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賷兀禺匕賰 丕賱賰丕鬲亘 丕賱賶 毓賵丕賱賲 賲囟鬲 賯亘賱 丌賱丕賮 丕賱爻賳賷賳 孬賲 賷毓賷丿賰 廿賱賶 丨丕囟乇賰 兀賵 賲丕囟賷賰 丕賱賯乇賷亘 噩丿丕 賷毓乇賾賮賰 兀賵 賷乇睾賲賰 毓賱賶 丕賱鬲毓乇賮 毓賱賶 賯氐氐 賵兀丨丿丕孬 鬲丕乇賷禺賷丞 賯丿 賱丕 鬲毓乇賮賴丕 賵睾丕賱亘丕 賲丕 鬲丨鬲丕噩 賰賯丕乇卅 賱賱亘丨孬 賵丕賱丕爻鬲賯氐丕亍 毓賳賴丕 賮賷 賯丕賲賵爻 兀賵 賲賵丕賯毓 丕賱亘丨孬 丨爻亘 賲丕 毓亘乇 毓賳賴 丕賱賲鬲乇噩賲
598 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 2005
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3026 people want to read
About the author
Mikhail Shishkin
26听books241听followersMikhail Pavlovich Shishkin (Russian: 袦懈褏邪懈谢 袩邪胁谢芯胁懈褔 楔懈褕泻懈薪, born 18 January 1961) is a Russian writer.
Mikhail Shishkin was born in 1961 in Moscow.
Shishkin studied English and German at Moscow State Pedagogical Institute. After graduation he worked as a street sweeper, road worker, journalist, school teacher, and translator. He debuted as a writer in 1993, when his short story "Calligraphy Lesson" was published in Znamya magazine. Since 1995 he has lived in Zurich, Switzerland. He averages one book every five years.
Shishkin openly opposes the current Russian government, calling it a "corrupt, criminal regime, where the state is a pyramid of thieves" when he pulled out of representing Russia at the 2013 Book Expo in the United States.
Shishkin's books have been translated into more than ten languages. His prose is universally praised for style, e.g., "Shishkin's language is wonderfully lucid and concise. Without sounding archaic, it reaches over the heads of Tolstoy and Dostoevsky (whose relationship with the Russian language was often uneasy) to the tradition of Pushkin." He deals with universal themes like death, resurrection, and love. Shishkin has been compared to numerous great writers, including Anton Chekhov, Vladimir Nabokov and James Joyce, while he admits to being influenced by Chekhov along with Leo Tolstoy and Ivan Bunin, saying "Bunin taught me not to compromise, and to go on believing in myself. Chekhov passed on his sense of humanity 鈥� that there can鈥檛 be any wholly negative characters in your text. And from Tolstoy I learned not to be afraid of being na茂ve."
Mikhail Shishkin was born in 1961 in Moscow.
Shishkin studied English and German at Moscow State Pedagogical Institute. After graduation he worked as a street sweeper, road worker, journalist, school teacher, and translator. He debuted as a writer in 1993, when his short story "Calligraphy Lesson" was published in Znamya magazine. Since 1995 he has lived in Zurich, Switzerland. He averages one book every five years.
Shishkin openly opposes the current Russian government, calling it a "corrupt, criminal regime, where the state is a pyramid of thieves" when he pulled out of representing Russia at the 2013 Book Expo in the United States.
Shishkin's books have been translated into more than ten languages. His prose is universally praised for style, e.g., "Shishkin's language is wonderfully lucid and concise. Without sounding archaic, it reaches over the heads of Tolstoy and Dostoevsky (whose relationship with the Russian language was often uneasy) to the tradition of Pushkin." He deals with universal themes like death, resurrection, and love. Shishkin has been compared to numerous great writers, including Anton Chekhov, Vladimir Nabokov and James Joyce, while he admits to being influenced by Chekhov along with Leo Tolstoy and Ivan Bunin, saying "Bunin taught me not to compromise, and to go on believing in myself. Chekhov passed on his sense of humanity 鈥� that there can鈥檛 be any wholly negative characters in your text. And from Tolstoy I learned not to be afraid of being na茂ve."
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 129 reviews
February 3, 2022
Probably it sounds too loud but I believe that Mikhail Shishkin is one of the best modern Russian writers 鈥� I鈥檝e read some really good contemporary Russian books but I鈥檝e read nothing so powerful as or Maidenhair.
Maidenhair is extraordinarily multilayered and global in its analysis of human relationships and of course its language is a rare treasure.
So simple 鈥� global truths are always simple. 鈥淎ll that鈥檚 mine I carry with me,鈥� so all our life experiences, our troubles and joys are always with us.
But in fact the novel is very complex 鈥� interlacing history and modern times, religion, philosophy and multifaceted reality Mikhail Shishkin builds a genuine Babel Tower of a book.
Man only becomes an individual when he is in an ethical rapport with the rest of mankind.
Maidenhair is extraordinarily multilayered and global in its analysis of human relationships and of course its language is a rare treasure.
Here everything is the same as of old.
The universe is expanding. The interpreter is interpreting.
You go home, but you can鈥檛 empty your head of all that transpired during the day. You鈥檝e brought it all home with you.
You just can鈥檛 rid yourself of those people and words.
So simple 鈥� global truths are always simple. 鈥淎ll that鈥檚 mine I carry with me,鈥� so all our life experiences, our troubles and joys are always with us.
But in fact the novel is very complex 鈥� interlacing history and modern times, religion, philosophy and multifaceted reality Mikhail Shishkin builds a genuine Babel Tower of a book.
For by the word was the world created鈥�
Man only becomes an individual when he is in an ethical rapport with the rest of mankind.
March 10, 2013
wow. for as arduous as mikhail shishkin's maidenhair (袙械薪械褉懈薪 袙芯谢芯褋) may have been to get into through the first hundred pages, its symphonic rewards are many. the russian writer's 2005 epic (the first novel the win all three of the nation's top literary prizes), is as unique as it is beautiful, and as elegantly composed as it is breathtakingly inclusive. difficult it would be to offer any sort of succinct synopsis of the story's plot, let alone a summary of shishkin's adept and enviable narrative structuring. even though the novel's four plot threads share some thematic elements (and stylistic differences), shishkin never forces them along nor deigns to make them interlink with one another. there is nothing demanding or laborious about maidenhair and claims to the contrary betray the tendencies of so many western readers to require a neat, tidy, cohesive, and linear storyline. there is beauty, there is horror, there is heartbreak, and there is hope, and shishkin's talent lies in their seemingly effortless synthesis. merging autobiographical elements (shishkin formerly served as an interpreter for asylum-seeking refugees in switzerland), historical accounts, mythological indulgences, and inventive storytelling, shishkin's novel is intricate and gratifying. maidenhair is an impressively animate work that inexplicably manages to contain all of the essential constituents of life. oh, and the prose! stunning, gorgeous passages abound:
presumably much more of mikhail shishkin's fiction will soon be forthcoming in english translation. andrew bromfield's (pelevin, akunin, lukyanenko) rendering of shishkin's epistolary novel, the light and the dark, is due out sometime this year from quercus.
*translated from the russian by marian schwartz (nina berberova, bulgakov, goncharov, et al.), whom in a translator's note for shishkin's short story, "calligraphy lesson," said: "translating shishkin means maintaining his virtuosic tension between complex detail and deeply felt emotion."
that's it exactly! minutes and years, all these are units unknown to life and signifying what there isn't. time is measured by the altered coloring of the horse that stretches its lips to the apple. time, like a sewing machine, sews that overheated dog's cage full of straw in a jagged line with the empty subway car and the forgotten notebook, the rustle of falling pencils out the window, and that sheet twisted in a knot. and here this book that's lying on the floor, that you can open right away to the last page and read how the weary travelers, as they endure all their trials, losing and gaining, despairing and believing, killing their feet and scratching their souls, coarsening to the touch and maturing to love, come to the end of their long journey, to the very sea, which is hung on a tautly drawn horizon by distant sails, like clothespins, and, bathed in tears, rush to embrace one another and shout something ridiculous, delirious with joy.and another:
it's good to be back in valentinovka after moscow! moscow left a strange impression: life is getting better, and you can feel it literally. they've cancelled ration cards, closed the humiliating trade syndicates, where people brought their teeth, there's plenty of food, more and more even, and the theaters and cinemas are packed. but everything else is as before. people are the same! the dneprovs boasted of their new swedish table and new radio. their home is a full cup. and they have all of it on view, just to cut a swath. milich sent the cook to eliseyev's, in front of her guests, to buy some cold pork for her pomeranian. afterward we were driving away and i saw out the window how poorly the women on the street were dressed and how everyone was carrying something, laden with some great weight: cans of kerosene, bags, sacks, baskets. they board the streetcars with their sacks. and look at me with envy and malice.
why does everyone hate each other and bend over backward to have something to boast of - apartments, fur coats, servants, lovers, autos, a fat, full life?
what if the punishment comes before death, not after?
presumably much more of mikhail shishkin's fiction will soon be forthcoming in english translation. andrew bromfield's (pelevin, akunin, lukyanenko) rendering of shishkin's epistolary novel, the light and the dark, is due out sometime this year from quercus.
*translated from the russian by marian schwartz (nina berberova, bulgakov, goncharov, et al.), whom in a translator's note for shishkin's short story, "calligraphy lesson," said: "translating shishkin means maintaining his virtuosic tension between complex detail and deeply felt emotion."
Read
December 1, 2016[....]
A few more I know are good and maybe you've not herd about them but maybe in a different kind of world you would've and but I haven't gotten to these myself but yes I'd really like to before too long but I have the same difficulty you do with that tbr ::
And I'm not even listing the stuff from Murty and from the LAL. Just what's sitting in my amazon=schoppenkart and what's been pub'd rather recently and gets (apparently) no attention but some majic=words regarding which have found their ways winging toward my ear's mouth. Seriously, if any of these books listed there suck, then I'm Kirk Cameron's uncle.
______________
Mikhail Shishkin鈥檚 Maidenhair is the type of novel that professors of Russian literature can hold up as a shining example in their classrooms that no, Russian literature is not dead (nor has it ever been), while those who might not know their Pushkin from their Shishkin can read and enjoy Maidenhair as a standalone work of literary brilliance; while at the same time the notoriously fickle American readers who might have read Anna Karenina when Oprah鈥檚 Book Club made their recommendation or stumbled upon and enjoyed Master & Margarita can sink their mindsteeth into Marian Schwartz鈥檚 incredible translation of Shishkin鈥檚 novel and marvel in the fact that Maidenhair harkens back to the great classic Russian novels of ideas in every way. --3%
There are, roughly, three narrative lines which structure the novel: in one, a nameless interpreter (Shishkin鈥檚 alter-ego), who works with asylum seekers in Switzerland, writes letters to his absent son, 鈥淣ebuchadnezzasaurus.鈥� In another, two voices of unknown or unstable identity engage in a series of questions and answers. In the last, a Russian singer named Bella Dmitrievna records her life, and most of the twentieth century, in diaries which the interpreter will eventually read when he attempts to write her biography. With these three strands, Maidenhair weaves its tangled braid, although contained within it are also a dizzying array of historical digressions, philosophical preoccupations, parables, letters, jokes, and literary allusions. --Quart=erly Con-versation
Day after day the Russian asylum-seekers sit across from the interpreter and Peter鈥攖he Swiss officers who guard the gates to paradise鈥攁nd tell of the atrocities they鈥檝e suffered, or that they鈥檝e invented, or heard from someone else. These stories of escape, war, and violence intermingle with the interpreter鈥檚 own reading: a his颅tory of an ancient Persian war; letters sent to his son 鈥淣ebuchadnezzasaurus,鈥� ruler of a distant, imaginary childhood empire; and the diaries of a Russian singer who lived through Russia鈥檚 wars and revolutions in the early part of the twentieth century, and eventually saw the Soviet Union鈥檚 dissolution.
Mikhail Shishkin鈥檚 Maidenhair is an instant classic of Russian literature. It bravely takes on the eternal questions鈥攐f truth and fiction, of time and timeless颅ness, of love and war, of Death and the Word鈥攁nd is a movingly luminescent expression of the pain of life and its uncountable joys. --is what the publisher, brave Open Letter, has to say.
"Most of the critics agree that 2005 will go down in the history of Russian literature as the year when Maidenhair, the new novel by Mikhail Shishkin, was published." 鈥擫iteraturnaya Rossia
"Maidenhair is a kind of book they give the Nobel prize for. The novel is majestic." 鈥擭ezavisimaya Gazeta
[the above two are blurbs provided by the kindness of the publisher.]
has translated several Major Important Russian Works. But, perhaps it is Maidenhair that will set her reputation. [my own conjecture]
Schwartz鈥檚 translation faithfully conveys the structure and intricacies of Shishkin鈥檚 novel, providing no more hints or signposts for the English-language reader than the author allows his native readership. The novel is built from a web of textual sources assembled so seamlessly that the subtlety of connections can, at times, flummox even the conscientious reader. Maidenhair does not explicitly differentiate descriptions of the 鈥渞eal鈥� world from secondhand stories. A detail from the protagonist鈥檚 life might appear alongside a line from a book he鈥檚 reading, suggesting that each has equal claim to the representation of some kind of reality. --World=Lit Today
Maidenhair seems like an unusual novel, first offering one thing then another, and certainly not offering some story with a nice arc from beginning to end. The protagonist is known only as 'the interpreter'. He lives in Switzerland and is employed as a translator for Russian-speaking asylum-seekers (and the occasional prisoner) when they deal with the authorities. Years earlier, when he was still living in Russia (where he was 'the teacher'), he had been hired by a publisher to write the biography of long-lived singer Bella Dmitrievna, born in Czarist Russia and surviving well past the downfall of the Soviet empire; the project collapsed, but long excerpts from her reminiscences and diaries -- the raw material he was to use -- are included in the novel. There are also the letters he writes to his son, whom he calls his Nebuchadnezzasaurus, as well as some episodes from his own life. --Komplete Review
["A- : what seems like an odd mix of narratives works together to surprisingly powerful effect "]
And more review links at that there complete review.
My final assessment is that for all of you who unlike me read to keep up with the Jones's and actually read more than one new=release per year [and for my purposes a new release is anything pub'd in the past FIVE years] you will want to read this here Maidenhair. As you have (knot) herd, everyone is (knot) talking about this novel ( which is certainly a better novel (because it is more of what a novel is than either the KOK or the Ferrante everyone is concerned about). Yes. I have a chip on my shoulder. But the evidence mounts that not only in the case of the OLD and BURIED but also in the case of the recently published, the BEST isn=ot what everyone is talking about. The BEST is still coming out of SMALL PReSSes with no budget to place reviews in prominent papers.
A few more I know are good and maybe you've not herd about them but maybe in a different kind of world you would've and but I haven't gotten to these myself but yes I'd really like to before too long but I have the same difficulty you do with that tbr ::
And I'm not even listing the stuff from Murty and from the LAL. Just what's sitting in my amazon=schoppenkart and what's been pub'd rather recently and gets (apparently) no attention but some majic=words regarding which have found their ways winging toward my ear's mouth. Seriously, if any of these books listed there suck, then I'm Kirk Cameron's uncle.
______________
Mikhail Shishkin鈥檚 Maidenhair is the type of novel that professors of Russian literature can hold up as a shining example in their classrooms that no, Russian literature is not dead (nor has it ever been), while those who might not know their Pushkin from their Shishkin can read and enjoy Maidenhair as a standalone work of literary brilliance; while at the same time the notoriously fickle American readers who might have read Anna Karenina when Oprah鈥檚 Book Club made their recommendation or stumbled upon and enjoyed Master & Margarita can sink their mindsteeth into Marian Schwartz鈥檚 incredible translation of Shishkin鈥檚 novel and marvel in the fact that Maidenhair harkens back to the great classic Russian novels of ideas in every way. --3%
There are, roughly, three narrative lines which structure the novel: in one, a nameless interpreter (Shishkin鈥檚 alter-ego), who works with asylum seekers in Switzerland, writes letters to his absent son, 鈥淣ebuchadnezzasaurus.鈥� In another, two voices of unknown or unstable identity engage in a series of questions and answers. In the last, a Russian singer named Bella Dmitrievna records her life, and most of the twentieth century, in diaries which the interpreter will eventually read when he attempts to write her biography. With these three strands, Maidenhair weaves its tangled braid, although contained within it are also a dizzying array of historical digressions, philosophical preoccupations, parables, letters, jokes, and literary allusions. --Quart=erly Con-versation
Day after day the Russian asylum-seekers sit across from the interpreter and Peter鈥攖he Swiss officers who guard the gates to paradise鈥攁nd tell of the atrocities they鈥檝e suffered, or that they鈥檝e invented, or heard from someone else. These stories of escape, war, and violence intermingle with the interpreter鈥檚 own reading: a his颅tory of an ancient Persian war; letters sent to his son 鈥淣ebuchadnezzasaurus,鈥� ruler of a distant, imaginary childhood empire; and the diaries of a Russian singer who lived through Russia鈥檚 wars and revolutions in the early part of the twentieth century, and eventually saw the Soviet Union鈥檚 dissolution.
Mikhail Shishkin鈥檚 Maidenhair is an instant classic of Russian literature. It bravely takes on the eternal questions鈥攐f truth and fiction, of time and timeless颅ness, of love and war, of Death and the Word鈥攁nd is a movingly luminescent expression of the pain of life and its uncountable joys. --is what the publisher, brave Open Letter, has to say.
"Most of the critics agree that 2005 will go down in the history of Russian literature as the year when Maidenhair, the new novel by Mikhail Shishkin, was published." 鈥擫iteraturnaya Rossia
"Maidenhair is a kind of book they give the Nobel prize for. The novel is majestic." 鈥擭ezavisimaya Gazeta
[the above two are blurbs provided by the kindness of the publisher.]
has translated several Major Important Russian Works. But, perhaps it is Maidenhair that will set her reputation. [my own conjecture]
Schwartz鈥檚 translation faithfully conveys the structure and intricacies of Shishkin鈥檚 novel, providing no more hints or signposts for the English-language reader than the author allows his native readership. The novel is built from a web of textual sources assembled so seamlessly that the subtlety of connections can, at times, flummox even the conscientious reader. Maidenhair does not explicitly differentiate descriptions of the 鈥渞eal鈥� world from secondhand stories. A detail from the protagonist鈥檚 life might appear alongside a line from a book he鈥檚 reading, suggesting that each has equal claim to the representation of some kind of reality. --World=Lit Today
Maidenhair seems like an unusual novel, first offering one thing then another, and certainly not offering some story with a nice arc from beginning to end. The protagonist is known only as 'the interpreter'. He lives in Switzerland and is employed as a translator for Russian-speaking asylum-seekers (and the occasional prisoner) when they deal with the authorities. Years earlier, when he was still living in Russia (where he was 'the teacher'), he had been hired by a publisher to write the biography of long-lived singer Bella Dmitrievna, born in Czarist Russia and surviving well past the downfall of the Soviet empire; the project collapsed, but long excerpts from her reminiscences and diaries -- the raw material he was to use -- are included in the novel. There are also the letters he writes to his son, whom he calls his Nebuchadnezzasaurus, as well as some episodes from his own life. --Komplete Review
["A- : what seems like an odd mix of narratives works together to surprisingly powerful effect "]
And more review links at that there complete review.
My final assessment is that for all of you who unlike me read to keep up with the Jones's and actually read more than one new=release per year [and for my purposes a new release is anything pub'd in the past FIVE years] you will want to read this here Maidenhair. As you have (knot) herd, everyone is (knot) talking about this novel ( which is certainly a better novel (because it is more of what a novel is than either the KOK or the Ferrante everyone is concerned about). Yes. I have a chip on my shoulder. But the evidence mounts that not only in the case of the OLD and BURIED but also in the case of the recently published, the BEST isn=ot what everyone is talking about. The BEST is still coming out of SMALL PReSSes with no budget to place reviews in prominent papers.
April 16, 2021
Peste 500 p, peste cinci stele de lectur膬. Fantastic roman, fantastic膬 lucrare. Tocmai m-am re卯mprietenit cu scriitorii ru葯i contemporani. Roman total: jurnal, interviu, proz膬 curg膬toare, proz膬 fragmentat膬, avangard膬, flux al con葯tiin葲ei.
Intens ca o partid膬 prelung膬 de sex, 卯ntrerupt膬 doar de partide de somn-le葯in. Un delir. O dorin葲膬 perpetu膬 de a poseda 葯i de a fi posedat, 卯nchis 卯n aceea葯i 卯nc膬pere cu iubirea, 卯ntr-un ora葯 str膬in.
Cartea este despre totul 葯i despre nimic. La un moment dat, conteaz膬 mai mult muzica frazelor dec芒t numele personajelor sau acurate葲ea informa葲iilor. Personajele se schimb膬 卯ntre ele. Suferin葲ele, ideile, tribula葲iile lor sunt inter葯anjabile. Cheie: nu v膬 str膬dui葲i s膬 urm膬ri葲i vreun fir. L膬sa葲i mintea liber膬 s膬 se delecteze cu ce dore葯te ea, citind...
Intens ca o partid膬 prelung膬 de sex, 卯ntrerupt膬 doar de partide de somn-le葯in. Un delir. O dorin葲膬 perpetu膬 de a poseda 葯i de a fi posedat, 卯nchis 卯n aceea葯i 卯nc膬pere cu iubirea, 卯ntr-un ora葯 str膬in.
Cartea este despre totul 葯i despre nimic. La un moment dat, conteaz膬 mai mult muzica frazelor dec芒t numele personajelor sau acurate葲ea informa葲iilor. Personajele se schimb膬 卯ntre ele. Suferin葲ele, ideile, tribula葲iile lor sunt inter葯anjabile. Cheie: nu v膬 str膬dui葲i s膬 urm膬ri葲i vreun fir. L膬sa葲i mintea liber膬 s膬 se delecteze cu ce dore葯te ea, citind...
April 1, 2012
Holy shit is this book amazing. I don't think there's any way I can accurately describe it, or explain what this book is *about.* The Q&A sections, the biography of the Russian singer, the story of the interpreter, all relate and reflect off of one another without every coming together to form a complete, singular whole. (At least not in my first reading . . . this is one of those books I want to read again. And again.)
If you don't believe me about the craziness of this, just check out the description Shishkin's agent uses on their website: .
"Synopsys
'Maiden鈥檚 Hair is a kind of book they give Nobel prize for 鈥� among many other prizes. Not surprising then that Shishkin earned the National Bestseller award'鈥� 鈥� this quote from Bookshelf Magazine is just a small fraction of praise the book has received in Russia, and rightly so. It is a brilliant novel that unquestionably belongs with the greatest works of Russian literature. It鈥檚 universal at its core 鈥� and not only because the action takes place across countries and historical epochs, virtually destroying boundaries. The whole novel is a metaphor of a resurrection of the soul 鈥� through the word. And through love."
Yeah. But seriously, this is going to blow people away when we bring it out this summer.
If you don't believe me about the craziness of this, just check out the description Shishkin's agent uses on their website: .
"Synopsys
'Maiden鈥檚 Hair is a kind of book they give Nobel prize for 鈥� among many other prizes. Not surprising then that Shishkin earned the National Bestseller award'鈥� 鈥� this quote from Bookshelf Magazine is just a small fraction of praise the book has received in Russia, and rightly so. It is a brilliant novel that unquestionably belongs with the greatest works of Russian literature. It鈥檚 universal at its core 鈥� and not only because the action takes place across countries and historical epochs, virtually destroying boundaries. The whole novel is a metaphor of a resurrection of the soul 鈥� through the word. And through love."
Yeah. But seriously, this is going to blow people away when we bring it out this summer.
November 17, 2017
Nothing less than extraordinary. Heartbreaking and exhilarating. Shishkin has a masters touch, a language virtuoso. The modernist flourishes are really something to marvel at. Modernist prose acrobatics aren鈥檛 supposed to be so evocative, so....emotional. I was moved beyond words. This will no doubt be considered among the classics of Russian literature.
January 21, 2014
When I started reading Maidenhair, I couldn't make any sense of it. After about 50 pages, I felt totally lost and went back to start over. I slowly sorted it out and started to enjoy the various characters and to feel, more than understand, their lives. Then a strange thing happened. I went away for two months and didn't take the book with me. Too big to carry around.
When I came home, I looked at the big book, thought about the troubles I had at the beginning and was hesitant to pick it up again. After another month or so, I took it up again and, shazam!! I had no trouble picking up the stories. (There are four of them.) I could still feel the suffering, the joy, the loss, the confusion of the characters. It was an incredible feeling. I thoroughly enjoyed this book.
There is no simple plot to follow. Three of the stories are largely in the mind and letters of the interpreter, who is a Russian ex-patriot working as an interpreter of asylum claims of would-be refugees in Switzerland. We hear, or see, his translations of various asylum seekers; we read letters to his estranged son; and, we follow him and his wife on a vacation that ends in marital breakup. We also read the diary of a young aspiring singer in Russia (and the early Soviet Union) during the first part of the 20th century. (The diary entries strike me as incredibly realistic, as though Shishkin had access to the diaries of a real person.) There is a great deal of sadness in all of this.
Shishkin has written a novel about human existence. It is about those usual subjects of Russian literature, war and peace (Tolstoy), crime and punishment (Dostoevsky) and love and death (Woody Allen). It is about the flow of time and the little time we have. It is about the little moments of joy and inspiration we have. It is also about our deep awareness of all of these in our day-to-day lives and our relationship to time. It is self-reflection turned inwards and outwards in the distorted mirror of our reality. It also comes out as another take on quantum theory.
"But now I understand that it's all so simple. Here you are writing this line now, while I'm reading it. Here you are putting a period at the end of this sentence, while I reach it at the very same time. It's not a matter of hands on the clock! They can be moved forward and back. It's a matter of time zones. Steps of the dial. Everything is happening simultaneously. It's just that the hands have gone every which way on all the clocks."
When I came home, I looked at the big book, thought about the troubles I had at the beginning and was hesitant to pick it up again. After another month or so, I took it up again and, shazam!! I had no trouble picking up the stories. (There are four of them.) I could still feel the suffering, the joy, the loss, the confusion of the characters. It was an incredible feeling. I thoroughly enjoyed this book.
There is no simple plot to follow. Three of the stories are largely in the mind and letters of the interpreter, who is a Russian ex-patriot working as an interpreter of asylum claims of would-be refugees in Switzerland. We hear, or see, his translations of various asylum seekers; we read letters to his estranged son; and, we follow him and his wife on a vacation that ends in marital breakup. We also read the diary of a young aspiring singer in Russia (and the early Soviet Union) during the first part of the 20th century. (The diary entries strike me as incredibly realistic, as though Shishkin had access to the diaries of a real person.) There is a great deal of sadness in all of this.
Shishkin has written a novel about human existence. It is about those usual subjects of Russian literature, war and peace (Tolstoy), crime and punishment (Dostoevsky) and love and death (Woody Allen). It is about the flow of time and the little time we have. It is about the little moments of joy and inspiration we have. It is also about our deep awareness of all of these in our day-to-day lives and our relationship to time. It is self-reflection turned inwards and outwards in the distorted mirror of our reality. It also comes out as another take on quantum theory.
"But now I understand that it's all so simple. Here you are writing this line now, while I'm reading it. Here you are putting a period at the end of this sentence, while I reach it at the very same time. It's not a matter of hands on the clock! They can be moved forward and back. It's a matter of time zones. Steps of the dial. Everything is happening simultaneously. It's just that the hands have gone every which way on all the clocks."
September 22, 2021
Mama used to say that when she was pregnant with me she had a craving for herring with grapes. Now I walk around Paris and inhale the smell of autos like a madwoman.
Maidenhair is a triumph of allusion and layering. It is a series of narratives which whisper in a call and response from within the detritus of history and across the sky like memory鈥檚 fireflies. I was routinely floored, occasionally lost鈥攚hich proved pleasurable as once bearings were established, the backtracking was a delight.
An interpreter works for the Swiss government, processing asylum claims. He writes to his son and explores the diaries of Soviet singer, one who鈥檚 fallen nearly intact from a Tolstaya story. The singer is the subject of a proposed biography and alas her caprice and suffering is a cruel counterpoint to the interpreter, who reminisces about a holiday in Rome, one where matters were peeled back, turning Wagnerian symbolism on its head and leaving one with little but anger and bad skin.
This was a jewel, one that likely demands a second reading.
Maidenhair is a triumph of allusion and layering. It is a series of narratives which whisper in a call and response from within the detritus of history and across the sky like memory鈥檚 fireflies. I was routinely floored, occasionally lost鈥攚hich proved pleasurable as once bearings were established, the backtracking was a delight.
An interpreter works for the Swiss government, processing asylum claims. He writes to his son and explores the diaries of Soviet singer, one who鈥檚 fallen nearly intact from a Tolstaya story. The singer is the subject of a proposed biography and alas her caprice and suffering is a cruel counterpoint to the interpreter, who reminisces about a holiday in Rome, one where matters were peeled back, turning Wagnerian symbolism on its head and leaving one with little but anger and bad skin.
This was a jewel, one that likely demands a second reading.
April 16, 2021
Maybe 4,5* - only because *Scrisorar* seems to have even better reviews... (or is it maybe because it is shorter? :D)
Not an easy book, but gorgeous. Kudos to Antoaneta Olteanu for the splendid translation!
Also, a lot (!!) of typos, but wth.
Conclusion: read Mihail 葮i葯kin! :heart emoji:
(No, I only drank coffee.)
Not an easy book, but gorgeous. Kudos to Antoaneta Olteanu for the splendid translation!
Also, a lot (!!) of typos, but wth.
Conclusion: read Mihail 葮i葯kin! :heart emoji:
(No, I only drank coffee.)
September 4, 2022
Oltre il postmoderno (verso il postrealismo?)
Capelvenere 猫 un grande e raffinato romanzo polifonico articolato su tre macro-storie, quella raccontata dall'interprete che traduce le parole dei migranti che arrivano in un ufficio svizzero, il diario della cantante lirica Bella Dmitrievna e quella di una coppia in crisi, tre storie che costituiscono la trama sulla quale si intrecciano i fili di un ordito ricchissimo espresso con una pluralit脿 di stili, generi letterari e citazioni davanti alle quali il lettore rischia di sentirsi come un guscio di noce in balia delle onde. Trovare la rotta diventa un imperativo per non affogare nelle pagine di Shishkin e seguire le voci dei personaggi 猫 la strada che pu貌 aiutarci ad entrare un po' alla volta in sintonia con il romanzo.
Si parla di guerra, di ricordi, di ricerca della bellezza e della felicit脿 e soprattutto 鈥� tema ricorrente dell'autore russo 鈥� dell'importanza della parola, del potere della narrazione. "Le persone diventano le cose che raccontano", dice uno dei protagonisti: le storie per essere vere, per esistere, devono essere raccontate. Non importa chi sia il narratore, non importa chi siano i personaggi, n茅 che le storie abbiano una logica o che si sviluppino secondo un andamento temporale preciso, perch茅 la parola permette anche di sfuggire alla tirannia del tempo ("liberi di ritornare in qualsiasi punto in qualsiasi momento. E la libert脿 pi霉 dolce 猫 la libert脿 di ritornare dove sei stato felice").
La parola diventa ancora pi霉 importante perch茅 non sappiamo vedere: "noi siamo ciechi dalla nascita, non vediamo niente e non riusciamo a cogliere il nesso degli eventi, l'unit脿 delle cose, come le talpe". Scrivere "perch茅 rimanga almeno qualcosa", perch茅 ci貌 di cui non si scrive 猫 condannato all'oblio. Scrittura quindi con funzione non solo di testimonianza ma anche salvifica, perch茅 le parole hanno il compito di traghettare i fatti verso "il mare dell'immortalit脿".
Links
Capelvenere 猫 un grande e raffinato romanzo polifonico articolato su tre macro-storie, quella raccontata dall'interprete che traduce le parole dei migranti che arrivano in un ufficio svizzero, il diario della cantante lirica Bella Dmitrievna e quella di una coppia in crisi, tre storie che costituiscono la trama sulla quale si intrecciano i fili di un ordito ricchissimo espresso con una pluralit脿 di stili, generi letterari e citazioni davanti alle quali il lettore rischia di sentirsi come un guscio di noce in balia delle onde. Trovare la rotta diventa un imperativo per non affogare nelle pagine di Shishkin e seguire le voci dei personaggi 猫 la strada che pu貌 aiutarci ad entrare un po' alla volta in sintonia con il romanzo.
Si parla di guerra, di ricordi, di ricerca della bellezza e della felicit脿 e soprattutto 鈥� tema ricorrente dell'autore russo 鈥� dell'importanza della parola, del potere della narrazione. "Le persone diventano le cose che raccontano", dice uno dei protagonisti: le storie per essere vere, per esistere, devono essere raccontate. Non importa chi sia il narratore, non importa chi siano i personaggi, n茅 che le storie abbiano una logica o che si sviluppino secondo un andamento temporale preciso, perch茅 la parola permette anche di sfuggire alla tirannia del tempo ("liberi di ritornare in qualsiasi punto in qualsiasi momento. E la libert脿 pi霉 dolce 猫 la libert脿 di ritornare dove sei stato felice").
La parola diventa ancora pi霉 importante perch茅 non sappiamo vedere: "noi siamo ciechi dalla nascita, non vediamo niente e non riusciamo a cogliere il nesso degli eventi, l'unit脿 delle cose, come le talpe". Scrivere "perch茅 rimanga almeno qualcosa", perch茅 ci貌 di cui non si scrive 猫 condannato all'oblio. Scrittura quindi con funzione non solo di testimonianza ma anche salvifica, perch茅 le parole hanno il compito di traghettare i fatti verso "il mare dell'immortalit脿".
Links
July 15, 2013
Well, after an honest effort I'm abandoning this book.
I can tell that there's a powerful story buried within the dazzling experimental writing, but my patience with experimental fiction is not what it once was. Decades ago I actually read all of Finnegans Wake along with several commentaries; now my reaction would be "Just tell the story why don't you?"
I'll trust better and more adventurous readers to enjoy Shishkin's undoubted brilliance, but at this point in my life books like this just feel to me like self-indulgent preening.
I can tell that there's a powerful story buried within the dazzling experimental writing, but my patience with experimental fiction is not what it once was. Decades ago I actually read all of Finnegans Wake along with several commentaries; now my reaction would be "Just tell the story why don't you?"
I'll trust better and more adventurous readers to enjoy Shishkin's undoubted brilliance, but at this point in my life books like this just feel to me like self-indulgent preening.
March 7, 2013
Contemporary Russian literature all too often falls into a ghettoized section of world literature that keep fans of translated and international literature from fully enjoying the best works of the last twenty years. One problem is a tendency for Western sources to focus on the political elements in a Russian text that inevitably denigrates the quality of the literature itself. At the same time, too many scholars of Russian literature place contemporary Russian literature into a different ghetto altogether, with the predominant sentiment in American universities being that great Russian literature died once upon a time with Bulgakov or Pasternak. This fact is, of course, 100% not true. Both of these problems keep Russian literature from its proper place in discussions of world literature. We appreciate so many of the Russian classics as above politics and existent outside of but wholly influenced by the passage of historical time, while their themes are inherently but subtly political as they discuss the contradictions and distortions in the daily realities of the Russian society that combine to make the stories so timeless and powerful.
Mikhail Shishkin鈥檚 Maidenhair is the type of novel that professors of Russian literature can hold up as a shining example in their classrooms that no, Russian literature is not dead (nor has it ever been), while those who might not know their Pushkin from their Shishkin can read and enjoy Maidenhair as a standalone work of literary brilliance; while at the same time the notoriously fickle American readers who might have read Anna Karenina when Oprah鈥檚 Book Club made their recommendation or stumbled upon and enjoyed Master & Margarita can sink their mindsteeth into Marian Schwartz鈥檚 incredible translation of Shishkin鈥檚 novel and marvel in the fact that Maidenhair harkens back to the great classic Russian novels of ideas in every way.
Since his first novel came out in 1994, Shishkin has won Russia鈥檚 three most prestigious literary prizes: the Russian Booker, the National Bestseller, and the Big Book. Despite his prodigious and award-winning talents, Maidenhair is his first novel published in English, and will be formally released on October 23, 2012 by Open Letter Books. Shishkin鈥檚 former day job was as an interpreter in Switzerland; and he splits his time these days between Zurich and Moscow 鈥� both facts play in to the characters in Maidenhair. He has previously taught for a semester at Washington & Lee University in Virginia, and is returning to the USA in spring 2013 to teach a seminar at Columbia and to give talks across the country relating to Maidenhair. The international nature of Shishkin himself plays in to the narrative structure of Maidenhair, as his characters inhabit positions across the globe and throughout history all at once; the 茅migr茅 Russian writer of the past has given way to the globalized Russian writer of the 21st century, wherein borders are insignificant, the author is at once entirely Russian and at the same time entirely a global citizen.
At its core, Maidenhair is a novel of ideas that reads like a 21st-century Tolstoy, concerned with the big questions of life, death, love, and everything in between:
Maidenhair is a novel that talks about the main things constantly: faith and spirituality; the importance of enjoying fleeting moments of beauty in the face of death; throughout, the quest for love, affection, and human ethics touches on every character, and make themselves apparent in philosophical dialogue, mythological references, and spiritual ruminations:
Maidenhair is at the same time, like the great works of Russian literature, above politics and timeless. Its narrative grace and the power of its ideas would feel every bit at home in literary salons alongside Tolstoy and Chekhov 1902, though it was written a full century later.
To discuss the plot of Maidenhair feels vulgar. It is hard to describe and seemingly banal. But as Zakhar Prilepin (another incredible contemporary Russian author who is awaiting his first published translation in America) discussed at a recent Read Russia event at Book Expo America, the plots of the greatest works of Russian literature are all exceedingly banal: young man kills a pawnbroker and an investigation follows; a young woman cheats on her husband with a young officer. What makes these stories original is not their plot but the presentation of the author鈥檚 ideas and their critiques of social mores that exist at once across the globe. So it is with Maidenhair. The plot is, in fact, rather banal; four narratives are interwoven throughout the novel: stories told by Russian refugees seeking asylum in Switzerland to a Russian interpreter working for the Swiss government; the interpreter鈥檚 trips to Italy and his subsequent estrangement from his wife and son; letters written by the interpreter to his son, addressing him as an emperor of a far-off made-up land, all starting out with, 鈥淒ear Nebuchadnezzasaurus!鈥� and incorporating elements of historical and mythological texts the interpreter is reading on his breaks from work; and diary entries written by an Isabella on whom the interpreter was supposed to write a biography, who the not-so-average Western reader might not know is the famous Russian singer of the first half of the 20th-century, Isabella Yurieva.
The interpreter is the only character that ties the four narratives together. The reader lives inside the nameless interpreter鈥檚 head, with the narratives combining throughout as a mixture of things that he is reading at the time (a lot of mythology and classical history), things he is working on (including the diary entries and the extensive Q&A sections with asylum-seekers), and things he is doing (trips to Italy, writing letters to his son). The style is confusing to discuss, but easy to read, because Shishkin repeats the themes of humanity鈥檚 interconnectedness throughout history and fate.
Rather than discuss the plot structure and the 鈥渁ction鈥� in the book, so as not to give away any of the brilliance in the text, it must be said that Maidenhair is a novel not to be understood (to use Shishkin鈥檚 own quote), but to be felt at every turn of the page, a novel to be processed as the narrative progresses, though the further you read, the less time matters, and you find yourself living inside a narrative world where everything is connected, and everything is happening all at once:
Shishkin has declared in Russian-language interviews that Maidenhair is a novel about everything, and in more recent novels he attempts to solve humanity鈥檚 crisis of life and death. Maidenhair is no different.
Everything in the book makes sense together, even when reading and the narrative shifts from the singer鈥檚 diary in the 1920s to the interpreter鈥檚 mystical Q&A session with a refugee to Rome and to letters, everything is connected to the greater whole of what Shishkin is attempting to create, an entire universe of beauty, of yearning for love, of life in the face of death, of the history in everything, all tied in to the much greater questions of God鈥檚 role in everything:
The title of the book is emblematic of Shishkin鈥檚 themes of God and love at the same time: maidenhair is a type of fern that grows wild in Rome, the Eternal City that plays such a central role in the novel. Yet in Russia, maidenhair is a house plant that cannot grow without human care and affection:
Even the epigraph to Maidenhair is so significant to the work that it deserves to be quoted, for it contains the essence of what Shishkin is up to:
The theme of the word is one of the big themes that recur throughout Maidenhair in each narrative, with the importance of the recorded dialogue in the interpreter鈥檚 mission or in the diary entries of Isabella. The themes are complex and deep, but the sentiments expressed in them, the emotion of the characters that come through in the text, are all human and completely relatable. The most important themes that are discussed throughout the work include God (faith and spirituality), fate (and the individual), time (and time/space), war (across time and history), history (or the power of memory), diaspora (especially interesting as Shishkin spends much of his time outside of Russia, yet remains a quintessentially Russian writer), intertextuality (as a narrative and rhetorical style, and for the novel鈥檚 use of text-in-text-in-text), Russia鈥檚 role in the world (and their view of themselves in the world), the role of art in human society (the power of beauty to transcend the mundane day-to-day), migration/immigration (and the connection to paradise myths), mythology (of all stripes), Rome (after all, it is the Eternal City, so emblematic of humanity鈥檚 Eternal Problems) . . . The list could go on forever, the themes are huge, the book is a page-turner, not in the sense of plot-twists, but in the sense that every page contains a new revelation.
May I make one recommendation to you, the future reader of this brilliant novel? If so, please be an active reader while you read this book: keep a pen in hand, Post-It notes at the ready, or your e-book highlighting function at the ready, because every single page in this book contains ideas encapsulated in perfect quotes that you will want to revisit, along with the entirety of the novel, time and time again.
Maidenhair is the first Russian book of the 21st-century to appear in English translation that can be truly counted as an instant classic in the broad field of world literature, capable of being taught in university classrooms and discussed in book clubs for centuries to come. Every individual, every emotion, every idea that humanity has ever generated and will forever generate is encapsulated in the 500 pages of Maidenhair. With its perfect combination of style and substance, Maidenhair might just be the book you鈥檝e been waiting your entire life to read.
Mikhail Shishkin鈥檚 Maidenhair is the type of novel that professors of Russian literature can hold up as a shining example in their classrooms that no, Russian literature is not dead (nor has it ever been), while those who might not know their Pushkin from their Shishkin can read and enjoy Maidenhair as a standalone work of literary brilliance; while at the same time the notoriously fickle American readers who might have read Anna Karenina when Oprah鈥檚 Book Club made their recommendation or stumbled upon and enjoyed Master & Margarita can sink their mindsteeth into Marian Schwartz鈥檚 incredible translation of Shishkin鈥檚 novel and marvel in the fact that Maidenhair harkens back to the great classic Russian novels of ideas in every way.
Since his first novel came out in 1994, Shishkin has won Russia鈥檚 three most prestigious literary prizes: the Russian Booker, the National Bestseller, and the Big Book. Despite his prodigious and award-winning talents, Maidenhair is his first novel published in English, and will be formally released on October 23, 2012 by Open Letter Books. Shishkin鈥檚 former day job was as an interpreter in Switzerland; and he splits his time these days between Zurich and Moscow 鈥� both facts play in to the characters in Maidenhair. He has previously taught for a semester at Washington & Lee University in Virginia, and is returning to the USA in spring 2013 to teach a seminar at Columbia and to give talks across the country relating to Maidenhair. The international nature of Shishkin himself plays in to the narrative structure of Maidenhair, as his characters inhabit positions across the globe and throughout history all at once; the 茅migr茅 Russian writer of the past has given way to the globalized Russian writer of the 21st century, wherein borders are insignificant, the author is at once entirely Russian and at the same time entirely a global citizen.
At its core, Maidenhair is a novel of ideas that reads like a 21st-century Tolstoy, concerned with the big questions of life, death, love, and everything in between:
鈥ere, in the trenches, people never talk out loud about the main thing. People smoke, drink, eat, and talk about trivial things, boots, for instance鈥� (251)
Maidenhair is a novel that talks about the main things constantly: faith and spirituality; the importance of enjoying fleeting moments of beauty in the face of death; throughout, the quest for love, affection, and human ethics touches on every character, and make themselves apparent in philosophical dialogue, mythological references, and spiritual ruminations:
Life is a string and death is the air. A string makes no sound without air. (150)
Maidenhair is at the same time, like the great works of Russian literature, above politics and timeless. Its narrative grace and the power of its ideas would feel every bit at home in literary salons alongside Tolstoy and Chekhov 1902, though it was written a full century later.
To discuss the plot of Maidenhair feels vulgar. It is hard to describe and seemingly banal. But as Zakhar Prilepin (another incredible contemporary Russian author who is awaiting his first published translation in America) discussed at a recent Read Russia event at Book Expo America, the plots of the greatest works of Russian literature are all exceedingly banal: young man kills a pawnbroker and an investigation follows; a young woman cheats on her husband with a young officer. What makes these stories original is not their plot but the presentation of the author鈥檚 ideas and their critiques of social mores that exist at once across the globe. So it is with Maidenhair. The plot is, in fact, rather banal; four narratives are interwoven throughout the novel: stories told by Russian refugees seeking asylum in Switzerland to a Russian interpreter working for the Swiss government; the interpreter鈥檚 trips to Italy and his subsequent estrangement from his wife and son; letters written by the interpreter to his son, addressing him as an emperor of a far-off made-up land, all starting out with, 鈥淒ear Nebuchadnezzasaurus!鈥� and incorporating elements of historical and mythological texts the interpreter is reading on his breaks from work; and diary entries written by an Isabella on whom the interpreter was supposed to write a biography, who the not-so-average Western reader might not know is the famous Russian singer of the first half of the 20th-century, Isabella Yurieva.
The interpreter is the only character that ties the four narratives together. The reader lives inside the nameless interpreter鈥檚 head, with the narratives combining throughout as a mixture of things that he is reading at the time (a lot of mythology and classical history), things he is working on (including the diary entries and the extensive Q&A sections with asylum-seekers), and things he is doing (trips to Italy, writing letters to his son). The style is confusing to discuss, but easy to read, because Shishkin repeats the themes of humanity鈥檚 interconnectedness throughout history and fate.
You just have to understand destiny鈥檚 language and its cooing. We鈥檙e blind from birth. We don鈥檛 see anything and don鈥檛 pick up on the connection between events, the oneness of things, like a mole digging its tunnel鈥� (268)
Rather than discuss the plot structure and the 鈥渁ction鈥� in the book, so as not to give away any of the brilliance in the text, it must be said that Maidenhair is a novel not to be understood (to use Shishkin鈥檚 own quote), but to be felt at every turn of the page, a novel to be processed as the narrative progresses, though the further you read, the less time matters, and you find yourself living inside a narrative world where everything is connected, and everything is happening all at once:
Before I just couldn鈥檛 understand how all this could be happening to me simultaneously, but I am now, loupe in hand, and at the same time I鈥檓 there, holding him close and feeling that I鈥檓 about to pass out, dying, I can鈥檛 catch my breath. But now I understand that it鈥檚 all so simple. Everything is always happening simultaneously. Here you are writing this line now, while I鈥檓 reading it. Here you are putting a period at the end of this sentence, while I reach it at the very same time. It鈥檚 not a matter of hands on the clock! They can be moved forward and back. It鈥檚 a matter of time zones. Steps of the dial. Everything is happening simultaneously, it鈥檚 just that the hands have gone every which way on all the clocks. (497)
Shishkin has declared in Russian-language interviews that Maidenhair is a novel about everything, and in more recent novels he attempts to solve humanity鈥檚 crisis of life and death. Maidenhair is no different.
This is what I believe: If somewhere on earth the wounded are finished off with rifle butts, that means somewhere else people have to be singing and rejoicing in life! The more death there is around, the more important to counter it with life, love, and beauty! (328)
Everything in the book makes sense together, even when reading and the narrative shifts from the singer鈥檚 diary in the 1920s to the interpreter鈥檚 mystical Q&A session with a refugee to Rome and to letters, everything is connected to the greater whole of what Shishkin is attempting to create, an entire universe of beauty, of yearning for love, of life in the face of death, of the history in everything, all tied in to the much greater questions of God鈥檚 role in everything:
The divine idea of the river is the river itself. (24)
The title of the book is emblematic of Shishkin鈥檚 themes of God and love at the same time: maidenhair is a type of fern that grows wild in Rome, the Eternal City that plays such a central role in the novel. Yet in Russia, maidenhair is a house plant that cannot grow without human care and affection:
For us, this is a house plant, otherwise it wouldn鈥檛 survive, without human warmth, but here it鈥檚 a weed. So you see, this is in a dead language, signifying something alive: Adiantum capillus veneris. Venus hair, genus Adiantum. Maidenhair. God of life. The wind barely stirs. As if nodding, yes yes, that鈥檚 true: this is my temple, my land, my wind, my life. The greenest of grasses. It grew here before your Eternal City and will grow here after. (500)
Even the epigraph to Maidenhair is so significant to the work that it deserves to be quoted, for it contains the essence of what Shishkin is up to:
And your ashes will be called, and will be told:
鈥淩eturn that which does not belong to you;
reveal what you have kept to this time.鈥�
For by the word was the world created, and by the word shall we be resurrected.
鈥揜evelation of Baruch ben Neriah. 4, XLII
The theme of the word is one of the big themes that recur throughout Maidenhair in each narrative, with the importance of the recorded dialogue in the interpreter鈥檚 mission or in the diary entries of Isabella. The themes are complex and deep, but the sentiments expressed in them, the emotion of the characters that come through in the text, are all human and completely relatable. The most important themes that are discussed throughout the work include God (faith and spirituality), fate (and the individual), time (and time/space), war (across time and history), history (or the power of memory), diaspora (especially interesting as Shishkin spends much of his time outside of Russia, yet remains a quintessentially Russian writer), intertextuality (as a narrative and rhetorical style, and for the novel鈥檚 use of text-in-text-in-text), Russia鈥檚 role in the world (and their view of themselves in the world), the role of art in human society (the power of beauty to transcend the mundane day-to-day), migration/immigration (and the connection to paradise myths), mythology (of all stripes), Rome (after all, it is the Eternal City, so emblematic of humanity鈥檚 Eternal Problems) . . . The list could go on forever, the themes are huge, the book is a page-turner, not in the sense of plot-twists, but in the sense that every page contains a new revelation.
May I make one recommendation to you, the future reader of this brilliant novel? If so, please be an active reader while you read this book: keep a pen in hand, Post-It notes at the ready, or your e-book highlighting function at the ready, because every single page in this book contains ideas encapsulated in perfect quotes that you will want to revisit, along with the entirety of the novel, time and time again.
Maidenhair is the first Russian book of the 21st-century to appear in English translation that can be truly counted as an instant classic in the broad field of world literature, capable of being taught in university classrooms and discussed in book clubs for centuries to come. Every individual, every emotion, every idea that humanity has ever generated and will forever generate is encapsulated in the 500 pages of Maidenhair. With its perfect combination of style and substance, Maidenhair might just be the book you鈥檝e been waiting your entire life to read.
June 23, 2011
4.5 stars.
袙械薪械褉懈薪 胁芯谢芯褋 (Maidenhair) is what I think of as an immersion type of book, a book that takes over my thoughts even when I'm not reading it. Maidenhair is also very difficult to summarize: the book shifts between characters, countries, and time lines to offer varied takes on life and death. Though the book has a reputation for difficulty, I found it very readable and enjoyable, even suspenseful at times, and loaded with references to literature and history.
(There's more about Maidenhair on my blog, .)
袙械薪械褉懈薪 胁芯谢芯褋 (Maidenhair) is what I think of as an immersion type of book, a book that takes over my thoughts even when I'm not reading it. Maidenhair is also very difficult to summarize: the book shifts between characters, countries, and time lines to offer varied takes on life and death. Though the book has a reputation for difficulty, I found it very readable and enjoyable, even suspenseful at times, and loaded with references to literature and history.
(There's more about Maidenhair on my blog, .)
April 14, 2020
Mikhail Shishkin's Maidenhair is that sort of narrative that starts, at the beginning, as something quite immaculate as well as inscrutable in structure and conception, but is one which, by the time one is through about three fifths of the narrative, starts sinking inside you with its grand conception brimming with themes of life's inconsummate joys as well as its darker side of pain, horror and violence- testament, indeed, of human frailities as well as life's fickleness, albeit somewhat unconscionable. Here you will find all the elements a great Russian novel interspersed, at the same time, with shades of a historical and autobiographical sketch thrown in. This is one of those few novels that you cannot recommend enough for its pure structural tour de force. It starts off as an interpreter's questionnaire (and that brings me to mind of Pinget's ) which leads to a caroused intermingling of their stories- both real and fabricated- with the interpreter's own monologues and readings. It then continues this trend with a heady admixture of several parallel narratives- a history of the ancient Persian war (in particular the war between Cyrus and Artaxerxes), letters sent to the interpreter's own son, as well as the autobiographical log of a Russian singer living in Paris recounting the trials and tribulations of a Russia throughout the twentieth century. This is one of the best modernist works that have seen the light of day in the twenty first century. HIGHLY RECOMMENDED!
Incidentally, I happen to own this novel in my collection in both the Russian and English versions. I need to start reading the Russian original as this is one of those works that I am willing to go through the toils of reading the original.
Incidentally, I happen to own this novel in my collection in both the Russian and English versions. I need to start reading the Russian original as this is one of those works that I am willing to go through the toils of reading the original.
September 21, 2018
I began looking out of the window. The wind was driving the twilight. The rain fell and fell. A red umbrella lay on the lawn, like a slit in the grass pelt.
*
You see, each coin jangling in your pocket was relevant, each word swallowed by the wind, each silence.
*
You're on your way there and dreaming of love. The woman who happens to be sitting across from you by the window has skin the color of an immature July ash berry, but you feel awkward staring straight at her, and you turn away and look out the window the whole time, while there the evening also shines the color to match her skin. Later, at the shore, the sea seems soapy and the air littered with the cries of seagulls. Wagtails run along the very edge, their little legs mincing. A smelly sort of scum washes to shore. A small pier. The waves beat against its legs, throws grape-like spray on you. Seagulls are perched on the iron railings. The birds are blown up by the wind鈥攐ne rises for a second and settles back down鈥攁nd they chirp drearily. Sea and sky run together, like a sweating window, and the horizon suddenly appears once again, as if it had been drawn with a sharpened pencil and ruler.
*
You see, each coin jangling in your pocket was relevant, each word swallowed by the wind, each silence.
*
You're on your way there and dreaming of love. The woman who happens to be sitting across from you by the window has skin the color of an immature July ash berry, but you feel awkward staring straight at her, and you turn away and look out the window the whole time, while there the evening also shines the color to match her skin. Later, at the shore, the sea seems soapy and the air littered with the cries of seagulls. Wagtails run along the very edge, their little legs mincing. A smelly sort of scum washes to shore. A small pier. The waves beat against its legs, throws grape-like spray on you. Seagulls are perched on the iron railings. The birds are blown up by the wind鈥攐ne rises for a second and settles back down鈥攁nd they chirp drearily. Sea and sky run together, like a sweating window, and the horizon suddenly appears once again, as if it had been drawn with a sharpened pencil and ruler.
December 28, 2017
Question: What if on the last page there is a final full stop, can nothing be changed anymore? What if you want to set something straight in life? To bring someone back? To finish an unfinished love?
Answer: Actually, even something that has happened already can be changed any moment. Every person from your life changes what has already happened to you in the past. Exclamation and question marks have the force to change both the phrase and fate. Past is what is already known, but it will change if you live up to the last page.
Answer: Actually, even something that has happened already can be changed any moment. Every person from your life changes what has already happened to you in the past. Exclamation and question marks have the force to change both the phrase and fate. Past is what is already known, but it will change if you live up to the last page.
October 21, 2016
Rather a disappointment. I liked the essays in 'Calligraphy Lesson,' though I wasn't so keen on the stories, and that should have suggested to me that I wouldn't want to read 500 pages of 'story.' Well, I tried. Others have praised the prose, but I wonder what they were reading: Shishkin do the police in different voices, and he do them so good (here, an interpreter for Russian/Slavic refugees; a singer first as a young girl, then as a woman, then as an older woman; the refugees themselves; and some more distant third narration). But that's not the same as writing well simpliciter. It doesn't help that the book's great climax is in my least favorite literary style that is actually a style, that of stuttering fragments:
"A Jew races on the Corso. Now you, you damn kikes, you're going to know how our Lord was crucified! A christened kike is a sated wolf. Man out back, kike in the shack. Man is the Holy Sepulcher; he must be freed. Mary herself indicated where to build the chruch, and in the middle of August, snow fell on Esquiline. After the free the fallen leaves stiffened. Triton went crazy, like an angel trumpeting through the Eustachian tubes: Arise, arise, why are you sprawled out here!"
This is a common enough tactic in English, and I'm too old to bother trying to read it anymore, unless it's in Joyce, who gets a free pass for originality (compare, unfavorably, Joyce Carey, or Eimear McBride). And of course, in Joyce, and for it being one option among many. The same is true for for Shishkin, but the first 450 pages of Maidenhair aren't quite as rewarding as the non-stuttering pages of Ulysses. I'll take the long-line of the modernist prose tradition, thanks.
Maidenhair's other problem, from my humble corner, is that I'm also done reading books that give us narrative fragments and then expect us to connect said fragments together. That doesn't mean I'm done reading difficult books; it means I'm done reading books in which the difficulty is invented by the author for no real purpose, rather than actually inhering in the topic or approach of the book (see also: Dodge Rose). I'm most particularly of all done reading books in which the payoff for all that laborious connecting is something as daft as "Life sucks, mostly, but love is good." Thanks, Mikhail. I never would have know without you.
That said, Shishkin is trying to write good books, he wants to write important books, he has good ideas (assimilating the refugees' stories to literary myths was a great one, though the execution wasn't so perfect), and he cares about literature and the literary tradition. So even though I'll never try to read this beginning to end again, I'm glad to have it, and I'll flick through it from time to time.
"A Jew races on the Corso. Now you, you damn kikes, you're going to know how our Lord was crucified! A christened kike is a sated wolf. Man out back, kike in the shack. Man is the Holy Sepulcher; he must be freed. Mary herself indicated where to build the chruch, and in the middle of August, snow fell on Esquiline. After the free the fallen leaves stiffened. Triton went crazy, like an angel trumpeting through the Eustachian tubes: Arise, arise, why are you sprawled out here!"
This is a common enough tactic in English, and I'm too old to bother trying to read it anymore, unless it's in Joyce, who gets a free pass for originality (compare, unfavorably, Joyce Carey, or Eimear McBride). And of course, in Joyce, and for it being one option among many. The same is true for for Shishkin, but the first 450 pages of Maidenhair aren't quite as rewarding as the non-stuttering pages of Ulysses. I'll take the long-line of the modernist prose tradition, thanks.
Maidenhair's other problem, from my humble corner, is that I'm also done reading books that give us narrative fragments and then expect us to connect said fragments together. That doesn't mean I'm done reading difficult books; it means I'm done reading books in which the difficulty is invented by the author for no real purpose, rather than actually inhering in the topic or approach of the book (see also: Dodge Rose). I'm most particularly of all done reading books in which the payoff for all that laborious connecting is something as daft as "Life sucks, mostly, but love is good." Thanks, Mikhail. I never would have know without you.
That said, Shishkin is trying to write good books, he wants to write important books, he has good ideas (assimilating the refugees' stories to literary myths was a great one, though the execution wasn't so perfect), and he cares about literature and the literary tradition. So even though I'll never try to read this beginning to end again, I'm glad to have it, and I'll flick through it from time to time.
December 4, 2012
My full review of this fabulous book can be found at The Quarterly Conversation:
February 3, 2015
Michail Sjisjkin is een geweldenaar: hij heeft alle belangrijke Russische literatuurprijzen gewonnen en hij wordt ook elders in de wereld zeer geprezen. En volkomen terecht, vind ik. Hij schrijft ongelofelijk originele en rijke boeken, die enorm grillig en subtiel in elkaar zitten, en die ik zelf steeds twee keer lezen moet om alle nuances goed te kunnen proeven. Een paar jaar geleden werd ik helemaal weggeblazen door "Onvoltooide liefdes": een roman in liefdesbrieven, waarin een van de geliefden doorschrijft na zijn dood. Nu werd ik weer omvergeblazen door "Venushaar": eerder geschreven, later vertaald, en ook weer verbijsterend goed. Een labyrinth van verhalen in verhalen waar je helemaal in verdwaalt; een duizelingwekkend spiegelpaleis van motieven die zich vermengen en vermenigvuldigen zodat je de rode draad soms volkomen verliest; een gigantisch tableau waarin beelden zich vermengen en waarin grenzen van tijd en ruimte totaal worden overschreden; en dat alles van duizelingwekkende schoonheid. Pas na twee keer lezen (steeds vlijtig markerend en notities makend in mijn ereaderversie) kreeg ik er enige greep op: het is dus wel een boek dat extra geconcentreerde aandacht verdient en zich niet makkelijk prijs geeft. Maar het is vooral ongelofelijk prachtig: bij de eerste keer lezen vond ik het verwarrend maar ook fascinerend rijk, en bij de tweede keer lezen raakte ik helemaal euforisch.
Het boek bestaat uit meerdere elkaar beurtelings afwisselende verhaallijnen, die zelf al vol zitten met verrassende zwenkingen en verbazingwekkende beelden, en dan nog vaak in elkaar overlopen ook. Hoofdpersoon en belangrijke bron van deze verhaallijnen is een Russische tolk, wonend en werkend in Zwitserland (net als Sjisjkin zelf). Een van de verhaallijnen draait dan om gesprekken met asielzoekende Russiche vluchtelingen: hun doorgemaakte verschrikkingen, hun angsten, hun paniek, hun nachtmerrieachtige visioenen, hun levensverhalen en hun leugens. De tolk staat vol onmacht tegenover deze verhalen, omdat hij weet dat de asielaanvragen zullen worden afgewezen: daardoor, en door de terreur waarvan deze verhalen zijn doordesemd, maakt dat hij die verhalen beleeft als hallucinatoire droom met een steeds surrealistischer wordend ritme van 'vraag' en 'antwoord'. Waarbij op een gegeven moment de antwoorden vragen worden en de vragen antwoorden, en waarin de verhalen, die door hun extreme karakter op zichzelf toch al volkomen fantasmagorisch waren, echt totaal uit de bocht vliegen omdat ze vermengd raken met koortsachtige fantasie van o.a. de tolk zelf. En dan kan het gebeuren dat een verhaal over beestachtige taferelen rond Grozny vermengd wordt met de wereld van oud-Griekse zwervende soldaten waar Xenofon over schreef, of dat belevenissen van een Russiche politieagent vermengd raken met taferelen uit werken van Poe, Agatha Christie, Gogol, Dostojewsky, of dat het wanhopige verhaal van een Russiche soldaat aan het Tsjetsjeense front vermengd raakt met Bijbelse taferelen of prachtig vertelde mythen van oude Sovjetrussiche volkeren. Zo ontstaat een totale polyfonie van uiteenlopende stijlen en stemmen, vol gruwelijkheden, maar - vooral door de ongehoord poetische pen van Sjisjkin- ook vol van werkelijk verbijsterende schoonheid.
En dit is dus nog maar een van de verhaallijnen, of liever: een van de lijnen die zich steeds in verschillende verhalen vertakt en splitst. Daarnaast is er nog de verhaallijn die bestaat uit (fictieve) dagboekfragmenten en brieven van een (werkelijk bestaande) Russische zangeres uit de eerste helft van de 20e eeuw. Ook zij is omringd met oorlogsgeweld (de eerste wereldoorlog, de Russische revolutie, de Stalinterreur), en dat kiert ook door haar notities heen. Maar veel opvallender dan dat is hoe zij blijft snakken naar liefde en schoonheid en vervoering: liefde voor allerlei mannen uiteraard, maar vooral het euforische gevoel om als zangeres zich in totale liefde over te geven aan het voltallig publiek en op haar beurt te worden ondergedompeld in hun totale liefde. Totaal bakvisachtig, totaal naief, maar toch ontroerend en zelfs bewonderenswaardig: dit naieve geloof in schoonheid en kunst is voor haar het enige weermiddel, hoe onvolkomen ook, tegen al de omringende ellende en dood. Dat naieve geloof loopt dan ook weer over in de eerder genoemde verhaallijn van de tolk: ten eerste omdat hij deze fragmenten verzameld heeft, uit een soort nostalgisch heimwee naar de tijden die hij met deze zangeres associeert, maar ook omdat hij in zijn 'vraag-antwoord' verhalen zich zo gevoelig toont voor de rijkdom die alleen literatuur en verbeeldingskracht kan bieden. Een van die 'vraag- antwoord' verhalen is bovendien (anders dan de andere) geen verhoor, maar een dialoog tussen twee voormalig geliefden over nieuwe onconventionele vormen van schoonheid en liefde. Zij wordt door hem liefkozend 'kikkerprinses' genoemd, vanwege haar vanuit conventioneel oogpunt niet heel fraaie stukje kikkerhuid: de koosnaam 'kikkerprinses' is volgens mij daardoor ook een mooie eigenzinnige variant op het sproojesmotief van de kikker en de prins. En prachtig aan die dialoog is ook hoe de kikkerprinses, als ze denkt aan liefde en vervoering, vooral droomt van dat ene moment dat ze aan zee lag, zich door de zee overstroomd voelde worden, en voor even dacht dat ze de hele wereld en alle schepselen kon inhaleren. Dus dat zij de de hele wereld in al zijn verscheidenheid inademde en indronk.
Zo gaat dat dus in dit boek: via de verhaallijn van de zangeres kom je weer terecht in de rijkelijk zich vertakkende eerdere verhaallijn van de tolk, waaruit dan weer een volgende verhaallijn ontstaat over twee geliefden. En deze verhaallijnen volgen elkaar niet netjes op, welnee: ze volgen elkaar in een onvoorspelbaar ritme op, zodat je terechtkomt in een kakafonie van door elkaar verweven verhaallijnen die steeds afbreken, elkaar afwisselen, weer hernomen worden en in elkaar overlopen. En ik heb nog lang niet alle verhaalijnen genoemd. Er is ook nog het verhaal - afwisselend in ik-vorm en hij-vorm- over de treurige liefde van de tolk voor Isolde (weggelopen uit het Tristan en Isolde verhaal) en zijn mijmerende wandelingen door Rome, een oord dat allerlei meeslepende visoenen oproept uit verschillende tijden en ruimten, en waarin de tolk ervaart dat hij niet alleen zichzelf is maar ook nog vele anderen. Er zijn ook de niet-verzonden brieven van de tolk aan zijn zoon, van wie hij gescheiden leeft: brieven vol mythologie en referenties aan klassieke literatuur. En zo zijn er nog meer lijnen, die zich ook steeds vertakken. Je vergaapt je in dit boek kortom aan de verhalen en aan hoe die verhalen elkaar afwisselen en in elkaar overlopen. Die verhalen zijn binnen zichzelf vaak al grenzeloos: ik heb al laten zien hoe Tsjetsjenen soms oude Grieken treffen, die weer in mythische taferelen terechtkomen, die weer in Bijbelse tijden terechtkomen, en terug. Maar ze lopen ook nog in elkaar over, doorkruisen dus hun eigen grenzen. In een van de vraag-antwoord verhalen bijvoorbeeld speelt het verhaal van Nemo een rol, de man die mensen kon redden met een duikboot. In nog weer een ander verhaal maakt een klein jongetje een bootje van zeep, en droomt hij dat hij kapitein Nemo is die mensen redt. In het verhaal van de zangeres is er een romanschrijver die een mooie fantasie heeft: hoe een gevangene met een lepel een bootje etst in zijn gevangenismuur, en wegvaart met dat bootje. Mijn romans zijn dat bootje, zegt de schrijver dan: zijn kunst transporteert hem buiten de gevangenis van de zo deprimerende realiteit. En verdomd als het niet waar is: in twee geheel andere verhaalijnen vaart ineens datzelfde bootje langs, met de lepel van de gevangene er nog in. Het bootje, die sprookjesachtige metafoor, vaart dus verschillende verhalen binnen, en gaat dwars door alle grenzen heen .....
Die grensoverschrijdende verbeeldingskracht is wat deze roman zo meesterlijk maakt, en het is tegelijk volgens mij ook de thematiek van deze roman. In ons dagelijks leven stoten we steeds op grenzen van lelijkheid en dood, en zitten we ook vast aan patronen en hokjes, maar in onze verbeelding kunnen we daar tenminste voor even aan ontsnappen. In werkelijkheid kan ik niet ontsnappen aan de dood en kan ik niet wegvaren met een getekend bootje, maar in de verbeelding kan dat wel. In de wekelijkheid zit ik steeds vast aan een bepaalde tijd en ruimte, maar in de verbeelding kun je alle grenzen van tijd en ruimte overstijgen. Dat is volgens mij de boodschap van dit boek, die overtuigend wordt gedemonstreerd door zijn vorm. En dat wordt allemaal nog versterkt door Sjisjkins prachtige stijl en aandachtige blik. Als normale burgerman valt mij niet eens op dat er op een boom een kever loopt, maar Sjisjskin ziet dat kevertje wel en maakt er een sprookje van: "een kevertje had lettertekens gekrabbeld, waarin het zijn keverleven beschreef en die nooit door iemand gelezen zouden worden". Zoals hij ook het volgende schrijft: "toen stonden we te kijken hoe een paard onder een appelboom haar lippen tuitte naar een appel en hoe de wolk die overdreef haar van kleur deed veranderen". En verderop wordt gezegd dat "de tijd wordt gemeten aan de veranderde kleur van een paard dat haar lippen tuit naar een appel", omdat de tijd "met ongelijkmatige steek" een veelheid van vluchtige en minder vluchtige taferelen aan elkaar naait, die doorlopend van betekenis kunnen veranderen. In het normale leven vinden we het al lastig om ons ik de definieren, maar personages bij Sjisjkin hebben daaraan niet genoeg: ze zijn ook hun vader, hun moeder, de vele boeken die ze hebben gelezen, de vele herinneringen waaruit ze bestaan. "De ziel heeft meer plooien dan het leven van alledag vereist", zegt iemand, en hij wil AL die plooien ervaren en doorgronden, en ook allemaal tegelijk. De wereld binnen en buiten ons is kortom een ongelofelijk rijk, grenzenloos en raadselachtig veelvoud, met vele dimensies die wij niet tegelijkertijd kunnen zien. Maar Sjisjkin legt zich daar niet bij neer: hij wil dit veelvoud TOCH laten zien, door de enorm polyfone structuur van zijn boek en door de poetische aandachtigheid van zijn stijl.
Een oceanisch meesterwerk dus, dit boek. Een roman over liefde, dood, verlangen naar schoonheid, vervoering, de kracht van de verbeelding, en nog veel meer. Een boek dat op prachtige wijze vol zit met geschiedenis en Russische en klassieke literatuur. Een boek vooral dat de hele wereld probeert te inhaleren in al zijn verscheidenheid en veranderlijkheid. Een boek dat zich aan geen enkele grens stoort, daardoor volkomen mateloos is, en mij enorm heeft opgevrolijkt en geinspireerd. Ik hoop dat Sjisjkin nog veel meer schrijft, en dat alles van hem wordt vertaald!
Het boek bestaat uit meerdere elkaar beurtelings afwisselende verhaallijnen, die zelf al vol zitten met verrassende zwenkingen en verbazingwekkende beelden, en dan nog vaak in elkaar overlopen ook. Hoofdpersoon en belangrijke bron van deze verhaallijnen is een Russische tolk, wonend en werkend in Zwitserland (net als Sjisjkin zelf). Een van de verhaallijnen draait dan om gesprekken met asielzoekende Russiche vluchtelingen: hun doorgemaakte verschrikkingen, hun angsten, hun paniek, hun nachtmerrieachtige visioenen, hun levensverhalen en hun leugens. De tolk staat vol onmacht tegenover deze verhalen, omdat hij weet dat de asielaanvragen zullen worden afgewezen: daardoor, en door de terreur waarvan deze verhalen zijn doordesemd, maakt dat hij die verhalen beleeft als hallucinatoire droom met een steeds surrealistischer wordend ritme van 'vraag' en 'antwoord'. Waarbij op een gegeven moment de antwoorden vragen worden en de vragen antwoorden, en waarin de verhalen, die door hun extreme karakter op zichzelf toch al volkomen fantasmagorisch waren, echt totaal uit de bocht vliegen omdat ze vermengd raken met koortsachtige fantasie van o.a. de tolk zelf. En dan kan het gebeuren dat een verhaal over beestachtige taferelen rond Grozny vermengd wordt met de wereld van oud-Griekse zwervende soldaten waar Xenofon over schreef, of dat belevenissen van een Russiche politieagent vermengd raken met taferelen uit werken van Poe, Agatha Christie, Gogol, Dostojewsky, of dat het wanhopige verhaal van een Russiche soldaat aan het Tsjetsjeense front vermengd raakt met Bijbelse taferelen of prachtig vertelde mythen van oude Sovjetrussiche volkeren. Zo ontstaat een totale polyfonie van uiteenlopende stijlen en stemmen, vol gruwelijkheden, maar - vooral door de ongehoord poetische pen van Sjisjkin- ook vol van werkelijk verbijsterende schoonheid.
En dit is dus nog maar een van de verhaallijnen, of liever: een van de lijnen die zich steeds in verschillende verhalen vertakt en splitst. Daarnaast is er nog de verhaallijn die bestaat uit (fictieve) dagboekfragmenten en brieven van een (werkelijk bestaande) Russische zangeres uit de eerste helft van de 20e eeuw. Ook zij is omringd met oorlogsgeweld (de eerste wereldoorlog, de Russische revolutie, de Stalinterreur), en dat kiert ook door haar notities heen. Maar veel opvallender dan dat is hoe zij blijft snakken naar liefde en schoonheid en vervoering: liefde voor allerlei mannen uiteraard, maar vooral het euforische gevoel om als zangeres zich in totale liefde over te geven aan het voltallig publiek en op haar beurt te worden ondergedompeld in hun totale liefde. Totaal bakvisachtig, totaal naief, maar toch ontroerend en zelfs bewonderenswaardig: dit naieve geloof in schoonheid en kunst is voor haar het enige weermiddel, hoe onvolkomen ook, tegen al de omringende ellende en dood. Dat naieve geloof loopt dan ook weer over in de eerder genoemde verhaallijn van de tolk: ten eerste omdat hij deze fragmenten verzameld heeft, uit een soort nostalgisch heimwee naar de tijden die hij met deze zangeres associeert, maar ook omdat hij in zijn 'vraag-antwoord' verhalen zich zo gevoelig toont voor de rijkdom die alleen literatuur en verbeeldingskracht kan bieden. Een van die 'vraag- antwoord' verhalen is bovendien (anders dan de andere) geen verhoor, maar een dialoog tussen twee voormalig geliefden over nieuwe onconventionele vormen van schoonheid en liefde. Zij wordt door hem liefkozend 'kikkerprinses' genoemd, vanwege haar vanuit conventioneel oogpunt niet heel fraaie stukje kikkerhuid: de koosnaam 'kikkerprinses' is volgens mij daardoor ook een mooie eigenzinnige variant op het sproojesmotief van de kikker en de prins. En prachtig aan die dialoog is ook hoe de kikkerprinses, als ze denkt aan liefde en vervoering, vooral droomt van dat ene moment dat ze aan zee lag, zich door de zee overstroomd voelde worden, en voor even dacht dat ze de hele wereld en alle schepselen kon inhaleren. Dus dat zij de de hele wereld in al zijn verscheidenheid inademde en indronk.
Zo gaat dat dus in dit boek: via de verhaallijn van de zangeres kom je weer terecht in de rijkelijk zich vertakkende eerdere verhaallijn van de tolk, waaruit dan weer een volgende verhaallijn ontstaat over twee geliefden. En deze verhaallijnen volgen elkaar niet netjes op, welnee: ze volgen elkaar in een onvoorspelbaar ritme op, zodat je terechtkomt in een kakafonie van door elkaar verweven verhaallijnen die steeds afbreken, elkaar afwisselen, weer hernomen worden en in elkaar overlopen. En ik heb nog lang niet alle verhaalijnen genoemd. Er is ook nog het verhaal - afwisselend in ik-vorm en hij-vorm- over de treurige liefde van de tolk voor Isolde (weggelopen uit het Tristan en Isolde verhaal) en zijn mijmerende wandelingen door Rome, een oord dat allerlei meeslepende visoenen oproept uit verschillende tijden en ruimten, en waarin de tolk ervaart dat hij niet alleen zichzelf is maar ook nog vele anderen. Er zijn ook de niet-verzonden brieven van de tolk aan zijn zoon, van wie hij gescheiden leeft: brieven vol mythologie en referenties aan klassieke literatuur. En zo zijn er nog meer lijnen, die zich ook steeds vertakken. Je vergaapt je in dit boek kortom aan de verhalen en aan hoe die verhalen elkaar afwisselen en in elkaar overlopen. Die verhalen zijn binnen zichzelf vaak al grenzeloos: ik heb al laten zien hoe Tsjetsjenen soms oude Grieken treffen, die weer in mythische taferelen terechtkomen, die weer in Bijbelse tijden terechtkomen, en terug. Maar ze lopen ook nog in elkaar over, doorkruisen dus hun eigen grenzen. In een van de vraag-antwoord verhalen bijvoorbeeld speelt het verhaal van Nemo een rol, de man die mensen kon redden met een duikboot. In nog weer een ander verhaal maakt een klein jongetje een bootje van zeep, en droomt hij dat hij kapitein Nemo is die mensen redt. In het verhaal van de zangeres is er een romanschrijver die een mooie fantasie heeft: hoe een gevangene met een lepel een bootje etst in zijn gevangenismuur, en wegvaart met dat bootje. Mijn romans zijn dat bootje, zegt de schrijver dan: zijn kunst transporteert hem buiten de gevangenis van de zo deprimerende realiteit. En verdomd als het niet waar is: in twee geheel andere verhaalijnen vaart ineens datzelfde bootje langs, met de lepel van de gevangene er nog in. Het bootje, die sprookjesachtige metafoor, vaart dus verschillende verhalen binnen, en gaat dwars door alle grenzen heen .....
Die grensoverschrijdende verbeeldingskracht is wat deze roman zo meesterlijk maakt, en het is tegelijk volgens mij ook de thematiek van deze roman. In ons dagelijks leven stoten we steeds op grenzen van lelijkheid en dood, en zitten we ook vast aan patronen en hokjes, maar in onze verbeelding kunnen we daar tenminste voor even aan ontsnappen. In werkelijkheid kan ik niet ontsnappen aan de dood en kan ik niet wegvaren met een getekend bootje, maar in de verbeelding kan dat wel. In de wekelijkheid zit ik steeds vast aan een bepaalde tijd en ruimte, maar in de verbeelding kun je alle grenzen van tijd en ruimte overstijgen. Dat is volgens mij de boodschap van dit boek, die overtuigend wordt gedemonstreerd door zijn vorm. En dat wordt allemaal nog versterkt door Sjisjkins prachtige stijl en aandachtige blik. Als normale burgerman valt mij niet eens op dat er op een boom een kever loopt, maar Sjisjskin ziet dat kevertje wel en maakt er een sprookje van: "een kevertje had lettertekens gekrabbeld, waarin het zijn keverleven beschreef en die nooit door iemand gelezen zouden worden". Zoals hij ook het volgende schrijft: "toen stonden we te kijken hoe een paard onder een appelboom haar lippen tuitte naar een appel en hoe de wolk die overdreef haar van kleur deed veranderen". En verderop wordt gezegd dat "de tijd wordt gemeten aan de veranderde kleur van een paard dat haar lippen tuit naar een appel", omdat de tijd "met ongelijkmatige steek" een veelheid van vluchtige en minder vluchtige taferelen aan elkaar naait, die doorlopend van betekenis kunnen veranderen. In het normale leven vinden we het al lastig om ons ik de definieren, maar personages bij Sjisjkin hebben daaraan niet genoeg: ze zijn ook hun vader, hun moeder, de vele boeken die ze hebben gelezen, de vele herinneringen waaruit ze bestaan. "De ziel heeft meer plooien dan het leven van alledag vereist", zegt iemand, en hij wil AL die plooien ervaren en doorgronden, en ook allemaal tegelijk. De wereld binnen en buiten ons is kortom een ongelofelijk rijk, grenzenloos en raadselachtig veelvoud, met vele dimensies die wij niet tegelijkertijd kunnen zien. Maar Sjisjkin legt zich daar niet bij neer: hij wil dit veelvoud TOCH laten zien, door de enorm polyfone structuur van zijn boek en door de poetische aandachtigheid van zijn stijl.
Een oceanisch meesterwerk dus, dit boek. Een roman over liefde, dood, verlangen naar schoonheid, vervoering, de kracht van de verbeelding, en nog veel meer. Een boek dat op prachtige wijze vol zit met geschiedenis en Russische en klassieke literatuur. Een boek vooral dat de hele wereld probeert te inhaleren in al zijn verscheidenheid en veranderlijkheid. Een boek dat zich aan geen enkele grens stoort, daardoor volkomen mateloos is, en mij enorm heeft opgevrolijkt en geinspireerd. Ik hoop dat Sjisjkin nog veel meer schrijft, en dat alles van hem wordt vertaald!
July 20, 2015
DISCLAIMER: I am the publisher of the book and thus spent approximately two years reading and editing and working on it. So take my review with a grain of salt, or the understanding that I am deeply invested in this text and know it quite well. Also, I would really appreciate it if you would purchase this book, since it would benefit Open Letter directly.
March 31, 2023
What a staggeringly beautiful and original book. Maidenhair is like a modern, Russian One Thousand and One Nights; a whirling carousel of stories that can make you dizzy, even vertiginous. Big stories, little stories, stories within stories, stories within stories within stories - Russian Dolls of stories. Some are magical, many are horrific, lots are heartbreaking, most are profound. All are contained within the unique structure of a dense, 507-page chapter-less novel that is quite unlike anything I have ever read.
It's a bit like somebody put the stories from dozens of classic texts - including Russian and ancient Greek history, Chekhov, Gogol's "The Nose", Dostoevsky, Pushkin, Turgenev, Dante, The Old Testament, Longus' Daphnis and Chloe, Tristan and Iseult, and others I'm probably forgetting - into a splicing machine which jumbled them up, re-organized them and spat them back out in the form of this extraordinary book.
The main character is a nameless 'Interpreter' who works in the Swiss migration service where he translates hearings for political asylum seekers (Gesuchstellers). Because the admission of Gesuchstellers is dependent on them having a genuine need to be fleeing their respective nations, they must tell traumatic stories of violence, oppression and personal horror to convince Peter, the interviewer, to give them asylum. It is not the Interpreter's job to do any more than translate these stories (and certainly not to evaluate their veracity). This is key. Note that the central character of the book is an interpreter - he does not write or tell these stories, he doesn't ask the questions or make the notes. His job is to interpret. This strikes me as significant. Shishkin himself, in the writing of his novel, is not telling us a linear, singular tale about individuals in time; he is no more than an "interpreter", allowing his maze-like stories-within-stories to flow and ebb effortlessly out of each other, while he translates them for us as honestly as he can, and is honest about how much they change in translation.
Maidenhair makes no apparent distinction between real, secondhand and imagined stories. Shishkin's currency is story itself. He is less interested in whether this or that happened to whom, or when and where it took place; the story contains the meaning, and this meaning is universal. (Which is not to say that he is not also interested in character. His characters are vivid and multidimensional. But these characters are universals more than they represent individual persons).
The novel is constructed from such a labyrinthine web of textual sources it would probably take years to map them all. But something tells me this is not the point. Maidenhair is not a puzzle wanting to be solved; it is a blizzard waiting to be caught up in. Unlike, say, Finnegan's Wake, where with effort (arguably more than is worthwhile), a patient reader can crack Joyce's ingenious code, Maidenhair makes a different sort of demand upon the reader. It doesn't so much want to be unpicked (or unlocked) as it wants to be caught up or swept away with. The book is intricate and complex, at times baffling. But it is not obtuse. The modernist and experimental structure of Maidenhair is not a riddle that demands to be broken in order for the book to be understood. We are not trying to un-clutter it in order to reveal its truth because that truth lies in the accumulative power of all the (beautiful) clutter. Arguably, this makes it one of the more easy-to-read books that are difficult-to-read. You don't have to understand it; you just have to be willing to interpret.
It is possible to see each of the ostensibly separate narrative strains of the novel as emanating from the mind or activities of the Interpreter himself. We are given, for example, transcripts of the hearings he is attending, and these are often blended with other stories - letters he is writing in the form of re-imagined Greek histories to his son (whom he calls Nebuchadnezzasaurus); nostalgic reminiscences about his marriage and early life; research into Tungols and Orochs; and the memoirs of a Soviet era singer whose biography he has been commissioned to write (and whose diary entries form the second largest amount of pages within the book). Seeing these narrative strains as emanating from the life and consciousness of the Interpreter is helpful to a degree. It illustrates the ways that texts and stories we hear interact and mutate in our minds, blending with our own memories, and blending with the stories we tell ourselves, until the lines get blurred about where these stories begin and end, where they are real and where they are imagined. Shishkin presents story and character as fluid concepts, embodying the existential longing and struggle of us all.
But it seems wrong to view the novel as predominantly concerned with the way we (as individuals) personalize, conflate and hybridize the stories we hear. To me Maidenhair is more about the way that story itself grows, conflates and hybridizes. Story is alive in this novel as a character. No story is ever new, nobody is ever the first person to tell it, or have it happen to them. Everything is a replica. The Interpreter traipses around Rome searching for the ancient city he expects to find there, and searching for the lost love he once had with his wife. But even in a city as ancient as Rome, he can't find anything original.
As the book progresses, the myriad stories that have been spiraling no longer remain within their lines, or within their de-marked sections; and they begin to run and bleed into one another, like mixed paints. Characters, objects and events from one or other of the main narratives, like escaped animals, run away from their contexts - from the histories, locations, characters, myths and memories to which they relate - and begin to pop up in others. By the time we reach the end, these stories have broken so free of their contextual shackles they simply pour all over the page. It is dizzying and astonishing. The stories have gotten shorter and shorter until they are no more than brief sentences. The sensation is powerful; the same eternal story is being told over again and over again, the individual details, locations, people and time have all fallen away. Story is telling itself to itself. We are left with an echo of the universal hum.
This author is an incredible discovery for me. I highly recommend this unique book. Nobody is writing like this anywhere anymore, are they? If they are, please somebody tell me. This brilliant author will surely win the Nobel. My advice to a fellow reader is: don't get hung up on trying to understand the flummoxing parts. Think of it more like listening to music - the prose is that good. And when it feels a little odd or difficult, remember that the experience you are having is the very subject of the book. The words beyond speech. Shishkin is trying to show us something invisible, he is not explaining something.
It's a bit like somebody put the stories from dozens of classic texts - including Russian and ancient Greek history, Chekhov, Gogol's "The Nose", Dostoevsky, Pushkin, Turgenev, Dante, The Old Testament, Longus' Daphnis and Chloe, Tristan and Iseult, and others I'm probably forgetting - into a splicing machine which jumbled them up, re-organized them and spat them back out in the form of this extraordinary book.
The main character is a nameless 'Interpreter' who works in the Swiss migration service where he translates hearings for political asylum seekers (Gesuchstellers). Because the admission of Gesuchstellers is dependent on them having a genuine need to be fleeing their respective nations, they must tell traumatic stories of violence, oppression and personal horror to convince Peter, the interviewer, to give them asylum. It is not the Interpreter's job to do any more than translate these stories (and certainly not to evaluate their veracity). This is key. Note that the central character of the book is an interpreter - he does not write or tell these stories, he doesn't ask the questions or make the notes. His job is to interpret. This strikes me as significant. Shishkin himself, in the writing of his novel, is not telling us a linear, singular tale about individuals in time; he is no more than an "interpreter", allowing his maze-like stories-within-stories to flow and ebb effortlessly out of each other, while he translates them for us as honestly as he can, and is honest about how much they change in translation.
Maidenhair makes no apparent distinction between real, secondhand and imagined stories. Shishkin's currency is story itself. He is less interested in whether this or that happened to whom, or when and where it took place; the story contains the meaning, and this meaning is universal. (Which is not to say that he is not also interested in character. His characters are vivid and multidimensional. But these characters are universals more than they represent individual persons).
The novel is constructed from such a labyrinthine web of textual sources it would probably take years to map them all. But something tells me this is not the point. Maidenhair is not a puzzle wanting to be solved; it is a blizzard waiting to be caught up in. Unlike, say, Finnegan's Wake, where with effort (arguably more than is worthwhile), a patient reader can crack Joyce's ingenious code, Maidenhair makes a different sort of demand upon the reader. It doesn't so much want to be unpicked (or unlocked) as it wants to be caught up or swept away with. The book is intricate and complex, at times baffling. But it is not obtuse. The modernist and experimental structure of Maidenhair is not a riddle that demands to be broken in order for the book to be understood. We are not trying to un-clutter it in order to reveal its truth because that truth lies in the accumulative power of all the (beautiful) clutter. Arguably, this makes it one of the more easy-to-read books that are difficult-to-read. You don't have to understand it; you just have to be willing to interpret.
It is possible to see each of the ostensibly separate narrative strains of the novel as emanating from the mind or activities of the Interpreter himself. We are given, for example, transcripts of the hearings he is attending, and these are often blended with other stories - letters he is writing in the form of re-imagined Greek histories to his son (whom he calls Nebuchadnezzasaurus); nostalgic reminiscences about his marriage and early life; research into Tungols and Orochs; and the memoirs of a Soviet era singer whose biography he has been commissioned to write (and whose diary entries form the second largest amount of pages within the book). Seeing these narrative strains as emanating from the life and consciousness of the Interpreter is helpful to a degree. It illustrates the ways that texts and stories we hear interact and mutate in our minds, blending with our own memories, and blending with the stories we tell ourselves, until the lines get blurred about where these stories begin and end, where they are real and where they are imagined. Shishkin presents story and character as fluid concepts, embodying the existential longing and struggle of us all.
But it seems wrong to view the novel as predominantly concerned with the way we (as individuals) personalize, conflate and hybridize the stories we hear. To me Maidenhair is more about the way that story itself grows, conflates and hybridizes. Story is alive in this novel as a character. No story is ever new, nobody is ever the first person to tell it, or have it happen to them. Everything is a replica. The Interpreter traipses around Rome searching for the ancient city he expects to find there, and searching for the lost love he once had with his wife. But even in a city as ancient as Rome, he can't find anything original.
As the book progresses, the myriad stories that have been spiraling no longer remain within their lines, or within their de-marked sections; and they begin to run and bleed into one another, like mixed paints. Characters, objects and events from one or other of the main narratives, like escaped animals, run away from their contexts - from the histories, locations, characters, myths and memories to which they relate - and begin to pop up in others. By the time we reach the end, these stories have broken so free of their contextual shackles they simply pour all over the page. It is dizzying and astonishing. The stories have gotten shorter and shorter until they are no more than brief sentences. The sensation is powerful; the same eternal story is being told over again and over again, the individual details, locations, people and time have all fallen away. Story is telling itself to itself. We are left with an echo of the universal hum.
This author is an incredible discovery for me. I highly recommend this unique book. Nobody is writing like this anywhere anymore, are they? If they are, please somebody tell me. This brilliant author will surely win the Nobel. My advice to a fellow reader is: don't get hung up on trying to understand the flummoxing parts. Think of it more like listening to music - the prose is that good. And when it feels a little odd or difficult, remember that the experience you are having is the very subject of the book. The words beyond speech. Shishkin is trying to show us something invisible, he is not explaining something.
March 15, 2018
Marturisesc ca m-am apucat de carte cu oarecare stringere de inima; e voluminoasa si am primit-o in dar, nu a fost alegerea mea. In plus, citisem despre scriitor ca e foarte apreciat, in Elvetia unde s-a retras, si mi-era teama sa nu fie 鈥漨are鈥� numai prin opozitie politica.
Nu, nu-i mare numai prin opozitie politica... Are o forta izbitoare (la propriu) de exprimare, de sugerare, de inlantuire de povesti. Multa vreme m-am intrebat de unde vine titlul romanului si la un moment dat mi-am zis ca din impletirea povestilor, ca la acele 鈥渇emei... cu cozile impletite pentru somn鈥�(gratioasa imagine, in simplitatea ei). Revelatia vine in ultimele pagini, si nu e cum mi-am imaginat eu, dar e perfect coerenta cu viziunea transmisa de scriitor (si nu o s-o divulg eu aici).
Obsesiile
Simultaneitatea - a intimplarilor, a vietilor, a istoriilor; chiar si suprapunerea locurilor in aceasta simultaneitate (care o fi cuvintul corespunzator lui 鈥渟imultan鈥� despre spatiul fizic?).
Asa ca in roman grecii vechi se intilnesc cu cecenii, intr-un mod foarte natural, de exemplu. Duce aceasta obsesie Siskin pina la a simula invierea mortilor, cu ce s-ar intimpla atunci, cum s-ar petrece lucrurile... In intensitatea acestei scene, si a altor citorva, mi-am amintit de in viziunile sale din 鈥淥rbitor鈥�.
Forta creatoare a scrisului 鈥� timpul este material si materialitatea ii este literalitatea lui.
Visele 鈥� o alta dimensiune exploatata de Siskin, cu caderea din realitate in vis, saltul intre vise, intre un 鈥渆u鈥� si alt 鈥渆u鈥�, cu revenire si inchiderea buclei. Noroc ca imi permite timpul sa citesc si re-citesc in toate sensurile cartea, fara graba si intreruperi, altele decit cele pe care mi le impun. Altfel as ceda sau m-as limita la una din caracterizarile de pe coperta a patra 鈥渃inci sute de pagini de placere pura鈥�. Daca am pomenit mai sus de Mircea Cartarescu, ma simt obligata sa spun aici ca universul visului la scriitorul roman este de cu totul alta factura si amplitudine (pe scurt 鈥� il prefer :)).
Povestile
Utilizind personajul interpretului de limba rusa dintr-un centru de azilanti elvetian care inregistreaza declaratiile solicitatorilor de azil, scriitorul ne poarta prin toate grozaviile prin care a trecut Rusia in secolul XX la ea acasa si aiurea (razboiul civil pe fondul revolutiei bolsevice, razboaiele mondiale, razboiul din Cecenia, cel din Afganistan etc.) lasindu-ne sa ne tragem sufletul intre acestea cu povesti de dragoste adolescentine, de la inceputul secolului, in provincialul Rostov, sau mai mature si cu crizele de rigoare, in cadru petersburgez, moscovit, dar mai ales roman sau parizian.
Scenele de razboi sint atroce,cu haosul care domneste peste tot, boala, mizerie, dezumanizare si apocalipsa suferintelor civililor, copiilor, femeilor, cum rusii stiu prea bine sa arate (parca vizionam 鈥淒u-te si vezi!鈥� de Elem Klimov). Aspecte mai putin intilnite in romanele de razboi 鈥渢raditionale鈥� (sa le spunem asa), isi gasesc locul in paginile romanului lui Siskin: razbunari meschine acolo unde legile umane spun ajutor neconditionat, lipsa de coordonare intre front si spatele acestuia, batjocura aliatilor etc.
In plus, scriitorul surprinde complicate raporturi inter-umane, de pilda in sinul trupelor deplasate in Afganistan sau in regimul penitenciar, cu descrieri insolite, minutioase, realiste pina la naturalism ale slabiciunilor omenesti morale (鈥渢rei fabuloase sute de dolari鈥�), fizice (moartea batrinei cintarete), ale naturii si ale mediului sau de viata (mirosul moscovit al scarilor de bloc).
***
Lectura ofera o traire intensa, imagini surprinzatoare si coplesitoare. Exhaustivitatea demersului scriitorului poate fi obositoare, totusi.
Nu, nu-i mare numai prin opozitie politica... Are o forta izbitoare (la propriu) de exprimare, de sugerare, de inlantuire de povesti. Multa vreme m-am intrebat de unde vine titlul romanului si la un moment dat mi-am zis ca din impletirea povestilor, ca la acele 鈥渇emei... cu cozile impletite pentru somn鈥�(gratioasa imagine, in simplitatea ei). Revelatia vine in ultimele pagini, si nu e cum mi-am imaginat eu, dar e perfect coerenta cu viziunea transmisa de scriitor (si nu o s-o divulg eu aici).
Obsesiile
Simultaneitatea - a intimplarilor, a vietilor, a istoriilor; chiar si suprapunerea locurilor in aceasta simultaneitate (care o fi cuvintul corespunzator lui 鈥渟imultan鈥� despre spatiul fizic?).
Asa ca in roman grecii vechi se intilnesc cu cecenii, intr-un mod foarte natural, de exemplu. Duce aceasta obsesie Siskin pina la a simula invierea mortilor, cu ce s-ar intimpla atunci, cum s-ar petrece lucrurile... In intensitatea acestei scene, si a altor citorva, mi-am amintit de in viziunile sale din 鈥淥rbitor鈥�.
Forta creatoare a scrisului 鈥� timpul este material si materialitatea ii este literalitatea lui.
鈥淧isica noastra ..., mijindu-si ochii si intinz芒ndu-se pe genunchii tai, isi scoate ghiarele ca niste ghilimele.鈥� (p.440)Scriitorul isi atribuie capacitatea de a face personajele sa traiasca din virful penitei lui, asa cum scrie, si de a le face sa fie constiente de aceasta 鈥� e fascinat si fascinant.
鈥淎 doua zi dimineata, c芒mpia este scrisa pe curat cu un scris mare omatos. Umbra unui norisor a legalizat zapada ca o stampila. ... Cum te uiti la st芒lpii fugari, ingheata in forma literei lambda. ... Capatul lumii trece pe aici, vedeti, unde se termina cuvintele. ... Aici totul este literal. ... Timpul e literal, eu scriu pagina asta si viata mea s-a lungit cu aceste litere, iar viata celui care citeste acum literele acestea s-a scurtat.鈥�(p.441)
鈥�... norii fusesera alungati, cite balti, at芒tea citate instelate.鈥�(p.446)
Visele 鈥� o alta dimensiune exploatata de Siskin, cu caderea din realitate in vis, saltul intre vise, intre un 鈥渆u鈥� si alt 鈥渆u鈥�, cu revenire si inchiderea buclei. Noroc ca imi permite timpul sa citesc si re-citesc in toate sensurile cartea, fara graba si intreruperi, altele decit cele pe care mi le impun. Altfel as ceda sau m-as limita la una din caracterizarile de pe coperta a patra 鈥渃inci sute de pagini de placere pura鈥�. Daca am pomenit mai sus de Mircea Cartarescu, ma simt obligata sa spun aici ca universul visului la scriitorul roman este de cu totul alta factura si amplitudine (pe scurt 鈥� il prefer :)).
Povestile
Utilizind personajul interpretului de limba rusa dintr-un centru de azilanti elvetian care inregistreaza declaratiile solicitatorilor de azil, scriitorul ne poarta prin toate grozaviile prin care a trecut Rusia in secolul XX la ea acasa si aiurea (razboiul civil pe fondul revolutiei bolsevice, razboaiele mondiale, razboiul din Cecenia, cel din Afganistan etc.) lasindu-ne sa ne tragem sufletul intre acestea cu povesti de dragoste adolescentine, de la inceputul secolului, in provincialul Rostov, sau mai mature si cu crizele de rigoare, in cadru petersburgez, moscovit, dar mai ales roman sau parizian.
Scenele de razboi sint atroce,cu haosul care domneste peste tot, boala, mizerie, dezumanizare si apocalipsa suferintelor civililor, copiilor, femeilor, cum rusii stiu prea bine sa arate (parca vizionam 鈥淒u-te si vezi!鈥� de Elem Klimov). Aspecte mai putin intilnite in romanele de razboi 鈥渢raditionale鈥� (sa le spunem asa), isi gasesc locul in paginile romanului lui Siskin: razbunari meschine acolo unde legile umane spun ajutor neconditionat, lipsa de coordonare intre front si spatele acestuia, batjocura aliatilor etc.
In plus, scriitorul surprinde complicate raporturi inter-umane, de pilda in sinul trupelor deplasate in Afganistan sau in regimul penitenciar, cu descrieri insolite, minutioase, realiste pina la naturalism ale slabiciunilor omenesti morale (鈥渢rei fabuloase sute de dolari鈥�), fizice (moartea batrinei cintarete), ale naturii si ale mediului sau de viata (mirosul moscovit al scarilor de bloc).
***
Lectura ofera o traire intensa, imagini surprinzatoare si coplesitoare. Exhaustivitatea demersului scriitorului poate fi obositoare, totusi.
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April 24, 2013On April 4th the Center for the Art of Translation in San Francisco presented a discussion moderated by Scott Esposito with the Russian writer Mikhail Shishkin, and his American translator, Marian Schwartz. Shishkin, who is considered one of the major contemporary writers (and not only in Russia), is a charming, intelligent interlocutor. He now lives in Switzerland, where he worked for several years as an interpreter. It is very important for a writer, Shishkin said, to live abroad because otherwise it鈥檚 like living in a house without mirrors. Then, he added that if he could, he would make it obligatory for everybody to live abroad for several years. In other words: one needs to live abroad in order to see himself and his compatriots with the eyes of another. Since in the case of a writer, the experience of physical dislocation becomes entangled with that of linguistic estrangement, this experience has made Shishkin 鈥渦nderstand that to write means to create language.鈥� 鈥淎 writer resurrects dead words,鈥� Shishkin said. The words that we normally take for granted are, as it were, dead, and it鈥檚 only when we move away from them鈥攁nd what better way of moving away than living abroad, in a foreign language?鈥攖hat we can give them back their freshness.
The discussion continued with a more political topic: Shishkin has recently made public his decision not to represent Russia at this year鈥檚 BEA in New York (where Russia is a guest) because he doesn鈥檛 want to 鈥渂e the human face of Putin鈥檚 regime.鈥� His decision has created, apparently, a big controversy in Russia. Shishkin ended his comments with a revealing point about Russian culture, in which there has always been a dichotomy between the Tsar and the Poet: 鈥淭he Poet always wins!鈥�
I bought a copy of his 506-page novel, Maidenhair. As I write this, I am at page 258, and I can honestly say I may not finish it. Let me make this clear: this is a very good novel, and as far as I can tell, the translation does it justice. But it is also a very complex and complicated novel (poor Scott Esposito stated a few times during their discussion that the novel was difficult, and the author interrupted him abruptly with a, 鈥淣o, it is not difficult!鈥�) and it demands a lot of patience. The novel moves between interviews with Russian and former Soviet citizens who are trying to get political asylum in Switzerland, and the diary of a Russian singer from early 20th century, whose biography the interpreter once considered writing (as Shishkin, the protagonist is an interpreter of Russian origin). Also, in between, we have scenes from the interpreter鈥檚 personal life (narrated to a mysterious 鈥淣ebuchadnezzasaurus鈥濃€攁 very puzzling character until a minute ago when I read the back cover and discovered that he is the interpreter鈥檚 son!). What complicates all these intermingled stories is that the present is sometimes written from the perspective of the past, that is, various characters from the present are presented are characters in a Persian war, so in the end, it鈥檚 hard to tell who鈥檚 who. But this should not deter you from reading (and finishing) this amazing novel. I have two huge piles of books I have to read in the next few months, and alas, only one life.
The discussion continued with a more political topic: Shishkin has recently made public his decision not to represent Russia at this year鈥檚 BEA in New York (where Russia is a guest) because he doesn鈥檛 want to 鈥渂e the human face of Putin鈥檚 regime.鈥� His decision has created, apparently, a big controversy in Russia. Shishkin ended his comments with a revealing point about Russian culture, in which there has always been a dichotomy between the Tsar and the Poet: 鈥淭he Poet always wins!鈥�
I bought a copy of his 506-page novel, Maidenhair. As I write this, I am at page 258, and I can honestly say I may not finish it. Let me make this clear: this is a very good novel, and as far as I can tell, the translation does it justice. But it is also a very complex and complicated novel (poor Scott Esposito stated a few times during their discussion that the novel was difficult, and the author interrupted him abruptly with a, 鈥淣o, it is not difficult!鈥�) and it demands a lot of patience. The novel moves between interviews with Russian and former Soviet citizens who are trying to get political asylum in Switzerland, and the diary of a Russian singer from early 20th century, whose biography the interpreter once considered writing (as Shishkin, the protagonist is an interpreter of Russian origin). Also, in between, we have scenes from the interpreter鈥檚 personal life (narrated to a mysterious 鈥淣ebuchadnezzasaurus鈥濃€攁 very puzzling character until a minute ago when I read the back cover and discovered that he is the interpreter鈥檚 son!). What complicates all these intermingled stories is that the present is sometimes written from the perspective of the past, that is, various characters from the present are presented are characters in a Persian war, so in the end, it鈥檚 hard to tell who鈥檚 who. But this should not deter you from reading (and finishing) this amazing novel. I have two huge piles of books I have to read in the next few months, and alas, only one life.
June 1, 2015
螖蠉蟽魏慰位伪 渭蟺慰蟻蔚委 谓伪 纬蟻维蠄蔚喂 魏伪谓蔚委蟼 魏蟻喂蟿喂魏萎 纬喂伪 苇谓伪 蟿苇蟿慰喂慰 尾喂尾位委慰 纬喂伪蟿委 未蔚谓 尉苇蟻蔚喂 伪蟺蠈 蟺慰蠀 谓伪 尉蔚魏喂谓萎蟽蔚喂 魏伪喂 蟺慰蠀 谓伪 蟿蔚位蔚喂蠋蟽蔚喂. 韦伪 胃苇渭伪蟿伪 蟺慰蠀 蟺蟻伪纬渭伪蟿蔚蠉蔚蟿伪喂 蔚委谓伪喂 蟺伪纬魏蠈蟽渭喂伪: 慰 胃维谓伪蟿慰蟼, 畏 味蠅萎, 慰 蟺蠈谓慰蟼, 畏 蠂伪蟻维, 慰 苇蟻蠅蟿伪蟼, 畏 伪谓胃蟻蠋蟺喂谓畏 魏伪蟿维蟽蟿伪蟽畏 喂未蠅渭苇谓伪 伪蟺蠈 未喂伪蠁慰蟻蔚蟿喂魏萎 纬蠅谓委伪 魏维胃蔚 蠁慰蟻维.
螘委谓伪喂 苇谓伪 尾喂尾位委慰 蟺慰蠀 魏维蟺慰喂慰蟼 蟺蟻苇蟺蔚喂 谓伪 蠂伪胃蔚委 渭苇蟽伪 蟿慰蠀 魏伪喂 谓伪 蠂伪蟻蔚委 蟿慰 蠁喂位慰蟽慰蠁喂魏蠈 蟿伪尉委未喂 蟺慰蠀 蟺蟻慰蟽蠁苇蟻蔚喂 魏伪喂 谓伪 蟽魏蔚蠁蟿蔚委 魏伪喂 委蟽蠅蟼 伪谓伪蟿蟻苇蠄蔚喂 蟿畏 未喂魏萎 蟿慰蠀 魏慰蟽渭慰胃蔚蠅蟻委伪. 螖蔚谓 渭蟺慰蟻蠋 谓伪 渭畏谓 蟽畏渭蔚喂蠋蟽蠅 蟿畏 胃伪蠀渭维蟽喂伪 蟺蟻蠈味伪 魏伪喂 蟿畏 蠁慰尾蔚蟻萎 蟿蔚蠂谓喂魏萎 蟿慰蠀 危委蟽魏喂谓.
危蠀蟽蟿萎谓蔚蟿伪喂 蟽蟿慰谓 伪谓伪纬谓蠋蟽蟿畏 蟺慰蠀 未蔚谓 蠁慰尾维蟿伪喂 蟿畏谓 蟺蟻蠈魏位畏蟽畏 魏伪喂 伪谓伪味畏蟿维 苇谓伪 未喂伪蠂蟻慰谓喂魏蠈 魏伪喂 蟺慰位位伪蟺位蠈 蟽蔚 蔚蟺委蟺蔚未伪 尾喂尾位委慰.
螘委谓伪喂 苇谓伪 尾喂尾位委慰 蟺慰蠀 魏维蟺慰喂慰蟼 蟺蟻苇蟺蔚喂 谓伪 蠂伪胃蔚委 渭苇蟽伪 蟿慰蠀 魏伪喂 谓伪 蠂伪蟻蔚委 蟿慰 蠁喂位慰蟽慰蠁喂魏蠈 蟿伪尉委未喂 蟺慰蠀 蟺蟻慰蟽蠁苇蟻蔚喂 魏伪喂 谓伪 蟽魏蔚蠁蟿蔚委 魏伪喂 委蟽蠅蟼 伪谓伪蟿蟻苇蠄蔚喂 蟿畏 未喂魏萎 蟿慰蠀 魏慰蟽渭慰胃蔚蠅蟻委伪. 螖蔚谓 渭蟺慰蟻蠋 谓伪 渭畏谓 蟽畏渭蔚喂蠋蟽蠅 蟿畏 胃伪蠀渭维蟽喂伪 蟺蟻蠈味伪 魏伪喂 蟿畏 蠁慰尾蔚蟻萎 蟿蔚蠂谓喂魏萎 蟿慰蠀 危委蟽魏喂谓.
危蠀蟽蟿萎谓蔚蟿伪喂 蟽蟿慰谓 伪谓伪纬谓蠋蟽蟿畏 蟺慰蠀 未蔚谓 蠁慰尾维蟿伪喂 蟿畏谓 蟺蟻蠈魏位畏蟽畏 魏伪喂 伪谓伪味畏蟿维 苇谓伪 未喂伪蠂蟻慰谓喂魏蠈 魏伪喂 蟺慰位位伪蟺位蠈 蟽蔚 蔚蟺委蟺蔚未伪 尾喂尾位委慰.
March 11, 2018
I was so excited about reading this book because I LOVE LOVE LOVE Shishkin's *The Light and the Dark*. Unfortunately, I c-r-a-w-l-e-d through this one (his debut). The book is fragmented in a way that could be really cool but mostly felt really pretentious. The parts that I loved were perfected in *The Light and the Dark*. I will definitely read his third novel whenever it comes out, but I am glad that I read his second novel first. I highly recommend TLITD, but I will not be recommending his first.
October 9, 2009
There is no coherent story line but you can slowly drink the prose as wine and enjoy every gulp!
September 22, 2024
Trudna powie艣膰. Skomplikowana, szorstka w odbiorze i bardzo rosyjska. Cho膰 nowoczesna w formie, niemal postmodernistyczna to jednocze艣nie tradycyjna, klasyczna. Stawiaj膮ca na obrazy tego jaki wiek XX by艂 dla Rosjan i ich kraju. I mimo 偶e autor stawia tu na s艂owo, jego wskrzeszenie, rol臋 jako dzie艂a sztuki, nie wiadomo czy dobrze odbierzemy W艂os Wenery, bo ka偶dy z nas przeczyta go inaczej, za ka偶dym razem kiedy otworzy t臋 ksi膮偶k臋, szczeg贸lnie kiedy nie jest Rosjaninem. To jest prawdziwa uczta dla czytelnika, przygoda intelektualna, gdzie historie emigrant贸w mieszaj膮 si臋 z wstrz膮saj膮cym realizmem, 艂膮cz膮cym si臋 z elementami ba艣niowej fantastyki czy nawet opowie艣ciami onirycznymi. To jest te偶 troch臋 traktat teologiczny i rzecz o blisko艣ci, czasem ca艂kiem obcych sobie ludzi, cz臋艣ciej kobiety i m臋偶czyzny, czego skutkiem mo偶e by膰 mi艂o艣膰. Wszystko opowiedziane jest tu bogatym s艂ownictwem z subtelnym psychologizmem. Ta mieszanka styl贸w i narracji ma za zadanie obja艣nienie nam 艣wiata pisarza, wyt艂umaczenie tego jak on go widzi i Szyszkin robi to nadzwyczaj dobrze, o czym 艣wiadczy to, 偶e tak jak wspomnia艂em, ka偶dy ma tu pole do swojej interpretacji, swojej perspektywy i r贸偶nego odbioru s艂贸w pisarza. A chyba tym cechuje si臋 wielka literatura i ksi膮偶ki, kt贸re mog膮 by膰 dla nas czym艣 wa偶nym, do kt贸rych lubimy wraca膰, obja艣niaj膮ce nam 艣wiat, a przez to troch臋 nas samych. Pozwalaj膮ce zrozumie膰 nasze motywy i dzia艂ania, nasze reakcje. Tak膮 powie艣ci膮 jest W艂os Wenery, na kt贸r膮 jak najbardziej warto zwr贸ci膰 uwag臋. Polecam!!!
Za ksi膮偶k臋 dzi臋kuj臋 @takczytam.poznan
Za ksi膮偶k臋 dzi臋kuj臋 @takczytam.poznan
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