Main character Yevgeny Nosov's story "Living Flame", the writer himself, lived in a rented room in an old quiet house, where clean floors smelled cool, a jasmine bush outside the window cast shadows on the desk and braided it with lace. Aunt Olya rented a room, she lived alone. The room rented by the writer used to belong to Alyosha, her son, but he died in the war. He dived in his small plane onto the back of a heavy bomber belonging to the Germans. Alyosha's portrait still hung on the wall above the desk.

One day Aunt Olya called

Writer to help prepare her flower bed, and at the same time to ventilate and stretch her back. He raked the moisture-smelling earth with a rake, and a woman on a mound sorted flower seeds into varieties. The author was interested in why she does not plant poppies in the flower beds. But for Aunt Olya, poppies were a vegetable that was sown next to cucumbers and onions. You can't even call them flowers. They bloom for only two days, and then fall off. They lit up and immediately went out. And then the stems with boxes stand all summer long in the flowerbed and spoil the view, destroy the beauty of other flowers. Poppies were for Aunt Olya, thus, a symbol of meaninglessness and transience.

And yet the writer threw

A few seeds in the middle of the flower bed. A few days later, shoots appeared, among which were poppies. Aunt Olya noticed this, laughed at the mischief, weeded out some of the sprouts, and left a few stalks in the very middle.

Soon the author had to leave for two weeks. After a hard, stuffy road, it was nice to return home and drink cool kvass from a heavy copper mug, which, by the way, Aunt Olin's son loved so much. Then she took the writer to look at the flower bed, which they had planted together. Its edges were now bordered by a green carpet adorned with various colors. Yellow-blue pansies winked, night violets enchanted with their incredible, mysterious aroma. And in the very center of the flower bed, stretching their buds to the sun, ready to open their petals any moment, stood the poppies planted by the writer.

They opened up the next day. Now it was as if they were not flowers at all, but small lights with live tongues of hot flame fluttering in the wind. The sun pierced them with its light, like fiery arrows, and the petals seemed to lose their flesh, become transparent and flashed with scarlet fire, then filled with crimson color and went into shadow. Next to these lights, all other flowers faded, dimmed. For two days the fire spread over the flowerbed, burned everything around, warmed people with its warmth. And on the third it went out. Scarlet petals fell on the black earth, and the flower bed became faded and lifeless, empty. Light, brightness disappeared, leaving calm, aristocratic, full of charm pansies, matthiolas and snapdragons to live out their lives.

The writer took one petal, still soft, full of life, with a drop of dew gleaming on it, put it in his palm. Aunt Olya noted with surprise that she had not paid any attention to poppies before, did not notice how short, but bright their life is. They live in full force, without looking back - they caught fire, burned out and went out. It also happens to people - they live brightly, giving hope and love, and then they are burned, devoured by fire. And she left, hunched over, remembering her deceased Alyosha. Sorrow and sadness filled her soul, the association between the fire of poppies, which flared up so brightly and went out so quickly, and her son, who sacrificed his life and burned in the flames of war, was too strong.

The writer now lives on the other side of the city, but sometimes he visits Aunt Olya. Just recently I went to visit her again. We sat at the summer table, drank tea, shared the news. And the neighboring flower bed blazed with a poppy fire, a scarlet, luminous, bright flame. Some of the flowers were already crumbling, their petals covering the ground. Others were just opening their fiery petals. From below, new stems raised their buds.

The story draws a direct association between bright scarlet flowers and people whose life was bright, but ended so early and suddenly. So it was with all those who died in the war. So it was with Aunt Olya's son, Alyosha. Poppies in themselves carry the memory of all those people who did not return from the war. They serve as a living reminder, a monument that fills people's lives with fire and light.

Aunt Olya looked into my room, again caught me behind the papers, and, raising her voice, said commandingly:
- Will write something! Go get some air, help cut the flower bed. Aunt Olya took out a birch bark box from the closet. While I gladly kneaded my back, raking the damp earth with a rake, she sat down on a mound and poured sachets and bundles of flower seeds onto her knees and sorted them into varieties.
“Olga Petrovna, what is it,” I remark, “do you not sow poppies in flowerbeds?”
- Nu, what from poppies color! she answered confidently. - It's a vegetable. It is sown in the beds along with onions and cucumbers.
- What do you! I laughed. - In some old song it is sung:
And her forehead, like marble, is white. And the cheeks are burning, as if the color of poppies.
“It only blooms for two days,” Olga Petrovna persisted. - For a flower bed, this does not fit in any way, puffed and immediately burned out. And then all summer this mallet sticks out and only spoils the view.
But all the same, I secretly poured a pinch of poppy into the very middle of the flower bed. She turned green after a few days.
- Have you planted poppies? - Aunt Olya approached me. - Oh, you are such a mischievous! So be it, leave the top three, you felt sorry. And shed the rest.
Unexpectedly, I left on business and returned only two weeks later. After a hot, tiring road, it was nice to enter Aunt Olya's quiet old house. The freshly washed floor was cool. A jasmine bush growing under the window cast a lacy shadow on the desk.
- Pour kvass? she suggested, looking sympathetically at me, sweaty and tired. - Alyoshka was very fond of kvass. It used to be that he himself bottled and sealed
When I rented this room, Olga Petrovna, raising her eyes to the portrait of a young man in a flight uniform that hangs over the desk, asked:
- Not prevent?
- What do you!
- This is my son Alex. And the room was his. Well, you settle down, live on health.
Handing me a heavy copper mug with kvass, Aunt Olya said:
- And your poppies have risen, the buds have already been thrown away. I went to look at the flowers. The flower bed was unrecognizable. Along the very edge was spread a rug, which, with its thick cover with flowers scattered over it, very much resembled a real carpet. Then the flower bed was girded with a ribbon of matthiols - modest night flowers that attract not by brightness, but by a gently bitter aroma, similar to the smell of vanilla. Curtains of yellow-violet pansies were full of flowers, purple-velvet hats of Parisian beauties swayed on thin legs. There were many other familiar and unfamiliar colors. And in the center of the flower bed, above all this flower diversity, my poppies rose, throwing out three tight, heavy buds towards the sun.
They broke up the next day.
Aunt Olya went out to water the flower bed, but immediately returned, rattling an empty watering can.
- Well, go look, bloomed.
From a distance, the poppies looked like lit torches with live, merrily blazing flames in the wind. A light wind swayed a little, the sun pierced the translucent scarlet petals with light, which made the poppies either flare up with a quivering bright fire, or fill with a thick crimson. It seemed that if you just touched it, they would immediately scorch you!
Poppies blinded with their mischievous, burning brightness, and next to them all these Parisian beauties, snapdragons and other flower aristocracy faded, dimmed.
Poppies burned wildly for two days. And at the end of the second day, they suddenly crumbled and went out. And immediately on a lush flower bed without them it became empty.
I picked up from the ground still quite fresh, in drops of dew, a petal and straightened it in my palm.
“That's all,” I said loudly, with a feeling of admiration that had not yet cooled down.
- Yes, it burned down ... - Aunt Olya sighed, as if in a living being. - And somehow I used to pay no attention to this poppy. His life is short. But without looking back, lived to the fullest. And it happens to people...
Aunt Olya, somehow hunched over, suddenly hurried into the house.
I have already been told about her son. Aleksei died diving on his tiny "hawk" onto the back of a heavy fascist bomber...
I now live on the other side of the city and occasionally visit Aunt Olya. I recently visited her again. We sat at the summer table, drank tea, shared the news. And next to it, a large carpet of poppies was blazing in a flower bed. Some crumbled, dropping petals to the ground like sparks, others only opened their fiery tongues. And from below, from the damp, full of vitality of the earth, more and more tightly rolled buds rose up to keep the living fire from going out.

Aunt Olya looked into my room, again caught me behind the papers, and, raising her voice, said commandingly:

Will write something! Go get some air, help cut the flower bed. Aunt Olya took out a birch bark box from the closet. While I gladly kneaded my back, raking the damp earth with a rake, she sat down on a mound and poured sachets and bundles of flower seeds onto her knees and sorted them into varieties.

Olga Petrovna, what is it, - I notice, - you do not sow poppies in the flower beds?

Well, which of the poppies is the color! she answered confidently. - It's a vegetable. It is sown in the beds along with onions and cucumbers.

What do you! I laughed. - In some old song it is sung:

And her forehead, like marble, is white. And the cheeks are burning, as if the color of poppies.

It only blooms for two days,” Olga Petrovna persisted. - For a flower bed, this does not fit in any way, puffed and immediately burned out. And then all summer this mallet sticks out and only spoils the view.

But all the same, I secretly poured a pinch of poppy into the very middle of the flower bed. She turned green after a few days.

Have you planted poppies? - Aunt Olya approached me. - Oh, you are such a mischievous! So be it, leave the top three, you felt sorry. And shed the rest.

Unexpectedly, I left on business and returned only two weeks later. After a hot, tiring road, it was nice to enter Aunt Olya's quiet old house. The freshly washed floor was cool. A jasmine bush growing under the window cast a lacy shadow on the desk.

Pour kvass? she suggested, looking sympathetically at me, sweaty and tired. - Alyoshka was very fond of kvass. It used to be that he himself bottled and sealed

When I rented this room, Olga Petrovna, raising her eyes to the portrait of a young man in a flight uniform that hangs over the desk, asked:

Not prevent?

This is my son Alex. And the room was his. Well, you settle down, live on health.

Handing me a heavy copper mug with kvass, Aunt Olya said:

And your poppies have risen, the buds have already been thrown away. I went to look at the flowers. The flower bed was unrecognizable. Along the very edge was spread a rug, which, with its thick cover with flowers scattered over it, very much resembled a real carpet. Then the flower bed was girded with a ribbon of matthiols - modest night flowers that attract not by brightness, but by a gently bitter aroma, similar to the smell of vanilla. Curtains of yellow-violet pansies were full of flowers, purple-velvet hats of Parisian beauties swayed on thin legs. There were many other familiar and unfamiliar colors. And in the center of the flower bed, above all this flower diversity, my poppies rose, throwing out three tight, heavy buds towards the sun.

They broke up the next day.

Aunt Olya went out to water the flower bed, but immediately returned, rattling an empty watering can.

Well, go look, bloomed.

From a distance, the poppies looked like lit torches with live, merrily blazing flames in the wind. A light wind swayed a little, the sun pierced the translucent scarlet petals with light, which made the poppies either flare up with a quivering bright fire, or fill with a thick crimson. It seemed that if you just touched it, they would immediately scorch you!

Poppies blinded with their mischievous, burning brightness, and next to them all these Parisian beauties, snapdragons and other flower aristocracy faded, dimmed.

Poppies burned wildly for two days. And at the end of the second day, they suddenly crumbled and went out. And immediately on a lush flower bed without them it became empty.

I picked up from the ground still quite fresh, in drops of dew, a petal and straightened it in my palm.

That's all, - I said loudly, with a feeling of admiration that has not yet cooled down.

Yes, it burned down ... - Aunt Olya sighed, as if in a living being. - And somehow I used to pay no attention to this poppy. His life is short. But without looking back, lived to the fullest. And it happens to people...

Aunt Olya, somehow hunched over, suddenly hurried into the house.

I have already been told about her son. Aleksei died diving on his tiny "hawk" onto the back of a heavy fascist bomber...

I now live on the other side of the city and occasionally visit Aunt Olya. I recently visited her again. We sat at the summer table, drank tea, shared the news. And next to it, a large carpet of poppies was blazing in a flower bed. Some crumbled, dropping petals to the ground like sparks, others only opened their fiery tongues. And from below, from the damp, full of vitality of the earth, more and more tightly rolled buds rose up to keep the living fire from going out.

1) Features of the genre of the work. The work of E.I. Nosov "Living Flame" refers to the genre of the story. This is an epic genre of a small volume, which tells about one episode, an event from the life of a hero.

2) Themes and problems of the story. Evgeny Ivanovich Nosov belongs to the generation of those Russian writers of the 20th century who survived the war, endured all the hardships of wartime, therefore the theme of a feat, a life lived in an instant is especially relevant for him. The writer's story "Living Flame" tells about the too rapid flowering of poppies and the associations that arose in the main character of the work, Aunt Olya, who observes the bright, but short life of poppies.

How did you understand the words of Aunt Olya: “He has a short life. But without looking back, lived to the fullest. Does that happen to people too?" What did Aunt Olya remember when she said these words? (about his son Alexei, who died diving in his tiny "hawk" onto the back of a heavy Nazi bomber)

Why, from now on, did Aunt Olya give preference to poppies and plant them in a flower bed? (Poppies reminded Aunt Olya of her son.)

3) The meaning of the title of the story. E.I. Nosov called his story "The Living Flame". It was through the title of the work that the writer conveyed his attitude to the depicted and drew the reader's attention to key episode story. Describing the flowering of poppies, the author uses various artistic means: color epithets (“lit torches with live, merrily blazing flames in the wind”, “translucent scarlet petals”), unusual metaphors (“they flashed with a quiveringly bright fire, then they got drunk with a thick crimson”, “one has only to touch - they immediately scorch” ), capacious comparisons (“Poppies blinded with their mischievous, burning brightness, and next to them all these Parisian beauties, snapdragons and other flower aristocracy faded, faded”), The life of a flower is fleeting: “Two days poppies blazed violently. And at the end of the second day, they suddenly crumbled and went out. So short but full of strength Aunt Olya associates the life of the poppy with the fate of his own son Alexei, who "died diving on his tiny" hawk "on the back of a heavy fascist bomber." The title of the story is based on an unusual metaphor that characterizes not only the color of the poppy, red like fire, but also the very fast life of a flower, like a flame. The title contains the main meaning of the story of E.I. Nosov, his philosophical depth. The writer, as it were, invites the reader to think about the moral essence of life, to live brightly, not to be afraid of difficulties, to overcome circumstances. The author makes one strive not for a faceless existence, but for a life full of deep meaning.

How did you understand the meaning of the title of E.I. Nosov "Living Flame" (Poppies, like a flame, flared up quickly and burned out just as quickly.)

4) Artistic features story.

What did the poppies look like? (“on lit torches with live, merrily flames blazing in the wind”)

What artistic and expressive means does the author use in describing poppies? (epithets, metaphors: “translucent scarlet petals”, “flashed with a tremulously bright fire”, “filled with a thick crimson”, “blinded with their mischievous, burning brightness”, etc.)