Vladivostok Calling

Last year I wrote a "best of 2009" post for Arcade.  This year I want to do something different.  I want to share someone else's list.  Part of it, anyway.

Recently I stumbled across VladNews.ru, a Russian-language news portal focusing on the Pacific port city of Vladivostok and its hinterland.  On 17 December, it posted an amazingly long, lovingly detailed, anonymous year-in-review piece.

It goes on and on and on, including sections on literature, the internet, architecture, classical music, art, popular music, TV shows, "festival cinema," "blockbuster" films, theater, ballet, fashion, and design.

Here are the top ten literary highlights of 2010, as judged on the other side of the Pacific:

  1. Pelevin's Return.  Viktor Pelevin has published a new story collection, "Ананасная вода для прекрасной дамы" (Pineapple Water for the Wonderful Lady).  The master of post-Soviet postmodernist psychedelic prose is back and in fine form, paying more attention to characterization than previously.
  2. The Death of J.D. Salinger.  Everyone expected a scandal -- but there wasn't one.  No compromising unpublished letters made public.  No catty outbursts from neighbors or relatives.  The only revelation:  "He turns out to have been less reclusive than we thought."  Now that's the way all great writers should die.
  3. A New Style Emerges.  Anatolii Gavrilov's "Берлинская флейта" (The Berlin Flute) and Dmitrii Danilov's "Черное и зеленое" (Black and Green), both unusually minimalist and "lacking in intonation" compared to other recent high-profile Russian novels, were finalists for the Andrei Bely Prize, and Gavrilov's won.
  4. Vanguardism Lives.  The British writer Tom McCarthy's novel Remainder (2005) was translated into Russian.  It proves that the literary avant-garde is not yet dead:  new formal possibilities remain unexplored, especially the use of techniques borrowed from cinema.
  5. Dmitrii Volchek's Rant.  In an interview with the web site OpenSpace.ru, the editor Dmitrii Volchek savaged the literary mainstream in Russia and called the literary critics who pander to it "corrupt" and the labeled presses that publish such dreck "tasteless monsters."  Over thirty thousand people viewed his screed, and many left enthusiastic comments agreeing with him.
  6. Mario Vargas Llosa's Nobel Prize.  Finally, the Nobel shook off its recent tendency to give awards based purely on politics and lived up to its reputation as the "most important literary prize" in the world.  Instead of celebrating writers who are "practically unknown" in Russia--for example, Doris Lessing and J.M.G. Le Clézio--the committee at last chose somebody with a verifiably world-wide reputation.  "The unpleasant feeling of exclusion is replaced by a sense of belonging.  For this year, anyway."
  7. Jonathan Franzen's Freedom.  Freedom was the most eagerly anticipated American novel of the last decade, indeed one of the very few works by a living American writer ever to receive more attention from the Russian media than works by his Russian peers.  Unfortunately, great expectations can lead to great disappointment, as when a multi-page paraphrase of War and Peace proves so weirdly Amerocentric that it leads a character to go put an Obama bumpersticker on his hybrid car.
  8. Continuing Appeal of the Classics.  At bookfairs new writers were ignored in the rush to buy and read new publications by early twentieth-century masters such as the poet Aleksandr Vvedenskii, the novelist Andrei Platonov, the children's author Mikhail Pishvin, and the short story writer Sigizmund Krzhizhanovsky.
  9. Gotta Dance.  Two must-read books of 2010 were Tatiana Kuznetzova's "Хроники Большого балета. 1994-2009" (Chronicles of the Bolshoi Ballet 1994-2009) and "Разговоры о русском балете" (Conversations About Russian Ballet) by Vadim Gaievskii and Pavel Gershenzon.
  10. Revived Interest in Eastern Europe.  Strong sales of Michał Witkowski's Barbara Radziwiłłówna from Jaworzna-Szczakowej (2007) attracted attention to other books originally published in Polish, including Witkowski's earlier Lovetown (2005), about queer life in Cold War-era Poland, and Mariusz Szczygieł's Gottland (2006), a nonfiction book about Czech culture and history.  Also making an impression was De ce iubim femeile (Why We Love Women), a novel by the Romanian author Mircea Cărtărescu.  Clearly, VladNews asserts, it's time to stop feeling resentment toward the old Soviet bloc; it's helping launch a new era in European letters.

---------------

It's curious and instructive to see a year through very different eyes.  I'm now going to have to get my hands on Witkowski's Barbara Radziwiłłówna z Jaworzna-Szczakowej.  Or at least practice saying the title over and over.  And I can end 2010 contentedly, knowing that Franzen's Freedom is a bust in Russian, too.  I still haven't been able to read more than half of it.  I'd much rather get lost in one of Viktor Pelevin's "matrioshka dolls of endless nested realities."

 С новым годом! / Happy New Year!

Brian Reed's picture

OpenSource.Ru, an important web site for news regarding Russian art & literature & culture, has been allowing people to vote on what they consider "the best of 2010." According to their current tallies, the top 5 literary events of the year are:

(1) Elena Koliadina's Tvetochnyi Krest (Flowered Cross) wins the Russian Booker Prize. (The book is about love, sex, and religion & is written in an anachronistic style. Many critics reacted to its selection as winner with dismissive scorn, calling it boring, overheated, and lots of other less kind things.)

(2) The Russian government's strange silence regarding the centenary of Leo Tolstoy's death.

(3) The news from Amazon.com that e-books outsold print books in 2010.

(4) The publication of Aledksandr Vvedenskii's Vse (Everything). A variant on what I label above "The Continuing Appeal of the Classics."

(5) The selection of Mario Vargas Llosa for the Nobel Prize in Literature.

*I made a short list.

1. Book: The Waves (Virginia Woolf)
'To think I might have died without reading this book.........'
Something like that had actually passed my mind. Then, later, I thought hard about how I may praise it, praise it accurately: 'An overwhelmingly good book, with an overwhelming amount of good will'? (Oh, no!) 'A storm-like book. You will stagger under its force' (True, but, is this idiomatic English?) 'Life, most saturated'?? 'Life, lived dangerously and examined'?!? (Try as I might, I couldn't get any that seem to capture the book's brilliance.)

There is so much to admire. And admiring the book felt much like being under the influence. Bernard the writer in his final soliloquy: "But I now made the contribution of maturity to childhood's intuitions -- satiety and doom; the sense of what is unescapable in our lot; death." I read it and almost felt like 'howling': "It can't be any greater than this! SATIETY and DOOM! From CHILDHOOD'S INTUITIONS! CONSIDER THIS!" Then, sobering up, I would feel a little ashamed that that's how I felt about it. And then would get under the influence again.

2. Film: Margot at the Wedding (Noah Baumbach)
This was somehow evocative of Bonjour Tristesse. There was much to admire in this film, too, and at least one (from the boy's point of view) too painful to forget moment.

3. Passages: from "A Sketch of the Past," "Solid Objects," To the Lighthouse
Woolf in "A Sketch of the Past," says that her childhood, the summers spent at St. Ives, were "the best beginning to life conceivable." Among those that made it best: "to find a small fish flapping in a pool."

(*So some other passages from Woolf for those who used to love finding a small fish flapping in a pool).
John as he is being filled with wonder in "Solid Objects": "As his hand went further and further beyond the wrist, so that he had to hitch his sleeve a little higher, his eyes lost their intensity, or rather the background of thought and experience which gives an inscrutable depth to the eyes of grown people disappeared, leaving only the clear transparent surface, expressing nothing but wonder, which the eyes of young children display. No doubt the act of burrowing in the sand had something to do with it. He remembered that, after digging for a little, the water oozes round your finger-tips; the hole then becomes a moat; a well; a spring; a secret channel to the sea."

Nancy in To the Lighthouse creating a universe out of a pool and then watching it go back to the pool it is: "Nancy waded out to her own rocks and searched her own pools and let that couple look after themselves. She crouched low down and touched the smooth rubber-like sea anemones, who were stuck like lumps of jelly to the side of the rock. Brooding, she changed the pool into the sea, and made the minnows into sharks and whales, and cast vast clouds over this tiny world by holding her hand against the sun, and so brought darkness and desolation, like God himself, to millions of ignorant and innocent creatures, and then took her hand away suddenly and let the sun stream down. Out on the pale criss-crossed sand, high-stepping, fringed, gauntleted, stalked some fantastic leviathan (she was still enlarging the pool), and slipped into the vast fissures of the mountain side. And then, letting her eyes slide imperceptibly above the pool and rest on that wavering line of sea and sky, on the tree trunks which the smoke of steamers made waver upon the horizon, she became with all that power sweeping savagely in and inevitably withdrawing, hypnotised, and the two senses of that vastness and this tininess (the pool had diminished again) flowering within it made her feel that she was bound hand and foot and unable to move by the intensity of feelings which reduced her own body, her own life, and the lives of all the people in the world, for ever, to nothingness. So listening to the waves, crouching over the pool, she brooded."

*I thought this passage was unspeakably beautiful. Opening mouth after reading this felt impertinent.
Why is it that, by the way, while fish in a bowl isn't all that fascinating, fish in a pool on a beach is?

I came across this aphorism in Gravity and Grace yesterday and thought to myself, 'This is so about Woolf!':

Literature and morality. Imaginary evil is romantic and varied; real evil is gloomy, monotonous, barren, boring. Imaginary good is boring; real good is always new, marvelous, intoxicating. Therefore "imaginative literature" is either boring or immoral (or a mixture of both). It only escapes from this alternative if in some way it passes over to the side of reality through the power of art - and only genius can do that. (120)

Indeed, good in Woolf's works is often "new, marvelous, intoxicating."

Syndicate content