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Literaturnaya gazeta:
   18 iyunya. Pamyati Okudzhavy
   25 iyunya. Anatolij GLADILIN. Okudzhava v Parizhe

Ogonek:
   23 iyunya. Vspomnim Bulata

Russkaya mysl'
   18 iyunya. Pamyati Bulata Okudzhavy

|kspress-hronika (Rossiya On-Lajn)
   13 iyunya. Bulat Okudzhava

Server "Ryazan' OnLine"
   Stranica "Pamyati Bulata Okudzhavy"



Sostavitel':
        Osik Dolgoj ,
        8 iyulya 1997g.

Dopolneniya i zamechaniya pros'ba napravlyat'
sostavitelyu

Primechane.
Dannaya stranica mozhet byt' ispol'zovana polnost'yu libo chastichno bezo vsyakih
ogranichenij.




PARIS -- Russian poet and singer Bulat Okudzhava,
whose dissident lyrics once filled stadiums with
fans, has died in a French military hospital at the
age of 73, a French armed forces spokeswoman said
on Friday

"I can confirm that Mr. Okudzhava died overnight at
Percy military hospital in Clamart (suburb)," the
spokeswoman said.

The cause of death was not immediately disclosed.
French military hospitals are open to the general
public and receive civilian patients who live
nearby.

Okudzhava was especially influential in the 1960s
and 1970s, but his simple melodies and moving
lyrics, accompanied typically by the strumming of
an acoustic guitar, attracted generations of fans.

Love, war and everyday life were all the focus of
Okudzhava's lyrics.

In one of his songs about Moscow's most famous
streets, he sang: "Ah Arbat, my Arbat, you are my
melody, you are my Fatherland, you are my joy and
sorrow."

Half Georgian and half Armenian, Okudzhava was long
out of favor with communist authorities, but won
the approval of reform- minded authorities in the
late 1980s.

In December 1994 he won the 10,000 pound ($15,000)
Russian Booker literary prize, but did not attend
the award ceremony because of poor health. He was
also named a member of President Boris Yeltsin's
council on culture and art.

In recent years he developed heart problems and
kept a low public profile. He had heart surgery in
the United States several years ago, and in August
last year he suffered a heart attack.

Tass quoted his wife Olga as saying he died "from
the psychological stress of loneliness." (Reuters)

---------------------------------------------------------------


 (stat'ya, napisannaya dlya gazety, "Novosti Severa")
 Date: 15 Jun 1997


     Vot kakoe nynche vremya -
     vse v proklyat'yah i v dymu...
     potomu i rifma "bremya"
     sootvetstvuet emu.

         Okudzhava, devyanostye gody


     ...A  teper'  predstav'te  sebe,  chto  otzvuchali  traurnye
melodii i proshlo neskol'ko dnej, a luchshe  -  let;  chto  vse  my
vyzhili  v  etom  vremeni  i  zagovorili ob umershem Okudzhave (ne
poverit' nikak:  umershem  Okudzhave)  ne  kazennymi,  a  svoimi,
zhivymi slovami.

     Predstav'te,   chto  byli  uzhe  napisany  vse  memorial'nye
stat'i, slovno spisannye odna s drugoj ne po zlomu umyslu, a po
trafaretnosti  uma  chelovecheskogo:  zagolovok  iz  kakoj-nibud'
pesni Okudzhavy o druz'yah, rassuzhdenie ob uhode pokoleniya,  para
mudrenyh  slov  o  prostote  teksta  i  estestvennosti melodii,
frontovye  vospominaniya  avtora  (na  hudoj  konec   sojdut   i
vospominaniya  avtora  o  tom,  kak  on smotrel fil'my o vojne),
proillyustrirovannye odnoj-dvumya pesnyami Okudzhavy na tu zhe temu,
glubokaya  mysl' o tom, chto my dolzhny, nakonec, vzyat'sya za ruki,
inache propadem, i v zaklyuchenie - chto-nibud'  naschet  togo,  chto
korotki  nashi  leta  molodye, s namekom - mol, i svoyu smert' on
tozhe predvidel, vot kakoj byl providec.

     I vse, skazannoe v etih stat'yah, budet absolyutno verno.

     Nu, mozhet, eshche pro "Puteshestvie diletantov" vspomnyat.


     Ne to dvizhen'e eto skorostnoe,
     a mozhet, prosto chto-to vozrastnoe:
     vse radosti - gori oni v ogne...
     Kogda-nibud' za zhizn' svoyu vtoruyu
     ya eto vse, konechno, rasshifruyu,
     a nynche eto nedostupno mne.

         Okudzhava, devyanostye gody


     A kogda vse eto otgremit, mozhet byt', kto-to i zadumaetsya:
pochemu v "Batal'nom polotne" - tam, gde "Sumerki, priroda..." -
u  kobyly vdrug okazyvayutsya kryl'ya za spinoyu, kak pered vojnoyu?
Ved' peli vse, a kto zadumyvalsya?

     CHto  takoe  "arbatskogo  romansa starinnoe shit'e"? Ah, eto
zanavesochki? Skaterti? Plat'e? Vse vmeste? A kak zhe  togda  vse
eto zapihnuli v odnu strochku, da eshche tak, chtoby nezametno bylo?
I otkuda  vzyalas'  na  bul'vare  Raspaj,  poseredke  "Parizhskoj
fantazii,  peterburgskaya  salfetka? I pochemu "Nadezhdy malen'kij
orkestrik" nazyvaetsya  "Pesenka  o  nochnoj  Moskve",  i  otkuda
nazvanie  u  pesni  "Nadpis' na kamne"? I chto "a inache zachem na
zemle etoj vechnoj zhivu" -  ne  pripev,  ne  refren,  a  prostaya
formulirovka  smysla zhizni, prichem v kazhdom iz chetyreh kupletov
ona raznaya.

     Mozhet  byt',  kto-to  i napishet knigu o tom, kak udavalos'
odnomu cheloveku sozdavat' dlya kazhdogo stihotvoreniya svoj, ni  u
kogo  ne vzyatyj vzajmy, mir associacij i vyrazhenij, kotoryj pri
etom vosprinimaetsya tak estestvenno, kak budto my vsyu zhizn' tak
i  govorili.  Otchego  i  stalo,  sobstvenno,  dikovinnoe  slovo
"Okudzhava" samoj russkoj familiej.

     Mozhet   byt',   v   budushchem   veke,  v  novom  tysyacheletii
chelovecheskij rod prochtet, nakonec, vnimatel'no, to, chto napisal
dlya  nego  Bulat  SHalvovich  Okudzhava.  I  stanet  spravedlivej,
miloserdnee, i pravil'nej.


     Potomu i syplet pervyj sneg.
     V Ierusalime nebo blizko.
     Mozhet byt', i korotok nash vek,
     no ego ne vycherknut' iz spiska.


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Last-modified: Sat, 23 Aug 1997 09:42:16 GMT

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