Yuz Aleshkovsky (1929–2022)

Two filthy and fairly funny novellas from samizdat specialist and exponent of skaz and mat Yuz Aleshkovsky. Neither of these are as well-realised as his novel Kangaroo, but they are still pretty sharp. Nikolai Nikolaevich is the tale of a pickpocket/jailbird who is recruited as a sperm donor for a project to seed Soviet life in the Andromeda galaxy. Nikolai's voice is about 33% expletives and gulag slang which is only partially translatable. But a hell of a lot happens; there's even a rather touching love story amidst the masturbatory mayhem. Camouflage is told by the alcoholic Fedka Milashkin who's convinced that the squalor and desperation of everyday life in his generic Soviet city is all just "camouflage" to prevent American spy satellites from picking up on the military-industrial marvels taking place under the surface. This one features a brutal twist on Lysistrata and some punchy Politburo parody. It's kind of tiring to read, and loses a lot in translation despite Duffield White's best efforts, but the introduction and notes make up for that.… (plus d'informations)

Written in a wayward, oral style, the official term is Skaz --which to an American reader, which is what it might be if Holden Caufield was sent to the gulag and upon his release finds himself less concerned with the crummy than with the shitty lies at the core of the Soviet Experiment.

A career criminal/confidence man is hauled in by the KGB dragnet just after the end of the Great Patriotic War (WW II) charged with the rape and murder of a kangaroo sometime between 1789 and 1905. The satire escalated as the criminal receives shock treatment where upon his reality begins to fissure. He’s sent to the camps where his delirium finds him in detente with Hitler and Churchill before suddenly becoming aware that Stalin’s right foot is espousing counter revolutionary slogans. The criminal—upon escaping that contradiction— finds himself involved in a film production of his exploits, does this situation explain his previous experiences? Periodically point of view appears to surface, coming up for air before an ribald episode combusts in a shower of literary bewilderment. Kangaroo is a denouncement in the greasepaint of self criticism.… (plus d'informations)

“Let’s begin at the beginning, Kolya, though I really have no idea whether this ridiculous story can have a beginning or an end at all . . .
That year—1949—I was the unhappiest man on earth. Maybe in the whole star system. Of course I was the only one who knew this, but then personal unhappiness isn’t like being world famous—you don’t need the recognition of all mankind for it.”

And so begins a novel written by another Russian author I’d never read until now. Absolutely hooked from the get-go. I wasn’t prepared for the rampant absurdity, its Skaz literary style, its pervasive language—especially the whole “fucking the kangaroo” thing. Most probably since I bought the book used years ago and don’t typically bother with the descriptions on dust jackets until I’m done reading. Whatever my expectations may have been, I can’t help but expect some brilliant lunacy from a Russian work published in the Eighties. Not very deep into this quirky work I found myself laughing out loud—and realized only then that I’d been smiling the whole time.

“Just before Kidalla came back, I spotted it—guess what, old buddy?—I spotted ‘Case of the vicious rape and murder of an aged kangaroo in the Moscow Zoo on a night between July 14, 1789, and January 9, 1905.’ I guess that dumb computer was probably mixing up the French Revolution with collective-farm workadays, my fingerprints, Bloody Sunday, Australian reactionaries, and the dangerous creation of the State of Israel. Anyway, it had printed out the very case I’d waited all those years for, hustling and screwing around. I start reading.”… (plus d'informations)