The meaning of the lyrics of the song "Diagnosis" (Diagnoz) the performer of the song "Vladimir Vysotsky"

On the wall, bearded men hung in frames -

All with eyeglasses on chains, pince-nez, as they're called by the folk -

They all discovered something, they all invented vaccines,

So if I'm not dead, it's all their fault.

The doctor said: "You are ill," -

And I started to shake,

And the cardiac lamp

Smiled from the wall,-

This is not a cell - it's a ward,

This is not a dock, but a bench,

Not a suspect, guys,

But a subject am I!

And although I'm covered in ailments, for some reason I'm not afraid -

Let's sign it without looking, the medical protocol!

I know Sklifosovsky, the founder of the institute,

I'm acquainted with comrade Botkin - he invented jaundice.

In my position,

Only a fool would claim his rights:

If the doctor gets angry,

He'll put me away in the "yellow house".

Everything in this house depends

On yourself alone:

You want to - you can become Budyonny,

You want to - his horse!

My brains don't go beyond reason - take my word for it -

I ask a loaded question, that is, I'm looking for a fight:

"If, for example, Kashchenko went to Pirogov for treatment -

Pirogov wouldn't cut Kashchenko open without a reason..."

But the doctor is no fool either -

He's cunning and cautious.

"Yes, you are right, but a reverse

Course of events is possible,"- he says.

Here's a ward with five beds,

Here's the professor entering the door -

He points a finger: "Paranoid,"-

And just try to prove him wrong!

It's good that you, luminaries, are all hanging on the wall -

I'm behind you, my dears, like behind a stone wall,

I rely on Vishnevsky, I trust in Burdenko -

They will confirm that I'm not mentally, but spiritually ill!

My family is strong - I take after them,-

Although, my great-grandfather was blind;

My brother-in-law is quick-tempered,

But a brother-in-law is not a relative!

"Doctor, we're here face to face -

So answer me, be quick:

Will it be a diagnosis for me,

Or will it be - a sentence?"

And the doctors, and the orderlies, and the luminaries all became flustered,

The light from the window set behind my back,

And the eyeglasses on the chain seemed to be covered with moisture,

The cheeks of the father of jaundice suddenly turned white.

And the point hovered,

And the paper tensed up -

The doctor acted for the best,

It's a pity - not for my best,-

But it was not a feather the steel pen -

It pierced my chest like a stiletto:

My diagnosis - paranoia,

This means - a couple of years!

На стене висели в рамках бородатые мужчины -

Все в очечках на цепочках, по-народному - в пенсне,-

Все они открыли что-то, все придумали вакцины,

Так что если я не умер - это все по их вине.

Доктор молвил: "Вы больны",-

И меня заколотило,

И сердечное светило

Ухмыльнулось со стены,-

Здесь не камера - палата,

Здесь не нары, а скамья,

Не подследственный, ребята,

А исследуемый я!

И хотя я весь в недугах, мне не страшно почему-то,-

Подмахну давай, не глядя, медицинский протокол!

Мне известен Склифосовский, основатель института,

Мне знаком товарищ Боткин - он желтуху изобрел.

В положении моем

Лишь чудак права качает:

Доктор, если осерчает,

Так упрячет в "желтый дом".

Все зависит в этом доме оном

От тебя от самого:

Хочешь - можешь стать Буденным,

Хочешь - лошадью его!

У меня мозги за разум не заходят - верьте слову -

Задаю вопрос с намеком, то есть, лезу на скандал:

"Если б Кащенко, к примеру, лег лечиться к Пирогову -

Пирогов бы без причины резать Кащенку не стал..."

Но и врач не лыком шит -

Он хитер и осторожен.

"Да, вы правы, но возможен

Ход обратный",- говорит.

Вот палата на пять коек,

Вот профессор входит в дверь -

Тычет пальцем: "Параноик",-

И поди его проверь!

Хорошо, что вас, светила, всех повесили на стенку -

Я за вами, дорогие, как за каменной стеной,

На Вишневского надеюсь, уповаю на Бурденку,-

Подтвердят, что не душевно, а духовно я больной!

Род мой крепкий - все в меня,-

Правда, прадед был незрячий;

Шурин мой - белогорячий,

Но ведь шурин- не родня!

"Доктор, мы здесь с глазу на глаз -

Отвечай же мне, будь скор:

Или будет мне диагноз,

Или будет - приговор?"

И врачи, и санитары, и светила все смутились,

Заоконное светило закатилось за спиной,

И очечки на цепочке как бы влагою покрылись,

У отца желтухи щечки вдруг покрылись белизной.

И нависло острие,

И поежилась бумага,-

Доктор действовал на благо,

Жалко - благо не мое,-

Но не лист перо стальное -

Грудь проткнуло, как стилет:

Мой диагноз - паранойя,

Это значит - пара лет!

Vladimir Vysotsky's poem "Diagnosis" is a satirical depiction of hospital life and the doctor-patient relationship, where the fear of the system and its arbitrariness comes to the fore.

The lyrical hero, being in the hospital, feels not like a patient, but rather like a person under investigation ("This is not a cell - it’s a ward, not a bunk - but a bench"). He is ironic about the "luminaries of science" whose portraits hang on the walls, believing that it is to their discoveries and "vaccines" that he owes his current state.

The hero is not afraid of illness, he is afraid of being diagnosed, he is afraid of becoming a victim of a system that can declare him insane and imprison him in a "yellow house". He enters into an argument with the doctor, trying to prove his normality, appealing to logic and common sense ("If Kashchenko, for example, went to Pirogov for treatment - Pirogov would not cut Kashchenko without a reason...").

The ending of the poem is tragic. Despite all the hero's attempts to defend his position, the doctor diagnoses him with "paranoia", dooming him to "a couple of years" of imprisonment. The picture of the "paled" portraits of the "luminaries" and the comparison of the pen to a stiletto emphasize the hopelessness of the situation and the doom of the hero in the face of the system.