поет

Of the entire literary heritage of P. Yu. Todorov, his idylls and dramas represent the most valuable, the most significant part. And at the same time - the most contradictory, the most difficult to explain, because all the strengths and weaknesses of the writer's worldview and method are intertwined in it. You read "Nesretnik" or "Zmeyno" and you struggle to determine where realism ends and romanticism begins, you struggle to distinguish the democratic from the individualistic trends, to separate ours from the foreign, the commercial, the imported. Vain efforts - there is no boundary between the one and the other; qualities and shortcomings constantly flow together. Because these are qualities and shortcomings for us, from our, from a modern point of view. For the writer, both democracy and modernism are creeds, his aesthetic understandings represent a strange mixture of contradictory elements, some of which we will accept, and others we will reject completely. We would not be able to deal with this complex and delicate matter if we remained only in the views of the author's plan, if we were content only with outlining his intentions. The work of a contradictory artist is always richer than his own aesthetic views and declarations. This is also the case with P. Yu. Todorov. Because it reflects reality, the vital content breaks the framework of the literary school and often presents us with nuances and suggestions that even the author did not intend to give. In such cases, we must look at the works more broadly, evaluate them according to the ideas and images embedded in them, according to their impact on the contemporary reader, according to the objective results that are often obtained regardless of the subjective intentions of the author. This is especially necessary for the idylls of P. Yu. Todorov. Because in many cases we will value the objective result more highly than the writer's intention, we will prefer the relative independence of the artistic image to the actual intention of the creator. For us, what he created is more important than what he wanted to create.

Some irresistibly praise him, others almost deny him, and still others with distrust refrain. Many of the reasons for such a contradictory attitude are contained in the poetry of Lyubomir Levchev himself. Here, in front of me is the first collection of poems by the Young Poet - "The Stars are Mine". "The Stars are Mine", "Strength", for honor. and Glory", Song for Garcia Lorca", "October Poems", Song for Me" - these are the cons. I list these few titles, and objections arise in me. I immediately want to make reservations. And in other poems such inexperience is evident! The young poet's power over words is still weak! Some places in his book are simply clumsy prose. The truly original is just intertwined with his capricious attempts to walk with his feet up. This is how it is, and it irritates. And the one who does not look deeply into the appearance of the poet's Lyrical Hero, who does not listen carefully to his voice, so often drowned out by unnecessary noises, will still be left with irritation. Lyubomir Levchev's book has a more complex characteristic than it might seem at first glance. There are many shortcomings, but what is good in his poems is especially good, symptomatically good, if I may put it that way - promisingly good. The second collection of poems - "Forever" even more categorically confirmed the impression of an original, interesting voice in our young poetry. It also confirmed the impression of some, already becoming organic weaknesses in Levchev's work. Let's start from the beginning. We read the program poem "The Stars Are Mine". Our hearing is still unaccustomed to these Audacity. What an insistent admonition that the stars were his! We involuntarily want to calm the irrepressible poetic cosmonaut. More modestly, young man! Can't you be quieter,

A passionate warrior for justice. A rebellious spirit, filled with violent hatred and contempt for the gray human existence. A social poet, carried away by the heroic example of Botev, a poet who deeply felt the miserable plight of his people. And also: a willing bandit, ready to do anything - to lay down his head for the big or the small - as long as it once captured his spirit. Among the Bulgarian creators of the artistic word, he is perhaps the most complex, the most contradictory. Thus, he is often tormented by polar experiences. And this is both in the quests of the mind and in the impulsiveness of feelings. His mind is as penetrating as that of a deep thinker, resolving questions of existence. His emotionality is subtle, perfect. His ideas are like those of a sensitive visionary. His tendency to self-analysis and reflection is constant. It is as if he is searching through himself for the self-knowledge of the human, for that which hides the bottomless depths of the spirit. Although outwardly closed, "monotonous", silent, he is constantly in motion - with his proud critical mind, with his penetrating thought, with his bold, stormy emotionality. And this has been the case since his youth. Everything about this restless man speaks of considerable spiritual strength. His thought is boldly rebellious, fiercely driven, like lightning running across the Horizon. It is flexible, internally contradictory, complex and dialectical. It reminds of a drink that is both sweet and bitter - and corrosive, and has a wisely healing taste. This thought is always driven, as if it cannot stand still. It searches, gropes, invades spheres of ever new complexities. It knows both the dizzying rise and the pain of disappointment. That's why sometimes a sad, ironic mockery shines through it.

I vividly remember an incident from the first years after the war. At that time, the Writers' Union was located on Lege Street and had only two or three modest rooms, which could hardly accommodate even its administrative and editorial departments, which were still very small at that time. Therefore, when general meetings of the members were necessary, difficulties arose and it was necessary to seek temporary shelter under someone else's roof. Thus, somewhat unexpectedly, in March 1947, the general annual meeting was held in the large concert hall of Radio Sofia.

There are writers who become more vital, younger with each passing day: they seem to embody the eternal youth of humanity in its endless striving for happiness, forever calling forward to new horizons. Such an eternally young poet - a warrior for human happiness, who with his ardent love for people illuminates the path to their future, is the great Ukrainian poet Taras Shevchenko, the one hundred and fiftieth anniversary of whose birth is celebrated this year with special solemnity and gratitude by all working humanity. His wonderful poetic creation, which flew like a free bird from the depths of the heart of Ukraine, with unfading freshness and power today sounds in many languages ​​​​throughout the world and awakens ardent urges for justice and freedom in millions of people. Shevchenko's name stands alongside the names of the greatest sons of humanity, who gave all the riches of their hearts, all the flame of their feelings for the triumph of man, for his victory over oppressors and oppressors, for the affirmation of love and brotherhood among all workers.

The name of Nikolai Khrelkov was very popular in the 1930s among progressive students, who revered the writer as a consistent proletarian poet. Back then, we collected donations for him and dreamed of seeing him one day. For me, this came true in 1946, when for four years I had the opportunity to visit the poet in Gorna Banya as a collaborator on the cultural page of the weekly "Fighting Tuberculosis" that he edited. Himself suffering from tuberculosis, Khrelkov waged a stubborn battle with the "heavy social capitalist legacy," as he jokingly put it.