From the author In December 2010, the international conference “Merab Mamardashvili: contribution to the development of philosophy and culture” was held at the Institute of Philosophy of the Russian Academy of Sciences. I was invited to the third day of the conference to share my memories. This is not the first time I’ve tried to “share”: when N.V. Motroshilova published the book “Merab Mamardashvili”, I was at the presentation at Moscow State University and also tried to say something, although I have long understood: oral memories, “touches to the portrait” are a hopeless matter. Our long, thirteen-year relationship does not fit into any regulations, and the listeners are different. Five or six familiar faces, some knew Merab before me, worked with him; For those who are younger, he is already a legend, but the conference participants probably read his books, maybe listened to recorded lectures, and some just dropped in at random - what if they tell you something interesting? They still need to explain who I am, why I’m here... About ten years ago I wrote a short article about Merab for the magazine “The Art of Cinema”. It was called “The School of the Impossible,” and later I included it in the collection “Don’t Tell Mom,” in the series of memoirs “Evenings of Memory.” On those seven pages, full of omissions and hints, I tried, distancing myself from myself, to talk about Merab - professor, lecturer, about his influence - undoubtedly - on those students, graduate students of VGIK and students of the Higher Courses for Scriptwriters and Directors who flocked to the crowded audiences, brought friends, and sometimes recorded his leisurely speech on tape recorders. My article turned out to be crooked and hunchbacked, and I promised myself then that I would write one day without regulations - everything in a row, everything I remember, I understood or I will never understand. Now the “someday” has come - it’s time, it’s time to write everything down before the addresses and dates are forgotten, and let well-read scientists find the touches for portraits here, and let other, non-scientists, read the uninvented plot for a women’s novel