice so close, for the first time someone looked at him, and he did not want to offend Dasha with silence.

“Because it’s difficult for me,” answered the flower.

- What's your name? - Dasha asked.

“Nobody calls me,” said the little 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 from clay and not die, you little one?

“I don’t know,” answered the flower.

Dasha leaned towards him and kissed his glowing head.

The next day, all the pioneers came to visit the little flower. Dasha led them, but long before reaching the vacant lot, she ordered everyone to take a breath and said:

- Hear how good it smells. That's how he breathes.

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

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

The pioneers worked for four days, fertilizing the land in the wasteland. And after that they went traveling to other fields and forests and never came to the wasteland again. Only Dasha came one day to say goodbye to the little 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. Throughout the long winter, she remembered a small flower, unknown by name. And she immediately went to the vacant lot to check on 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. The flowers gave off a fragrance, the same as from that little working flower.

However, last year's flower, which lived between the stone and clay, was no longer there. He must have died last fall. The new flowers were also good; they were only a little worse than that first flower. And Dasha felt sad that the old flower was no longer there. She walked back and suddenly stopped. Between two close stones a new flower grew - exactly the same as that old flower, only a little better and even more beautiful. This flower grew from the middle of the crowded 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 it was calling her to itself with the silent voice of its fragrance.