The meaning of the lyrics of the song "Medical history" (Istoriya bolezni) the performer of the song "Vladimir Vysotsky"

Suddenly, as if plunged into darkness,

The portraits and doctors all fade,

The heat from me flowed like

From a blast furnace, untamed.

I felt a wicked cunning rise -

Charged like a battering ram, -

And the orderly barely shielded

The X-ray viewing screen from harm.

And - blood in my throat, unstoppable tide -

Enough to flood all of Russia wide, -

And - cries: "Get him on the table, quick!

Anesthesia! Make it stick!"

I was healthy, strong as an ox,

Healthy as two oxen, in fact -

Any passerby, at peak hour's flux,

I could have knocked flat on their back.

You'd be walking along, humming a tune -

Engaging in friendly discourse,

Suddenly: "On the table, you loon!

Driven mad, of course!"

"There's no need for panic, my friend," -

The doctor, a tad more polite, -

"Almost everyone here, in the end,

Has a medical history to recite."

They packed my neck with ice so cold -

Frantic, they ripped at my shirt, -

I grinned with a mouth bold and red,

Like a jester putting on a flirt.

To myself I cried: "Poison them all! -

And I puffed up my chest with might.-

"In your stagnant blood, I will make you fall,

Someone will meet their end tonight!"

I could have, if not for their watchful eyes,

Drenched the whole earth in crimson flow, -

Pity they managed, in the nick of time,

A copper basin to slide below!

My own cries I no longer perceived,

My sister's face, a blur in the fray, -

Then a sweet gas into me weaved,

Like vodka at the break of day.

A colorful shroud then concealed the hall

And the faces of doctors so stern, -

But to them, I still managed to call

That my mind was perfectly fern!

Weakening, twitching, once more I attacked, -

But needles they jabbed in my skin,

And poured artificial blood back -

The kind that won't gush from within.

"Surgeon, before you're under the spell,

Rack your brains, give it some thought -

Words of import, I've yet to tell -

Listen closely, this can't be bought.

Cut with God's grace, with a prayer above,

And even more boldly, I say,

These lines are not about your kind of love,

But about other doctors, come what may!

I lay at the bend of existence's bend,

Halfway down the abyss's dark throat, -

And my entire story, until the very end,

Is a medical history, take note.

I awoke - stitches lined my weary form,

The nurse by my side, spoon in hand.

All the doctors addressed me with respect, warm,

And I, in return, was polite and grand.

"No getting up, no walking about.

Thank your lucky stars you're alive!"

I could easily while away the hours, no doubt,

In this place, where time seems to strive.

I'd lie here and watch the world go by,

Without any social demands -

My constitution, still a bit shy,

For thrills of a more demanding brand.

The first man himself was filled with gloom -

Though he hid it deep inside his heart -

And the Creator, too, felt a touch of doom

When He first created our world, right from the start.

All of humanity, from that day on,

Has suffered from aches and pains untold -

And its entire history, every bygone dawn,

Is a medical history, as we've been told.

All humanity, for ages now,

Has been chronically ill, it's true -

From the day of creation, somehow,

Destined to suffer, me and you.

You shouldn't be sad, don't you fret -

The doctor, even kinder now, did impart -

For the whole country's history, haven't you heard yet?

Is but a medical history, close to my heart.

The sick world lives on, ever so bold,

Ever more wicked, useless, and cold -

And revels in its own story untold -

A medical history, as we've been told.

Вдруг словно канули во мрак

Портреты и врачи,

Жар от меня струился как

От доменной печи.

Я злую ловкость ощутил -

Пошел как на таран, -

И фельдшер еле защитил

Рентгеновский экран.

И - горлом кровь, и не уймешь -

Залью хоть всю Россию, -

И - крик: "На стол его, под нож!

Наркоз! Анестезию!"

Я был здоров, здоров как бык,

Здоров как два быка, -

Любому встречному в час пик

Я мог намять бока.

Идешь, бывало, и поешь -

Общаешься с людьми,

Вдруг крик: "На стол его, под нож!

Допелся, черт возьми...

"Не надо нервничать, мой друг, -

Врач стал чуть-чуть любезней, -

Почти у всех людей вокруг

Истории болезней".

Мне обложили шею льдом -

Спешат, рубаху рвут, -

Я ухмыляюсь красным ртом,

Как на манеже шут.

Я сам себе кричу: "Трави! -

И напрягаю грудь.-

"В твоей запекшейся крови

Увязнет кто-нибудь!"

Я б мог, когда б не глаз да глаз,

Всю землю окровавить, -

Жаль, что успели медный таз

Не вовремя подставить!

Уже я свой не слышу крик,

Не узнаю сестру, -

Вот сладкий газ в меня проник,

Как водка поутру.

Цветастый саван скрыл и зал

И лица докторов, -

Но я им все же доказал,

Что умственно здоров!

Слабею, дергаюсь и вновь

Травлю, - но иглы вводят

И льют искусственную кровь -

Та горлом не выходит.

"Хирург, пока не взял наркоз,

Ты голову нагни, -

Я важных слов не произнес -

Послушай, вот они.

Взрезайте с богом, помолясь,

Тем более бойчей,

Что эти строки не про вас,

А про других врачей!.

Я лег на сгибе бытия,

На полдороге к бездне, -

И вся история моя -

История болезни.

Очнулся я - на теле швы,

Медбрат меня кормил.

И все врачи со мной на "вы",

И я с врачами мил.

"Нельзя вставать, нельзя ходить.

Молись, что пронесло!"

Я здесь баклуш могу набить

Несчетное число.

Мне здесь пролеживать бока

Без всяческих общений -

Моя кишка пока тонка

Для острых ощущений.

Сам первый человек хандрил -

Он только это скрыл, -

Да и создатель болен был,

Когда наш мир творил.

У человечества всего -

То колики, то рези, -

И вся история его -

История болезни.

Все человечество давно

Хронически больно -

Со дня творения оно

Болеть обречено.

Вы огорчаться не должны -

Врач стал еще любезней, -

Ведь вся история страны -

История болезни.

Живет больное все бодрей,

Все злей и бесполезней -

И наслаждается своей

Историей болезни.

In the poem "Medical History," Vladimir Vysotsky addresses the theme of universal human vulnerability and the transience of being, using the metaphor of illness.

The lyrical hero of the work finds himself on the operating table, experiencing acute, almost manic sensations. He is full of energy, comparing himself to a bull, but this energy takes on a destructive character: "I could, if it weren't for all the eyes, Drench the whole earth in blood."

The surgery becomes a metaphor for the collision of man with the inevitability of fate, with his own limitations. The hero, being on the verge of life and death, realizes that his story is not unique: "Almost all people around Have medical histories."

The doctor, initially perceived as an adversary ("the paramedic barely shielded the X-ray screen"), becomes a symbol of mercy and understanding: "Don't be nervous, my friend, - The doctor became a little kinder."

After the operation, the hero, weakened and dependent, comes to a philosophical understanding of his experience. He sees parallels between his own fate and that of all humanity: "The very first man felt blue - He only hid it well, - And the creator himself was ill, When he created our world."

The medical history of an individual turns into the medical history of all mankind, doomed to suffering, illness, and death. In the finale of the poem, bitter irony sounds: humanity, despite its "chronic illness," continues to live, "angrier and more uselessly," enjoying its own painful history.