Å·±¦ÓéÀÖ

My third Turgenev, and I would probably place it right about there in terms of ranking. Fathers and Sons was superb, and First Love was decent. This one I can’t seem to gauge well. On the one hand, it promises so much. The countryside setting is one that we have encountered in countless Russian novels, so we would be forgiven for projecting hopes and aspirations onto its estates and gardens. The characters are perhaps the predecessors to key figures in the Russian literary landscape. And the promise of romance! So intoxicating. However, while I don’t believe that this novel necessarily “fails� at anything that it attempts, I do think that the promise of the setting is evaporated, the hope for the characters is burst, and the romance� well, I am not sure. Lavretsky and Lemm seem like compelling figures. We are given two massive anchors of exposition on each. And then they sputter out.

I think that’s ultimately the issue with this book: sputtering out. I don’t hate it, I don’t love it. The prose compels me to go on, so that’s a plus. But as I go on, there is a dull buildup of muted emotion behind my eyes, one that questions my inability to put down the book and walk away. I don’t have an answer. My final impression is perhaps the most insulting one that can be said about a piece of art: I doubt I will remember it in a month.