Yuri Valentinovich Trifonov was born in 1925 in Moscow; His childhood was held in the famous Grey House of the government opposite the Kremlin, and later in his drive, he will give the name "house on the boardwalk." From the Government House, after his parents were arrested, he was exiled with his grandmother and sister. He worked as firemen, Volochilshhikom tubes, Gvozdilshhikom-that is, laborer. And it was a dream to go to the Literary Institute, become a writer. The dream came true, he became an outstanding writer, but not because he entered the go and finished it, but because, in all his essence, he was a writer. The writing gene was very early in it: at nine, he was already "writing" adventure and science fiction, and in the twenty-five he wrote the tale "students." At the beginning of the Fifties there was no educational institution, no library, no matter where this news was discussed. Despite some stamps, a tribute to the time and the youth of the author, she had a deafening success.
But the real Glory came after the publication of the documentary "The Glow of the fire" and the "Exchange", and then every new thing Trifonova became an event. Publications in the magazines read overnight. Photographed (the Xerox was not there), even handwritten. His books have been translated into all the languages of the world, because they are perennial topics: love, loneliness, bitterness of incomprehension, fear of death … And all the majata and the futility of our then life in the country of the Soviets. What is called a "household" is a word that, as a label 'em to his prose then official criticism. Like being a base, a disgrace. They did not like it, those critics, they referred to it as the "Procrustean of the welfare", "on the Side of life", etc.
The circulation of his books was, in those times, ridiculously small, and the secretaries of the Writers ' Union published millions. His last novel, the novel about the destiny of the generation-"time and place," was stuck in the word: afraid to publish.
And there were pages on the table of the other novel-the provocateur Azefe, but in fact he was going to write a novel about how the Bolsheviks came to power. I was going to … And I realized that there was a wall in front of him-it won't be printed again.
And when he realized it, he died. 28 March 1981, aged 55 years. He died in a hospital bed, in a poor hospital, as many Russian writers died.
He was tall, big, slow, he said always slowly, he knew the story, he loved and regretted people, especially the old ones, and at the same time he was able to mark funny and petty traits in people. A wonderfully witty story; So do you. Not spared. I loved friends and knew how to be friends; Replied to all the letters, collected stamps (since childhood, when all the boys were collecting stamps); And in fact, with all the seriousness and even the mrachnovatosti appearance, there was a lot of it from the boy. A boy from a good family, although sometimes in some circumstances affected me the ability to give a hard (almost criminal) response to belongs and hooliganism.
He loved dogs and gniloglazyh kittens, easily forgiven people, helped aspiring writers, and hated literature officials. He didn't even hide his, kind of arrogant, defiance. But the unlucky was treated castle respectfully and with caution.