Russia (bbabo.net), - A strange pattern: the more nonsense and absurdities go on outside the window, the more often and louder talk about intelligence, and especially about artificial intelligence, is heard from everywhere. So I, among other listeners, was awarded a whole program on a popular radio station, where the head of the corresponding department of the largest bank discussed intelligence (including artificial intelligence). Within a few minutes of the airtime, the highly paid leader showed a complete lack of understanding of what he was entrusted with.
The speaker's natural intelligence also left much to be desired.
Meanwhile, back in the mid-sixties of the last century, the journalist magazine published a programmatic article by Anatoly Agranovsky's izvestin, entitled “Let's Think”. The proposal of a wonderful journalist, of course, applied not only to colleagues and was dictated by the dominance in newspaper practice of that time of cliches, fluency of words, approximation, inability and unwillingness to look at what you are writing about in a new way, to get to the bottom of not only the essence of what happened, but and up to regularities.
Now, looking at what is happening in our today's professional workshop, I will note: if something has changed since then, it is rather for the worse. In any case, all the current talk about artificial intelligence successfully demonstrates the deficit of natural intelligence. So the centenary of Anatoly Agranovsky should be celebrated widely and make the date a day of independent reflections. Since real intelligence - natural or artificial - is distinguished by independent, not borrowed thought. Well, you have to start somewhere.
At that distant time, I - a student of the Faculty of Journalism of the Ural University - began with a book.
On a sunny October day, I walked along the main street of the then Sverdlovsk. I had the scholarship I had just received in my pocket, and I was in high spirits. In this mood I taxied to the newsstand, behind the glass of which I found a small book from the Izvestia library. The book was called "The Frontier of Reliability". The author's surname seemed familiar to me. Part of the scholarship received was taken out, and the book lay in the pocket of my raincoat.
Very soon I found an unoccupied bench under a lilac bush, sat down, opened a book and ... two hours later I woke up absolutely shocked and happy. I apologize to people who are anxious about the biblical scripture, but now I would compare myself, sitting on a bench under a lilac bush, with Moses, who received the tablets of the Covenant. I understood what I need to learn and what is the meaning of the profession, the basics of which I have been sadly and mediocrely comprehending.
The author of the book was the journalist of Izvestia Anatoly Agranovsky.
Since that day, I have not missed a single of his publications, read all Agranovsky's books available to me, shamelessly tried to imitate him in my obscure notes, and in the end took the topic of the diploma "The Agranovsky Dynasty of Journalists". I even got my nerve and wrote a letter to my idol in Izvestia asking him to answer my questions. After a while, the dean of the faculty summoned me and handed me a branded envelope from lime with a smile. My heart was pounding somewhere near my throat, I hastily opened the envelope and took out a piece of paper with a neat and beautifully flowing handwriting. Anatoly Abramovich Agranovsky invited me to visit, to his home on Lomonosovsky Prospekt. Hooray!
“Don’t flatter yourself,” the wise dean said to me, “most likely the matter is not in you, but in the fact that you set out to write about the dynasty, therefore, about his father too. Few people write about Abram Davidovich Agranovsky now. Most likely this is what Anatoly Abramovich liked.
Now I think that it was so. Well, then the Faculty of Journalism went to unimaginable expenses and ordered me a business trip to Moscow. I arrived at the house on Lomonosovsky Prospekt an hour before the time appointed for me (firstly, I was afraid to be late, and secondly, I had to collect my thoughts again and again so as not to lose my face in the mud). Although, well, what thoughts are there! Today, to be honest, I am ashamed of that arrogant student ...
The door was opened by Anatoly Abramovich himself. He smiled, gently shook hands, reasoned with the small dog, which barked disapprovingly at me. This is our favorite mongrel, - he introduced the dog, - called Johnny. And then he shouted somewhere deep in the apartment: Galya, we have a guest! Galina Fyodorovna, his wife, appeared in the hallway. With a constant smile, care and charm. In short, I was treated kindly, provided with slippers and sent after Anatoly Abramovich to his office, where we sat down in armchairs against the wall, separated from each other by a small coffee table.
I pulled out my notebook with twenty questions, which I already knew by heart, and wiped the perspiration from my forehead ...He talked wonderfully about his father, about what he learned from him. He spoke about himself modestly, with discernible irony. At some point, I asked him how he himself defines the genre in which he works - an essay or an article? What do you think? he asked back. In my opinion, an article, - I blurted out. It seemed to me that he was upset, a shadow ran across his face. But then Galina Fyodorovna came in just in time and ordered: so, immediately wash your hands and have dinner!
None of my assurances that I already ate today had any effect. Anatoly Abramovich and I dipped spoons into the borsch, and Galina Fedorovna, probably noticing that I still can't come to my senses, began to tell rather funny stories about my idol. The idol, meanwhile, silently smiled and squinted like a cat on a heap.
In the evening, when all my questions were asked and the answers were received, I asked him: Anatoly Abramovich, could you give me some professional advice, otherwise I am leaving to work in the Far East and I don’t know when I’ll come to Moscow next once...
He smiled, thought a little and said: you don't have to be a fool, Yura. Don't write about corn, even if everyone else is writing about it. Find the strength to put down your pen and not participate in the "common company", no matter how difficult it may be for you to do it.
... On April 14, 1984, I found myself in Moscow. Came from Novosibirsk, where he worked as a correspondent for "Komsomolskaya Pravda". And upon arriving, I learned that "the outstanding Soviet journalist Anatoly Agranovsky has died today."
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