Victor Pelevin has created a dialectical dream-world: two opposing dreams contained within each other, dreamed by the same protagonist. In one, he suffers the traumas and excitements of the Russian Revolution. In the other, after the collapse of the Soviet Union, he undergoes therapy for "split false-personalities" and loss of memory. He attempts to find himself, or Russia as the case may be, in both dreams.听
"The Russian people realised very long ago that life is no more than a dream," says one of the characters in Buddha's Little Finger, thus establishing the allegory about Russia half-way through (it would have been far more helpful on page two). The two dream-searches touch on milestones of literature, philosophy, psychology, art, religion, and history, with the occasional empathetic experience of other personal histories thrown in. Complicated? Not half.
In one dream, the educated aesthete, Pyotr, high on cocaine and very bad vodka, gets caught up in the Russian Revolution. By luck and pluck he escapes the Checka secret police and assumes the identity of a sometime friend he has murdered. He embarks on a military train-journey to an indeterminate destination in the East as political commissar in a cloud of socialist, idealist propaganda. Wounded heroically in a battle of which he remembers nothing, he recuperates in a mountain village which is remote from the conflict. 听 Pyotr's revolutionary life takes place in a kind of masquerade in which various roles are being played out. The Master of Ceremonies for this production is Chapaev, part Commander in the Red (or White, depending on circumstances) Army, part sorcerer, part philosopher, part spirit-guide. Chapaev is a master at solipsism as well as dialectics and can argue any point from any angle. He supplies stability and then snatches it away. "What I have always found astounding is the starry sky beneath our feet and Immanuel Kant within us," he says with obvious irony.
The other dream-Pyotr, the one institutionalised and under therapy, can't remember his name much less his past. He is "infected with the bacillus of insanity that has invaded Russia" during the Revolution. He undergoes "turbo-Jungian therapy" in the asylum, an attempt to recover the meaning of lost symbols. He is also injected with drugs that provoke hyper-empathetic responses to the tales his fellow patients tell about themselves in group sessions.
The symbols being recovered include those of the Revolution itself - class, history, consciousness, disciplined thought - which exist in Pyotr's unconscious as reality. But there are quick-fire references to the 'new' world: Nabokov's Lolita, TV soap operas and block-buster movies. Arnold Schwarzenegger, CNN, and Harrier Jump Jets are the featured symbols from another patient. Donald Trump even gets an allusive reference in "You're fired." Remarkable for a book published in the year 2000. Things are somewhat chaotic, but as his psychiatrist observes, "Russia cannot be grasped by logic."听
Therapy is interrupted through a blow by a fellow-patient using a plaster bust of Aristotle. Their argument had been about alternative metaphysical accounts of dreams. This throws Pyotr back into the Revolution on his train to the East. Rationality gives way to mysticism. Chapaev resumes command and continues Pyotr's dialectical education. Oxymorons like "lascivious chastity" abound. Women are goddesses and the source of all evil. G. B. Shaw's syllogistic aphorism about progress depending on the unreasonable man is transformed into one dependant upon scoundrels.
Throughout the book, time is malleable, as is identity, memory and space - that is, all the Kantian categorical certainties. The two dreams leak into one another, confirming that there is one protagonist. But none of the personae, or names, Pyotr adopts as either revolutionary or patient is authentic. Ultimately there is nothing behind the eyes. What sort of person, after all, is possible within the context of Russian history of the last century?
To say that Pyotr's dream-worlds signify the "inner drama of Russia," as one character puts it, verges on the trivial. But what else is there to say? That Russia and its inhabitants are neurotic after their self-inflicted totalitarian nightmare is inevitable. The inevitability arises from the nature of a revolution grounded in rationalist principles, principles which are then further used to rationalise mass killing and incarceration. To admit that faith in rational thought - including its forms in literature, art and history - is just as dangerous and just as anti-human as faith in religion feels like death to an intellectual... or for that matter to a democrat.
Hitting the buffers of human thought - not just in logic but in practice - is bound to dismay anyone. For someone educated in thought itself, philosophy, the continuing trauma in Russia must be acute. Educated residents of the United States - the other rationalist country - are only feeling a tiny fraction of this trauma with the election of Donald Trump. But they share the fear of an authoritarian nostalgia and the basic issues are the same: How did it all go wrong? Can anything about the social world be trusted? Can anything prevent the persistent self-delusion of human beings?
When neither thought nor faith is reliable, one of the few paths left is humour in one form or another. Humour, especially if it's about philosophy, is a risky business. Some might take Pelevin as making a philosophical point through his fictional survey of thought. I don't think this is wise. Such a stance certainly wouldn't help to understand the text, which if anything throws suspicion on all thought, even its own. The point of comedy, I think, is to have a chuckle, in this case at oneself and the unstable character of everything about oneself.
It is hilarious, and it makes you feel giddy, dizzy, confused, almost weightless, and slightly nauseous and disoriented.
Well, I think 鈥淩oller Coaster鈥� would have been a great title for this wondrous novel, even though I eventually managed to understand both the British publisher鈥檚 choice of 鈥淭he Clay Machine Gun鈥�, and the American title 鈥淏uddha鈥檚 Little Finger鈥�. Basically, those two titles mean the same thing, just viewed from different perspectives. Yes? Clear? If not, don鈥檛 worry. This is my fourth Pelevin novel, and despite loving his writing immensely, I have only managed small glimpses of fleeting understanding so far.
Why?
Because that is his overarching topic. Who are we? How do we know that? Is there any proof for us that we are real? If so, what is reality and is there any meaning underneath the random nonsense we call life?
Trying to sum up the story must turn into a complete failure, as the moment it makes sense, I must have misunderstood something. But vaguely speaking, it is about a character who moves around in a shifting historical context, between the Russian revolution and the post-Soviet era in Russia. He meets different characters, all of which have a dreamlike appearance, and he also seems to be locked into a madhouse. He definitely has brutal nightmares, and is encouraged to write them down. They all revolve around the question of the place of an individual human being within his own consciousness and the universe, and feature a fictionalised Schwarzenegger, a Japanese businessman who convinces another man to commit seppuku, gangsters taking drugs and turning violent after finding the path to an 鈥渆ternal high鈥�, a failed love story, and a journey to a very peculiar kind of Underworld, where warriors wait to be reborn, some of them in less than perfect incarnations: as bulls for meat production, partly because that is part of their journey, and partly because of Russia鈥檚 need for meat. Metaphysical and practical aspects covered in one simple nightmare.
There is a red thread through the loosely knitted psychedelic adventure, though.
Human beings long for knowledge. They want to know where they come from, and understand their historical roots. They want to know how they are perceived by others, and how their own minds work. They want to be able to divide the world into reality and fiction, dream and conscious thought. The fact that they fail at their endeavour most of the time does not stop them from continuing to question their existence: through dialogue, action, literature, art and violence.
Even when they detect a nonsensical pattern, they prefer to continue living within it, rather than being in a void - a deliberate wordplay, as that is the main character鈥檚 name: Voyd.
When the confusion is almost unbearable, a fleeting moment of clarity feels like salvation:
鈥淚 experienced the same feeling I had several minutes earlier - I felt as though I were on the verge of understanding something extremely important, that any moment now the levers and cables of the mechanism that was concealed behind the veil of reality and made everything move would become visible. But this feeling passed, and the enormous white elephant was still standing there in front of us.鈥�
He almost got to see what Pelevin called in another of his mind-boggling stories, a huge machine generating a reality that the machine is part of itself.
It may not sound so, because I am inept at describing the roller coaster ride properly, but it is an incredibly funny book, poking at political and religious nonsense with a dark streak of sarcasm. The description of Russian Christianity in analogy to Stalinist reality is hilarious: the choice you have is between labour camp (hell, obviously), if you are a dissident free-thinker, or blind worship of Stalin (heaven, sort of) if you are an orthodox communist. The poor characters are left pondering on the lose-lose of their religious/political life.
Underneath the confusing plot, and the sarcastic jokes, there are philosophical questions and reflections on historical processes which I enjoyed a lot, often making me laugh out loud. I was quite grateful that I had read quite recently, as it made me understand (ha!) what I didn鈥檛 know (eh?) on a theoretical level.
I doubt that I have made a convincing case for this novel, but that is entirely my fault, and I highly recommend it, along with his equally hilarious , which looks at human identity from the angle of creepy crawler metamorphosis.
One of my favourite books of all time. A mind-blowing, orgiastic blend of Buddhist philosophy and Russian humour, with so much depth you could read it a hundred times and still miss something. I only wish my Russian were good enough to allow me to read it in the original and understand the many allusions to modern Russian life. Even in translation, this is a work on consummate genius, and it's astonishing that Pelevin isn't better known in the West.
In a word: horrible. In two: disastrously horrible. I have a dubious advantage to read this book in Russian - Pelevin's mother tongue (and mine too). Its original title is "Chapaev and Pustota" (Chapaev is a famous Soviet commander of Civil War-period and Pustota, the surname of protagonist, means "emptiness" or "void" in Russian). Here Chapaev is a boddhisatva (well, sort of) who preaches to Pyotr Pustota - decadent poet and a patient of asylum runned my mysterious doctor Kanashnikov. Not only Pelevin's knowledge of indo-buddhist mysticicsm and philosophy is very superficial and weak but worse, he uses this theme only to add "philosophical depth of non-eurocentrist variety" to his otherwise plain and primitive novel. It's like playing with the words: oh, it seems that all these oriental terms (satori, ajiva, moksha, etc.) are really trendy. So it's time to use them in my brand new novel (even though I don't really understand their meaning). Yes, "Chapaev and Pustota" is a showy amalgam of narcotics, deviant sex, florid catchphrases, burlesque anecdotes and philosophical pretensions. But does this make it a good novel? Obviously not. For example, heroes are so one-dimensional that their "wise" dialogues look very affected. Full of pseudo-philosophical meditations and "hard-boiled" writing style "Chapaev and Pustota" is a very appropriately named book, because not only "emptiness" and "void" are meanings of "pustota" in Russian, but also vacuousness and frivolousness. It's a real catastroph when something from mainstream pop culture pretends to be "intellectual" and "original". And this is a case of this book.
Wow. This is one messed up book. It鈥檚 not typical messed up. It is screw-with your-head messed up. And it鈥檚 messing-with-novelistic-conventions (which I typically love) messed up.
When I started writing my first novel, Death by Zamboni, I had only one original intention in mind. To break every single convention of fiction writing that I could think of. I approached it from a comedic perspective and had fun with it. It鈥檚 also a satire, of course, of commercialism and 鈥渆ntertainment,鈥� as it turned out and as such is often intentionally didactic. That鈥檚 about all I can claim in common with Buddha鈥檚 Little Finger, which is also often didactic, but in quite grim and oddly fascinating ways.
BLF (not to be confused with your BFF) is a tale split between two realities, both featuring the same main character. In one case, our hero, Pyotr Voyd (note the name, as in Void) kills a man who is about to turn him in as an anti-red during the 1919 Russian Civil War and then finds himself accidentally mistaken for the man he killed. He continues the ruse in order to escape detection and ends up becoming a heroic soldier with the Bolshevik army on the front lines. The other reality features our hero as a schizophrenic in a mental hospital in 1990鈥檚 Moscow. He slips from one reality to the other as in a dream, and he is unable to distinguish which is 鈥渞eal.鈥� This dialogue between the two halves is a rather didactic demonstration of the Buddhist dictum that life is but a dream.*
The problem with this structure is, of course, that it doesn鈥檛 鈥減rove鈥� anything. It鈥檚 a literary technique. And as such has no greater weight than, say, Twilight proves the existence of vampires. It does make for an intriguing story, however, and the time travel effect allows for interesting symbolic juxtaposition of the communist war and the present decadence and poverty of Russian society.
Another didactic element used throughout the book is the Socratic dialogue. Many conversations in the book come across as debates about the nature of reality rather than as believable conversation. The most common sentence in the book is, 鈥淲hat do you mean?鈥� (in various forms) in order to allow some character or another to expound a philosophical belief. Fortunately, the writing is solid, and the philosophy is fascinating so he manages to get away with it to my mind. And I appreciate his bravado at breaking the rules. Did I love it, though? No. The Buddhist philosophy strewn throughout this book was not very comforting. In fact, I found this to be a deeply sad and lonely book. It portrays a cold existence for our narrator. Some critics seem to find humor in the story, but for me, except for a brief moment or two, it was primarily bleak.
But the novel has stayed with me. BLF has a surreality to it that lingers in disturbing and creepy ways. It managed to get under my skin. Despite feeling forced at times, despite being didactic and in some ways misrepresentative of Buddhism, Pelevin captures the underlying sadness and absurdity of life. For that, along with the outstanding writing, I salute you.
*I note here that I have strong Buddhist leanings myself. There are many sects within Buddhism. Some of which are purely philosophy-focused, others being somewhat more religious in nature. And each variant has a different focus and or approach to what Buddhism means. Life being 鈥渁 dream鈥� is not necessarily a global Buddhist belief. Some Buddhist鈥檚 would say that there is nothing to believe at all. Other Buddhist beliefs discussed herein are even less accepted globally, such as the existence of limbo and reincarnation. Although Tibetan Buddhists believe in reincarnation, most Buddhists do not.
Weird, deeply weird. Multiple storylines, interludes from other points of view, philosophy and history all rolled into one. The main character, Pyotr Voyd (the name is no accident), is in a present-day mental hospital, but he's also living a life in early-20th century Russia as an associate of Chapaev (an actual historical figure). Or is that just Pyotr's delusion? Does he need to be cured or does the rest of the world?
I'm not much for philosophy, and I admit that my knowledge of Russian history is spotty, but I enjoyed this book immensely. It prompted me to read a little about the Russian sense of humor and their liking for jokes in the form of anecdotes. Not something I would have expected to end up learning about! This one isn't really for linear thinkers, but if you're willing to give yourself up and go for the ride even when it gets absurd, I think you'll find it rewarding.
Recommended for: Buddhists, amateur philosophers, fans of stories within stories.
Quote: "As I grew older, I came to understand that the words 'to come round' actually mean 'to come round to other people's point of view,' because no sooner is one born than these other people begin explaining just how hard one must try to force oneself to assume a form which they find acceptable."
I'm not ashamed to admit when I don't "get" a book. I'm a pretty smart cookie for the most part - I finished school, got a degree, read a bunch, like to learn things and have discussions - but when something is beyond me I don't like to pretend that it must be cool just because I didn't get it. This is one of those books that people have raved about since it came out. They say things like, "It's not an easy book, but..." and they imply that if you don't "get it" then you must not be very smart or very hip. But then they can't really talk to you about the book either. I used to work with a guy like that. I'll bet he loved this book. I'll bet he even talked to me about this book and I tuned him out by repeating Stab, stab, stab over and over in my head until he moved on to someone or something else.
I know a little about Buddhism. I know a little more about philosophy. I know even a little more about Russian history; I know who Vasily Chapaev was. Put them all together in one book, throw in a little Arnie Schwarzenegger and you have Buddha's Little Finger. I'm not saying that Victor Pelevin is completely full of shit. Some parts of his book were actually very interesting. But as a whole, complete with tripping on mushrooms, it was all just uninteresting. Some books and some writers get off on spewing out this pseudo-philosophical swill (Tom Robbins, Jostein Gaarder) but it never does much for me. It makes me sad to have to add Pelevin to this list of fauxlosophers, and I'll do my best to at least give him one more chance to turn my head around before casting him to that ring of my personal Inferno.
And for those of you who read this and "totally got it", well, then... bully for you.
Knjiga koja je uticala na moje pona拧anje i vi膽anje sveta (samo dok sam je 膷itao). Trebalo bi biti strpljiv, svaki detalj koji se katkad 膷ini kao potpuno bizaran, nalazi svoj izvor negde u nastavku knjige. Hronologija radnje je odli膷na, i trebalo bi vi拧e pisaca istra啪ivati Peljevinov storytelling. I za kraj, kao 拧to Peljevin ka啪e : "Jedina prava ruska knji啪evna tradicija je pisati dobre knjige na na膷in kako to jo拧 niko nije radio."
Postmodernizam. Ruski postmodernizam. Bio je to ringi拧pil.
Roman po膷inje pronadjenim tekstom/spisom i koji obja拧njava tekst koji slijedi poslije njega. I tu se ve膰 postavljaju pitanja koja su klju膷na u romanu. Roman prati Petra Prazninu koji 啪ivi u Rusiji 90-ih godina i koji zavr拧ava u ludnici (to saznajete tek na kraju jer nemate blage veze 拧ta se radi bar do polovine, ali tek na kraju mo啪da saznate 拧ta se de拧ava). U ludnici se ve膰 nalaze tri bolesnika Volodin, Marija (mu拧ko) i Serdjuk i mi pratimo njihove epizode.
E sad, ono 拧to Peljevin radi jeste da postavlja pitanje stvarnosti. 艩ta je stvarnost? I time roman gradi na iluziji. To otkrivamo u epizodama Petra Praznine, kada on diskutuje o praznini i stvarnosti sa 膶apajevim. Ali Peljevin to radi tako majstoriski. Prelaze膰i iz stvarnosti u stvarnost, odnosno iz iluziju u iluziju pomo膰nu snova, ludila i opojnih sredstava (kao i medicinskih pomagala) on stvara roman iliuziju. U tom romanu gubite osje膰aj za stvarno i nestvarno. Osje膰ate se kao glavni junak koji tek na kraju dolazi do spoznaje jer na kraju sam govori da se on zapravo sve vrijeme kre膰e postranstvom, ali prostranstvo en postoji 拧to zna膷i da se on kre膰e unutar samog sebe. Odnosno, ono o 膷emu se govori jeste 膷injenica da je stvarnost subjektivna. Da je ona ilizija svakog pojedinca. Kao 拧to to 膶apajev ka啪e votka je votka, ona postoji sama od sebe ali joj 膷ovjek daje oblik.
膶ak i kroz epizode ostalih bolesnika vi gledate stvar Petrovim o膷ima. Onda se postavlja pitanje da li su bolesnici stvarni ili su oni samo plod Petrovog bolesnog uma?
Roman je, uprkos gunguli stvarnosti i iluzijama, nevjerovatno 膷itko napisan. Izuzetno lagan stil. Veoma se brzo 膷ita (s tim 拧to je moja malenkost zbog potreba ispita, roman zavr拧ila na srpskom jer prevod ima 50 strana manja; to 膷ini svu razliku). U romanu se jo拧 i povla膷e pitanja postsovjetskog 膷ovjeka, onoga koji je pre啪ivio teror i raspad komunizma i koji se na拧ao u novoj stvarnosti, te tako stvara svoju. 膶ak i na samom kraju romana (koji se zavr拧ava relativno cikli膷no) ne zna se da li je to zaista realni svijet koji je osoba stvorila ili je to samo jo拧 jedna od epizoda Petra Praznine.
膶apajev i praznina je najpoznatiji roman ruskog pisca Viktora Peljevina, a smatra se i jednim od najboljih svjetskih romana s po膷etka tre膰eg milenijuma. Svaki poku拧aj prepri膷avanja ovog izrazito slojevitog i ozbiljnog djela je uzaludan. Mene je uvodnom atmosferom podsjetio na Majstora i Margaritu zbog 膷ega sam predosjetila da 膰e dalje 膷itanje biti mu膷no i nisam se mnogo prevarila. Daleko od toga da Peljevin nije kvalitetan. Naprotiv, malo je pisaca u 膷ijim djelima se stalno pro啪imaju razli膷ito mjesto i vrijeme, samim tim i radnja, u kojima ne postoji jasna granica izme膽u sna i jave, apsurda i logike, ludila i razuma uz istovremeno konstantno preplitanje sovjetske istorije i svjetske stvarnosti.
Pjotrs Tuk拧ums no vienas puses ir t膩ds k膩 dzejnieks, kas ir 拧o to sav膩 dz墨v膿 sasniedzis, ta膷u Oktobra revol奴cija vi艈am ir piesp膿l膿jusi iesp膿ju k募奴t par krievu liel膩k膩 misti姆a 膶apajeva l墨dzgaitnieku. Tai pat laik膩 eksist膿 ar墨 k膩ds cits Pjotrs Tuk拧ums, kas atrodas trako m膩j膩 un gudri cilv膿ki izmanto vi艈u savos p膿t墨jumos. Kur拧 tad ir re膩lais Pjotrs un vai visp膩r ir iesp膿jams b奴t re膩lam pasaul膿? St膩st膩 autors ir paman墨jies ievietot da啪膩das realit膩tes, te ir Pjotrs ar sav膩m revol奴cij膩m, Marija, kuru smagi ietekm膿jusi Balt膩 nama ap拧aude, Serdjuks ar savu 墨patn膿jo skat墨jumu uz jap膩艈u kult奴ru un Volodins, kur拧 zina ce募u uz m奴啪墨go kaifu. Katrs no vi艈iem b膿g no realit膩tes k膩 nu m膩k.
Ja man 拧墨 gr膩mata b奴tu 墨si j膩noraksturo, tad:
>鈥淏iedri str膩dnieki! 鈥� 艩odien, Biedri, Es redz膿ju 幕e艈inu! Urr膩!鈥�
K膩 cilv膿kam, kas b膿rnu dien膩s zin膩ja simtiem anekdo拧u par 鈥淧e姆ku un 膶apajevu鈥�, mani uzrun膩ja gr膩matas nosaukums vien. Nevar teikt, ka 拧墨 bija pirm膩 reize, kad lasu darbu par realit膩tes pamatu 拧姆ietam墨bu un veco labo ideju, ka pasaule ir tikai tas, k膩 m膿s to uztveram, un m奴su pa拧u uztveres interpret膩cija ir katra pa拧a iek拧膿j膩s pasaules iek拧膿j膩 lieta. Bet 拧墨 noteikti bija pirm膩 reize, kad es to las墨ju kontekst膩 ar Oktobra revol奴ciju un PSRS p膿c-sabrukuma gadiem. Nav jau nek膩ds br墨nums, ka Pjotram n膩kas b膿gt no revol奴cijas, protams, nekad nav skaidrs, no kuras uz kuru vi艈拧 ir 墨sti aizb膿dzis. Bet tas jau ar墨 nemaz nav svar墨gi, cilv膿ks pats izv膿las laiku un vietu, kur膩 vi艈拧 dz墨vo, gr膩mata ir tikai veids k膩 to las墨t膩jam un Pjotram to pav膿st墨t.
Ja god墨gi, tad es samelotos, ja apgalvotu, ka izpratu gr膩matu piln墨b膩 visos sl膩艈os, v膿l vair膩k 鈥� diez vai es vi艈us visus pat sp膿ju identific膿t. Liel膩k膩 da募a atsau膷u uz klasisko literat奴ru dro拧i vien man pag膩ja gar膩m, toties par Iek拧膿jo Mongoliju gan es 拧o to biju dzird膿jis. Visp膩r man 拧姆ita, ka visa 拧墨 gr膩mata ir t膩ds sajaukums no 鈥淕枚del, Escher, Bach: An Eternal Golden Braid by Douglas R. Hofstadter鈥�, 鈥淟ielo paties墨bu mekl膿jumi by Edgars Imants Sili艈拧鈥� un Lobsang Rampa darbu idej膩m. 艩墨 nav no t膩m gr膩mat膩m, kuru es skrietu ieteikt visiem. 9 no 10 ball膿m.
The 1001 list says "The Clay Machine-Gun" but when I typed the title here at goodreads what came out was this. If I didn't finish reading the book, I would have been flummoxed by this change from a machine-gun to Buddha's finger (indeed, briefly, I was, except that I quickly remembered that the clay machine-gun here supposedly contained Buddha's finger which, when fired, makes things disappear).
Anyway, despite the buoyancy I enjoyed while drinking bubbly San Miguel beer (the best beer in the world) and the remembrance of my philosophy subjects during my college years, this book proved to be too deep for me to wade in that I sank and drowned.
With scenes alternating between Russia at the time of Lenin and Russia after the break up of the USSR (in both, Russians lived a "life of shame and desolation" because of the "bacillus of insanity that has invaded the country") metaphors, allegories, allusions, symbolisms abound with a lot of big talks about heavyweight topics like life, death, God, consciousness, existence, self-identification, dreams, time, eternity, immortality, body, soul and Arnold Schwarzenegger.
What, you may ask, is Arnie doing here? Well, he symbolizes the Imperial USA--a country with a split personality. The title of the film is not mentioned here but Arnie in this novel is apparently the Arnie we knew from the movie Terminator--in the scene where his face was revealed as half-human and half-robot. The half that is human (the benign USA) smiles and you see his boyishness with a quality "between mischief and cunning, a guy who will never do anything bad." The other half (the Imperial USA) is "cold, focused and terrifying."
The "secret freedom" of the Russian intellectual reminded me of another book I enjoyed, Martin Amis' "Laughter and the Twenty Million" and I do not know who stole the idea from whom. Then a quote reminded me of some leaders my country has had:
"Why does any social cataclysm in this world always result in the most ignorant scum rising to the top and forcing everyone else to live in accordance with its own base and conspiratorially defined laws?"
I was hoping to find chess here, since that is Russia's favorite sport, but didn't find any.
Vor 25 Jahren gelesen, unmittelbar nachdem es im literarischen Quartett besprochen wurde, 眉brigens zusammen mit Houellebecqs Ausweitung der Kampfzone, den ich noch schneller verschlungen habe. Zu dem Zeitpunkt hatte ich von beiden Autoren vor dem literarischen Quartett noch nie etwas geh枚rt. Der eine Houellebecq wurde einer meiner Lieblingsautoren von dem ich ab da alles, bis auf einzelne Gedichtb盲nde, gelesen habe.
An den Inhalt hab ich kaum noch Erinnerung nur an meine Begeisterung f眉r diese neue Art der Literatur, die magischen Realismus oder 鈥濨rutalismus鈥� weit ins Surreale vorantreibt, Zeit f眉r ein ReRead.
After hearing so much about this novel (and having enjoyed Pelevin in the past), I have to say I was slightly underwhelmed? The best way to describe it is it's a philosophical fever dream - so much of it feels like complete delirium, but there is also a lot of meaning to all of it. It's a blend of history, drama, Russian humor, philosophy, and Buddhism. See what I mean? Delirium. It's interesting, certainly unique, and conceptually fascinating. The big issue I had was that when it comes to it's themes and philosophy it's actually very repetitive. Part of it is that the story deals with the lead character slowly understanding the truth about his existence and the world around him, but after about a third of the novel it generally repeats a lot of the same concepts. I will also say that the Russian Revolution timeline was a lot more interesting to me than the psychiatric hospital in the 90s. But overall I really enjoyed the novel, and it's been on my mind ever since I finished it.
Quite simply an amazing novel written by a virtuoso writer. Pelevin ranges easily into the mystical without ever straining this reader's credulity. It's as if he knows his way around. Maybe he does.