Articles tagged "Russian Literature"


Venedikt Erofeev’s “Walpurgis Night”

To those five-sixths parts of the world not encircled by Russian borders—borders that, for centuries, have flittered carelessly across map-faces like so many loose ribbons in the wind—at...

Russia is Restless: A Brooklyn Book Festival Event

On September 19, almost sixty people gathered at Karloff Restaurant in Brooklyn for dinner and conversation with exiled Uzbek writer and BBC reporter Hamid Ismailov and Russian-American novelist...

Mikhail Shishkin’s “The Light and the Dark”

Very rarely does a book aim to tell not only the story of its writer, but also that of its possible readers—all of them, including those who will never read it. Mihkail Shishkin’s The...

Writing without Smileys: Dmitri Novoselov on “Traders”

Recently I unwittingly offended a friend. He didn’t get the point of a joke I’d made in an e-mail and took it seriously instead. Later he called me to sort things out. I asked why...

On the Moscow Metro and Being Gay

In the catalogue of sins in his Divine Comedy, which is as random as it is insanely detailed, Dante found room for the sin that “dared not speak its name” long before Oscar...

Interview with Hamid Ismailov

Hamid Ismailov is an Uzbek journalist, novelist, poet and translator who was born in the Soviet Union in 1954 in what is now Kyrgyzstan. His poem "Lovers in Samarkand," co-translated by Richard...

Petroleum Venus

“Vanya, why are you sitting in the dark?” “I’m looking at the picture,” came the imperturbable reply. “What picture?” What new fantasy had come into...

None of Your Business

For a long time the fact that the Krivovs drank was something only their son knew. When it began, Yurka had just started first grade. In the beginning, the Krivovs were embarrassed by their disease...

Hello?

Have you ever traveled in an overcrowded bus? Rammed up against the window with your cheek squashed against the glass and the handrail bruising your ribs? No need to answer. Of course you have. No,...

An Uncoincidence, a Noncoincidence

An uncoincidence, a noncoincidence. Oh, how broad are the earth’s estates, oh, how unthinkable is grace here. How unobtrusive is God's care, how many reasons to sob inconsolably. You...

Drawings on a Soccer Ball

the last name of the player on the german team translates into russian as pig crawling up a blond graceful creature the polish boys got lost at the equator with nothing to breathe amidst...

Soul, you are a street

Soul, you are a street, leading into rain from the outskirts full of dry leaves: it is more humid closer to the central plaza—        I am a paving block and...

Just Gone to Bed

Just gone to bed Oh well, not turning the light on Barefoot Jerking the shin back from the cold rim And nothing Something gripes inside and However I strain doesn’t come Remembered in...

Babel in Paris

Babel loved plump women. Where there’s lots of flesh there’s lots of sweetness. Lots of warmth, heat, tenderness, there’s a caress of sunshine and a velvety splash of the sea....

From 2017

That night, under the muffled, machine-like sound of the rain, the professor dreamed that this woman had come to him. Naked and very skinny, she was as perfect as a Latin letter, a sample of a...

From “The Geographer Drank His Globe Away”

"Hey young fellow, it's your stop . . ." Sluzhkin was being prodded by the old guy on the opposite bench. He unglued his eyes, sprang onto his knees still in his sleeping bag, and shot a look...

The Siblings’ Watch

He walked, a flame before him, It seemed to have appeared behind one shoulder, then the other, There were not many people, there was no sun, before the demolition Of the house they stood the day...

Fragments from the Dollmaker’s Life

1 A woman tells the Dollmaker. —What happens in your shop Why do you spend all night and day in there It can't be for the sake of money You wouldn't have time to...

One Hundred and One Minutes . . .

. . . of sitting around the table and talking of voyages to faraway lands and strange events,—of how it all is, and how it may be, and how it always is, and, then again, infrequently; of...

The Brother’s Keeper

My brother ran away from me at Kursky. The depot then was an ordinary railroad station, not the modern monstrosity of cement and colored tile that it is today. It housed a crowd of people in its...

Farewell to the Queue

An era can be judged by street conversations. "Look, there's a line." "What're they giving out?" "Just get on it, then we'll find out." "How much should I get?" "As much as...

Ten Short Pieces

The Artist's Likeness Is Like an Artist This tale is rather old: Two painters wanted to see which of them could paint the painting that best imitated reality . . . One of the painters painted...

On the Use and Abuse of Letherburg for Life

You will have had no difficulty recognizing the German crib tacked onto Daniil Kharms's neologism in the title of my remarks. It is Nietzsche's essay "On the Use and Abuse of History for...

The Beginning

I wake up at eight a.m. On the sixteenth floor every day at eight a.m. Sorokin sneezes. After that, on the fifteenth floor, Aunt Masha falls out of bed. I wake up because I live on the fourteenth...

Milgrom

A girl is sewing herself a dress for the first time. She bought three meters of cheap fabric (just over a ruble a meter), but the fabric turns out to be surprisingly pretty, black with bright...

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