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Review: The Senility of Vladimir Putin

December 17, 2016 Reviews

By MICHAEL HONIG
Reviewed by OLGA ZILBERBOURG

Nikolai Sheremetev, the protagonist of British novelist’s Michael Honig’s second book, is a Moscow nurse. For six years, he’s been looking after a private patient suffering from dementia. The patient’s condition is deteriorating. Prior to his illness, Vladimir P. had been a president of Russia. After his confusion grew and he could no longer hold his own in public, he was quietly replaced by a member of his team and sent into retirement to a private estate near Moscow. As Vladimir’s mental acuity deteriorated, Sheremetev became the single point of contact between him and the outside world. Sheremetev manages his daily schedule, his medications, his rare outings.

The Next Thief of Magadan

November 1, 2016 Fiction, Issue 12, Issue 12 Fiction

By VLADISLAVA KOLOSOVA

The luxe door had cost them everything. Oak, with wooden lace. It gave the impression there was more behind it than:

one bed,

one couch,

one cupboard,

one telephone,

one twenty-year-old TV set at full volume, and

two eighty-three-year-old women.

He was the seventh thief in the last two years. They came as reliably as seasons.

Tolstoy’s Dumbbells

October 19, 2016 Dispatches

By KURT CASWELL

Right now in heaven, Tolstoy is playing with his dumbbells, even those little rounded weights he kept in his study at Yasnaya Polyana have come up with him into the cloud-city of the afterlife. In the spring of 2016, I toured his old house and the estate on which he lived, walked out through the green trees and the precision mosquitoes to his burial mound, a grass covered box-shaped hill on the ground where the great man went in. But why was he great, when so much of his life was spent—that little account of time we all bank on—in little rooms sitting in a chair made for children, propped up on a pillow, his waning eyesight pulling his face in ever closer to the page?

Review: Memories: From Moscow to the Black Sea

July 16, 2016 Reviews

Book by TEFFI (Translated from Russian by ROBERT and ELIZABETH CHANDLER, ANNE MARIE JACKSON, and IRINA STEINBERG)
Reviewed by OLGA ZILBERBOURG

Memories: From Moscow to the Black Sea Teffi, nom de plume of Nadezhda Lokhvitskaya, was born in 1872 into a prominent Russian family. Following in the footsteps of her older sister Maria—poet Mirra Lokhvitskaya—Teffi published poetry and prose from the age of 29. She soon rose to fame by practicing a unique brand of self-deprecating humor and topical social satire. In her 1907 hit one-act play The Woman Question, subtitled A Fantasy, Teffi imagined a world in which a women’s revolution against men achieves a full role reversal. Women come to occupy the prominent political, military, academic, professional, and bureaucratic roles, while men are subjugated to the childcare and household management tasks. Though the play’s ending largely dismisses this scenario and trivializes the feminist cause, through humor, the piece makes the point that bad behavior—infidelity, sexual harassment, excessive drinking, pettiness—is a function of social status rather than of biological sex.

I Went Sick as a Child

April 1, 2015 Issue 09, Issue 09 Poetry, Poetry, Translation

By ARSENY TARKOVSKY

Translated by VALZHYNA MORT

I went sick as a child

with hunger and fear. I’d rip the crust
of my lips—and lick my lips; I recall
the fresh and salty taste.
And I’m walking, I’m walking, walking,
I sit on the steps by the door, I bask,
I walk delirious, as if a rat catcher led me
by my nose into the river, I sit and bask
on the steps; I shiver this way and that.

from SANKYA

April 1, 2014 Fiction, Issue 07, Issue 07 Fiction, Translation

By ZAKHAR PRILEPIN

That winter they hired a small bus—Mother had suggested that Father should be buried in the village. Where he was born.

Sasha hadn’t argued.

“What do you think, son?” asked Mother in a completely unfamiliar tone. Until then, there had always been a man’s voice that had the final word in the house. Now, that voice was dead.

The Zoo

November 1, 2013 Issue 06, Issue 06 Poetry, Poetry, Translation

By MARIA STEPANOVA

For every beast of the forest is mine,

and the cattle upon a thousand hills.

Ps. 50:10

. . . And the vixen ascends, staggering,

On all her cinnamon-colored fours.

And the bear shifts his vision forward,

As if it’s a hop-fingered hand.

The Act of Darkness

November 1, 2013 Issue 06, Issue 06 Poetry, Poetry, Translation

By POLINA BARSKOVA

The dark-winged prostitutes at the bus station in Boston

Look like pleasure boats or better sharp-breasted bathing beauties

At full sail on the waters of Saint-Malo

But this analogy like cheap shorts is too tight

And chafes your thighs

After the USSR (Three Russian Poets)

November 1, 2013 Issue 06, Issue 06 Poetry, Poetry

By CATHERINE CIEPIELA

Polina Barskova, Anna Glazova, and Maria Stepanova belong to the last generation of Russian poets formed by the Soviet experience. Born in the 1970s, they are old enough to have visceral memories of Soviet life but young enough to move adeptly with the new influences, new media, and new choices introduced in the post-Soviet era. Educated in Soviet, European, and U.S. universities, they share a cerebral firepower they exercise in their chosen professions—Barskova and Glazova as scholars, teachers, and translators, Stepanova as an influential online journalist. Together they represent a contemporary Russian culture that extends beyond national borders: Barskova has immigrated to the U.S., Glazova is based in Germany, and Stepanova is a lifelong Muscovite.

Hermitage

September 11, 2013 Dispatches

By ELLIOTT HOLT

My friend K. and I traveled to St. Petersburg on the overnight train from Moscow, where I lived then. She had come from New York to visit me. It was December, 1997, and the cold was brutal, but you have to see the Hermitage, I said. So we took the train north and then, at dawn, made our way to the international youth hostel. It was the first one in Russia—opened in 1992—and like every hostel I’d visited, it was full of backpackers eager to tell us how much of the world they had seen. No one’s hostile in a hostel, I said to K. She and I had been out of college for just a couple of years; our fellow travelers were about our age. Many of them were from Australia and New Zealand. At breakfast that first morning— a room with tentative light and forlorn bowls of muesli—we met a young Japanese-Finnish woman. (Her parents were Japanese, but she’d been raised in Finland.) She had traveled from Helsinki, she told us, to photograph corpses.

All posts tagged: Russia

Review: The Senility of Vladimir Putin

The Next Thief of Magadan

Tolstoy’s Dumbbells

Review: Memories: From Moscow to the Black Sea

I Went Sick as a Child

from SANKYA

The Zoo

The Act of Darkness

After the USSR (Three Russian Poets)

Hermitage

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