New world magazine archive. History of the magazine "new world"

January 18 is considered the birthday of the "New World" magazine. This year the edition celebrates its 85th anniversary.

The Novy Mir magazine is one of the oldest monthly literary, artistic and socio-political magazines in modern Russia.

The idea of \u200b\u200bcreating the magazine belonged to the then editor-in-chief of Izvestia, Yuri Steklov, who proposed creating a monthly literary, artistic and socio-political magazine on the basis of the Izvestia publishing house, which was done. The magazine began to appear in 1925.

The first year the monthly was led by the People's Commissar of Education Anatoly Lunacharsky, who remained a member of the editorial board until 1931, and Yuri Steklov.

In 1926, the management of the magazine was entrusted to the critic Vyacheslav Polonsky, who turned the new edition into the central literary magazine that time. Polonsky headed the magazine until 1931, and already in the early 1930s, Novy Mir was recognized by the public as the main, main magazine of the then Russian Soviet literature.

After the war, the well-known writer Konstantin Simonov became the editor-in-chief, who headed the magazine from 1946 to 1950, in 1950 he was replaced by Alexander Tvardovsky. This first tenure of Tvardovsky as editor-in-chief was short-lived. In 1954, he was removed from the leadership, but in 1958 he again became editor-in-chief, and a period began in the history of the magazine that was inextricably linked with his name. Thanks to Tvardovsky, a small story "One day of Ivan Denisovich" by the Ryazan teacher Alexander Solzhenitsyn was able to appear on the pages of the magazine, which became a milestone not only in the literary, but also in the political life of the country. In 1970, Tvardovsky was removed from the post of editor-in-chief, and soon died.

After Tvardovsky's death, until 1986, Novy Mir was headed first by Viktor Kosolapov, then by Sergei Narovchatov and Vladimir Karpov.
In 1986, the magazine was first headed by a non-partisan writer - prose writer Sergei Zalygin, under whom the magazine's circulation rose to a record height of two million seven hundred thousand copies. The magazine's success was associated with the publication of many previously banned books in the USSR, such as "Doctor Zhivago" by Boris Pasternak, "The Foundation Pit" by Andrey Platonov, but especially - the works of Alexander Solzhenitsyn "The Gulag Archipelago", "The First Circle", "Cancer Ward".

The most notorious publications of the magazine in its entire history were: "The Black Man" by Sergei Yesenin (1925); "Not by bread alone" by Vladimir Dudintsev (1956); One Day in Ivan Denisovich by Alexander Solzhenitsyn (1962); "Plakha" by Chingiz Aitmatov (1986); Advances and Debts by Nikolai Shmelev (1987); The Foundation Pit by Andrey Platonov (1987); "Doctor Zhivago" by Boris Pasternak (1988); "The Gulag Archipelago" by Alexander Solzhenitsyn (1989); "Sonechka" by Lyudmila Ulitskaya (1993); "Prisoner of the Caucasus" by Vladimir Makanin (1995); "Freedom" by Mikhail Butov (1999) and many others.

In 1947-1990 the magazine was the organ of the Union of Writers of the USSR. But since 1991, thanks to the new legislation on the media, the Novy Mir magazine has become a truly independent publication, not directly associated with any of the creative unions or public organizations.

With the development of perestroika, the charter of the editorial board changed, and at some point Zalygin was already voluntarily elected editor-in-chief by the editorial board. But in 1998 the five-year term for which he was elected expired and Sergei Pavlovich refused to run.
In 1998, literary critic Andrei Vasilevsky was elected editor-in-chief of the magazine.

Today, like all "thick" magazines, Novy Mir is forced to survive in a market situation. The impossibility of existence without sponsorship, the inability of the majority of potential readers to acquire a relatively expensive magazine, the inevitable drop in public interest - all this forced a change in editorial policy.

If earlier the magazine was based on novels published with a continuation from issue to issue, today the magazine has reoriented itself to "small" forms - a short story, a cycle of stories.

The current circulation of the magazine hovers around the figure of only 7 thousand.

Currently, Novy Mir is published on 256 pages. In addition to novelties of prose and poetry, the magazine offers the traditional headings "From Heritage", "Philosophy. Story. Politics ”,“ Distant Close ”,“ Times and Morals ”,“ A Writer's Diary ”,“ World of Art ”,“ Conversations ”,“ Literary Criticism ”(with the subheadings“ Struggle for Style ”and“ Along the Way of the Text ”),“ Reviews ... Reviews "," Bibliography "," Foreign book about Russia ", etc.

The chief editor is Andrey Vasilevsky. Executive secretary, prose writer Mikhail Butov. Ruslan Kireev is in charge of the prose department. The poetry department is headed by Oleg Chukhontsev, the criticism department is headed by Irina Rodnyanskaya, the historical and archival department is headed by Alexander Nosov. Freelance members of the editorial board (now the Public Council) are Sergey Averintsev, Viktor Astafiev, Andrey Bitov, Sergey Bocharov, Daniil Granin, Boris Yekimov, Fazil Iskander, Alexander Kushner, Dmitry Likhachev and other respected writers.

The material was prepared by the editors of rian.ru based on information from RIA Novosti and open sources

Yuri Buida

The cat has nine deaths

Narrative in stories

Seven

Oh, Seven! The real - postal - her name does not say anything to the heart. In the former East Prussia, from where the last native German was deported in the forty-eighth, and which was quickly, hastily populated with residents from the regions of Novgorod and Pskov, Moscow and Yaroslavl, Kalinin - Tverskaya and Smolenskaya, as well as from neighboring Belarus, the names of streets and villages were given in a hurry , so dozens of Cherries and Nekrasovoks happened, the German Taplakken was renamed Taplaki, Ramau was Rovnoe, and the delicious folk name central square the regional center - Three Marshals Square (for a long time there were huge portraits of Vasilevsky, Baghramyan and Zhukov) was replaced with the insipid name of the leader of the Russian revolution.

But we are about the Seven! About Seven!

Except for the corner house with a bookstore, which equally belonged to Semerka and Lipova, it began with the house where the ecumenical nonsense Zhopsik, the innocent owner of a green heart, lived - once, then the house where the silent Kazimir lived - two, the hospital - three , a yellow narrow house with its flock of blond brothers - football players - four, kindergarten - five, a house under a helmet (its small-flaked tiled roof was painfully reminiscent of a Kaiser's steel helmet with a shishak) - six, the house of the Fascist and his ever-hungry fascists - seven, Buyanikha's house - eight, our house - nine, opposite - a store and warehouses, arranged in the former church - ten, a house with a couple of young Jewish women - davalok, languid Larisa and lively red-haired Valka - oh, how sweet their fire-breathing mouths were! - eleven, the house of Kuvalda - twelve, the house of the old woman Three Cats, who died in the basement on a mattress stuffed with crumpled three-ruble rubles, - thirteen, the house of Ivan Tikhonin, a brave warrior with green devils, whom after the eighth bottle of vodka he began to pick out of his hand with a fork - fourteen , the house of the director of a paper mill, who lived alone and loved to pluck live chickens in the bathroom with his own hand, fifteen, the house of the talkative old woman Grammophonikha, sixteen, the house without a number, seventeen, the house of Mukhanov's grandfather, who smoked exclusively poisonous cigarettes filled with black Georgian tea instead of tobacco the highest grade, - eighteen, a house like a house - nineteen, a house of evil dogs and outsider entry forbidden - twenty, the house of teachers - twenty-one, the house of Kolka Urblud, who managed to drink everything except the starry sky, - twenty-two, the house of my secret beloved, who never knew about it, because the waves of the spring Pregolya dragged her to the bottom so that she crossed the Baltic Sea under water and surfaced at the feet of the bronze Little Mermaid in Copenhagen - twenty-three, a house with a hornet's nest in the wall - twenty-four, a factory club, a former German officers' casino with a brothel, where on Saturdays and Sundays there were dances that had no right not a single jackknife owner older than thirteen years old - twenty-five, and, finally, the house of the railway trackmen of Red and Red - twenty-six! .. Total - twenty-six, in which, in addition to those mentioned, lived dozens of families, dogs, cats, cows , mice, spiders, about which there is no need to talk, because they themselves are able to stand up for themselves in front of my knowledge and my memory.

From the very beginning, from Lipovaya, the street was paved with cobblestones, and then - red brick in several layers - for a thousand years you cannot erase, you cannot rub to the ground - to the lattice of impenetrable pines filled with amber, in the nests of which the gray boulders of moraines, left prehistoric glaciers; from beginning to end, the street, densely lined with linden trees, could be walked in the pouring rain and not soaked a single thread.

On one side, parallel to the street, ran railway, and on the other, down from the orchards - orchards - a swampy plain cut by reclamation ditches with a stadium in the center, abutting a high dam, behind which it carried its yellowish - green waters of the Pregol, with a dam and a sluice, with the Baba coast, where the old and young and where for the first time in my life I really drowned and was brought back to life.

Behind the factory club rose an old park with zigzags of trenches that were swollen and overgrown with blackberries, with which unreasonable fascists tried to stop the heroic pressure of our troops. Behind the park was the Tower, which in spring served to drain the hollow water from the river into the reclamation canals that extended to Insterburg.

Oh, Seven! These rebellious women, who wore satin robes on one button in the summer, sometimes under the pressure of the belly of a rival who was shooting not in the eyebrow, but in the eye, and in winter they dressed in coats solid like the doors of attics and cellars with the skins of unknown animals on the collar! These serene men - alcoholics, with whitish eyebrows growing together on the nose, in red-haired ruble boots that looked like dead rats, men who worked for pennies in factories and small factories, poured out with pigs and rabbits, because it was impossible to live on a salary, on weekends while listening to vodka, they listened to the radio and played dominoes, and on weekdays they punched the offspring in the ass with a belt, sincerely convinced that the head was not suitable for admonition. These century-old, half-blind and half-insane old women in black plush jackets, scarves and tulle hats, similar to kiteswho ate a bucket of plums at a time and walked arm in arm along the street, leaving a wet trail behind them ... These children, finally, who were ready to kill me just because I went outside with a piece of bread, poured with sunflower oil and protected by a ritual spell: “Forty-seven - I'll eat it myself!”, But it was white bread! When - under Khrushchev - they introduced coupons for wheat flour and, it seems, for white bread, my little sister The maddened old women threw them off the store porch: she took too much in one hand, although everything was correct in terms of the number of coupons. Thank God, the city madman Vita Little Head managed to catch the girl, otherwise she would have fallen headlong on the paving stones, - although Vita actually hated children, because at every meeting they strove to spit at him ...

Oh, Seven! These scarlet tiled roofs overflowing with linden greenery, this thin scarlet dust over the red brick pavement, so beautifully illuminated by the setting sun, this stupid lilac, which has tumbled over the kindergarten fence with its lush breasts, this incomprehensibly beautiful in its banality state of bliss when you lie behind the park in tall dandelions , you look at the stupidest piercing blue flowing sky and, of course, you think about immortality ...

We are alive as long as we are immortal.

Oh, Seven! Unfortunately, you are immortality: the world is above all mind.

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