Matthew by Rudolf Nureyev Without Make UPPublication Announcement-2009 Australia RU / http://proza.ru/diary/yuri2008/2008-04-16 / 2006 Charitable Organization “The World Patrick White Intellectual Heritage: Australia” starting publication of the 10-Books of Australian Writer Yuri Ryuntyu in this year of his the 60-th jubilee: 1949-2009 in English, Russian and French: Book 1 ÑÅÐÈß ÈÇ 35 ÊÍÈà Þðè Ìýòòüþ Ðþíòþ: Youri Mathieu Runtu: Yuri Matthew RYUNTYU - ÏÐÎÔÈÍÀÍÑÈÐÎÂÀÍA ÑÓÏÅÐÇÂÅÇÄÀÌÈ ÌÈÐÎÂÎÉ ÈÍÒÅËËÅÊÒÓÀËÜÍÎÉ ÝËÈÒÛ È ÌÓËÜÒÈÌÈËËÈÎÍÅÐÀÌÈ ÍÓÐÅÅÂÛÌ http://rudolfnureyev.com.au/ È ÔÐÝÄÄÈ ÌÅÐÊÜÞÐÈ http://mercuryfreddie.com.au/, ÓÎÐÕÎËÎÌ http://warholandy.com.au/ È ÓÀÉÒÎÌ http://patrickwhite.com.au/ ÄËß ÁÅÇÂÎÇÌÅÇÄÍÎÃÎ ÐÀÑÏÐÎÑÒÐÀÍÅÍÈß Â 200 ÑÒÐÀÍÀÕ ÑÎÄÐÓÆÅÑÒÂÀ ÎÎÍ c 1998-2008. Ïèñàòåëü Þðè Ìýòüþ Ðþíòþ: Àâñòðàëèàía Ëèòåðàòóðà Póññêîãî 3àðóáåæüÿ Yuri Matthew Ryuntyu was born in KIZHI, ONEGA LAKE, Russia. Following his studies at the Academy of Science, Yuri Matthew RYUNTYU moved to Sydney (Australia) and worked, most notably, as a medico-biology scientist. A prizewinning scholar and academician, he has published a 45 books of literary and cultural criticism, including <The Recipe for the Genius>, <The Requiem for the Foresee>, <The Grate Surrenders>, <Abreast and Profile of The Imperial Russian Ballet> and <The Apostolic Silver Age of Russian Culture>. He has also written for such publication as the World of News, the Book Review, the Theatre Life, the Pravda, the Moscow Evening, the Moscow Pravda, the Megapolis Express and the Evening Club about Poetry, Literature, Movies, Religion, History, Music, Opera, Ballet, Politics and Australian Arts, where he is a contributing editor. His literary works and articles are available in English, French, Russian, German, Japanese and Kazakh for readers. Ryuntyu was able to dedicate himself entirely to literature following the success of <Rudolf Nureyev: without Make-up> in Russia, a gloomy satire on sexuality published in 1995. Ryuntyu’s ironic and often disillusioned perception of the state of affairs in Russia during and after the Communist occupation produced a body of work that is still at the forefront of twentieth-century Russian and Australian literature. A most famous: <The Temptation: Boris Yeltsin>, <On the Way of the Cross: Alexander Solzhenitsyn>, <Idol Russian Gay Culture: Sergey Paradzhanov> and <The Meditation: Bella Akhmadulina and Joseph Brodsky> http://ryuntyu.com/8o/ Yuri Ryuntyu live in Cairns, Great Barrier Reef, Australia + Ðþíòþ o Êóëüòóðe Ðîññèÿí â ÑØÀ The Ronald Reagan Presidential Library and Museum USA http://www.reaganlibrary.com/ + http://ryuntyu.com/BIBLIOGRAPHY.htm + http://ryuntyu.com/DIPLOMA.htm ÏÐÎÄÎËÆÅÍÈÅ HA ÏÎÝÇÈß: ÐÓÑÑÊÎ-ßÇÛ×ÍÀß ÀÂÑÒÐÀËÈß-ÕÕI ÂÅÊ THE MODERN RUSSIAN LITERATURE: POETRY RUSSIAN-SPEAKING AUSTRALIA-XXI CENTURY http://stihi-ru.com/ ÄÅÒÑÊÀß ËÈÒÅÐÀÒÓÐÀ: ÐÓÑÑÊÎ-ßÇÛ×ÍÀß ÀÂÑÒÐÀËÈß-ÕÕI ÂÅÊ THE MODERN RUSSIAN LITERATURE FOR CHILDREN: RUSSIAN-SPEAKING AUSTRALIA-XXI CENTURY http://ryuntyu.com/ Visit 10 AUSTRALIAN WEB-sites IN AUSTRALIA: THE MODERN RUSSIAN LITERATURE FOR CHILDREN: RUSSIAN-SPEAKING AUSTRALIA-XXI CENTURY http://ryuntyu.com/ YURI MATTHEW «An unmistakable message has passed. “Well, Yuri, what else can I say? You are at the same age as he was when I met him”: P. White about G. Orwell. We sat simultaneously on the bench. Patrick started to reminisce… “I met George in Madrid. He was British and we fell in love, it was complete madness. We were so young and reckless. George was handsome reporter for the British Media and I was an Intelligence officer for the RAF. God knows how long ago it was. It was my first and last real love. Love was fresh and pure. We were honest with no pretending. Such things I never tasted again ... It was the Spanish wartime. Later he wrote about our feeling of tenderness in his masterpiece “1984”.” “Even with Barbara Mobbs and Manoly L a s … c a r … is?” I jealously cut in. “Don’t ask me about him. Isn’t it true that we already live together for half a century? To be ... exact a little less ... as one family. I am married you know?” “But, now it’s 1985, Pat.” “Yes, our wedding was, if the calendar doesn’t lie, in 1936. I wish everyone happiness and to be loyally in love forever. Have you noticed that white swans can’t survive in Australia?” he points his finger towards the pond. “Yes, here is the kingdom of darkness. Locals un – m i s t a k – i n g – l y see these tar black birds as an example of universal beauty. But, damn it anyway. Everything here is upside down. We have adjusted walking with our heads downwards.” “What of the white swans in Europe? Moscow has so many of them too,” I reminisce about Russia. “Of course, whiteness is closer to the purity of snow. The Australian darkness always puzzled me. Black is an antagonist to white.” “Is that true Mr. White,” I grinned cheekily. “I feel exactly the same and ever since childhood I was crazy about whiteness. Look up at the bright sunlit sky,” I nervously stuttered as I glanced to the horizon where some black swans flew. “There are too many and they’re so close as gathered to m o u r n … Mr. White,” he whispered. A flock of swans circled overhead, searching for prey. They noisily and carelessly splashed the surface of the pond, and then began to greedily fight for the reeds on the bank. “No, there is no grace in them. They are black inside and out, the same as their bloody offspring. Isn’t it such a miracle?” he claps his hands together. “They aren’t completely black bastards yet. Like us, they aren’t born as replicas or clones of their parents,” I state. “Then why?” he asks me. “Are you ashamed of yourself? Did the banana lifestyle infect your brain? Why you are so narrowing minded? Why in the bloody hell do we need to become true d i n k u m … Aussies?” “But, I love Australia,” I answer and wink silently as I start to go home. “Don’t leave me with such sadness,” he screams and hobbles after me to try and block my way. “Why do you need me so desperately, Patrick? Such pet boys run around you in the thousands, like sex slaves in Oxford St.,” I snapped angrily and finally lose control of myself. “Yuri, please, lets sit and talk, maybe you can tell me a story?” he looks guilty into my eyes. “Here’s a bench. Come on, Yuri.” I unwillingly obeyed and began to retell something from my memory. The park became suddenly silent. I was the only one making a noise and he only heard my voice. It was my story published last week in “The Famous Reporter”: Separation had altered my feelings for Sydney. Two years passed and I’ve overcome the pain It was pleasantly warm, when one Sunday I sat Unexpectedly, the shape of a stranger detached I continued to smoke, pretending that How many have I met? These encounters, these Nearly all of this I want to tell you. The portraits of these living people formed Then he cuts in saying … “It’s impossible not to love these lonely souls. He silently searched for the appropriate words to “But, if we’re not ready for the damned answer, He crouches in front of me and suddenly hugs my knees. “Now can I finish my story, Patrick?” I ask, but don’t “Through their bereavement and my grief and I ignore him as I recite the last line off by heart. “Well that’s all about myself,” I sigh unhappily and refuse to analyze his smirking face. “That’s enough to start your future book,” handing me a pocket recorder which was in his jacket. “What the shit is this, Pat? I was talking to you from the top of my head, but now it’s on this lifeless tape.” “It’s OK. I think that the first chapter of our book is already taped. Here take it,” he stretches out to me a mini recorder and gave back to me my own story. “I wish you good luck in publishing it,” he rejoiced. “But, Pat, not before you tell me what’s in those letters from that Russian … Nureyev. “Of course you’ll take them, you must. They are my secrets from him, my Manoly. You know that I would never hurt him with anything. What right do I have to be a sinner, while he’s still alive? He is my Holy Chapel, my only divine sweetness in my life. Life in the hellish bullshit of Sydney’s bloody Intellectual Elite,” he scratched then blew his nose on a hanky, which he pulled out of his bright-checkered pants. “You’re such a bloody trendy yuppie,” I snapped bitchy. “It’s visible that a provincial shit like you hasn’t been to Paris.” “So what, if I haven’t bloody been, but I’ve been with you, Pat. You’re more than Paris to me. Aren’t you its equivalent?” “Hell, no. Paris is only Paris and it’s irreplaceable,” he quickly glances at his watch. “I’m so cheap compared to the others, especially to the French sleaziest genius Cocteau.” “Yes, Paris is only equal to itself,” I slap his meaty butt. “And you write chapter after chapter. You’ll get everything, bastard, sure success and money,” he smiled shyly. “Bless you.” “I won’t write it, before you're in Heaven, Patrick,” I added dryly. “You’re reading my mind, Yuri. That’s my only condition, for the sake of friendship. Promise, mate.” “God, I promise. Yes, of course, I promise, but please live a long life, OK.” My tears started to pour, giving in to my wish of saying good-bye to him with unnecessary water. “Even if I am old, I know why you’ll get everything, because you’re extremely sincere. You don’t have the monkey like manner, which infected the Australians’ mentality. I believe in you. After … I have gone. You’ll be my only replacement,” he kissed my lips. “Beware of the vicious hatred of dickheads. In the Aussie tropics it’s the most poisonous fruit. Now, I couldn’t give a damn about it. I might go back to Europe or maybe not. Who knows? Only God sees all. Hell, who knows? Yes, everything is open for God and for you to return back to Russia. Isn’t that painful?” “It already hurts so bloody much,” I answered. “I meant the value of those Russian letters, Yuri, which you’ll publish there for sure,” he shakes his head in disagreement. I notice that he was late for something. “Shit, it’s so simple. I’ll have them and David will never know that they exist,” I nodded confirming everything and burst into tears again. “That’s just splendid! The main thing is not to interrupt his personal plans of writing about me. Let everything go its own way, then later, when he’s not expecting it, kick him in the arse. Oh, shit yes,” he gasped … then suddenly became silent. “Kick him, what for?” I asked in puzzlement. “Why” So that the dickhead didn’t become the one and only world wide expert of my Nobel Prize For Literature Achievements! But, don't forget to include Rudy and me as blue Britons and don’t say that most of it happened in Armidale, OK? What ever you do, don’t confirm that it was just with you, OK? Don’t think that you’re the best of all, even if you are writing about Rudy and me. The world respects us and remembers people like us, and nobody else. You know that you don’t you?” “What a hell of a book, especially when everyone in it is still alive.” “Isn’t this the title of your book; “Patrick White: A love machine and grinder of hearts.”...” he jokingly added. “It’s simply ecstatic. Can I expect you to pray for me in Heaven?” I asked. “For this … “Grinding machine”?” I added. “Yes, for sure, I’ll even write you a blessing in my will, I promise, Yuri,” he went without saying good-bye or looking back. “So now I can bloody write whatever I want!” I shout after him as I kneel. He suddenly stopped and came back slowly. He uttered no words. He kissed and crossed my forehead in a farewell blessing. I stood with the pack of precious letters, roughly wrapped in an old embroidered handkerchief. He left to prepare to go and lie in the hospital tomorrow or the day after. EVERYTHING WAS TRIED, I wanted his return, but his guardian angel took him to God, and gave him the gift of eternity in Heaven. What else can I remember? He stands over me as I’m on my knees. He was no more a sinner after that. They started to confess for his sake in Holy caves in Spain. The nuns didn’t know that his hidden DEATH slept close by. Immediately, IT awoke to fill Him with Immortality.
© Copyright: Ðþíòþ Þðè, 2008.
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