Un adolescent durant la guerra mata un home que després se'l troba en el seu entorn. Explica també la seva vida sentimental ja en l'edat adulta. ( )

Gazdanov's elegant writing, dreamy atmosphere, and slightly odd stories were thoroughly enjoyable. The narrator's philosophical wanderings about death and fate, though, felt a little tedious and familiar. ( )

The initial premise to this story is intriguing – during the Russian Civil War, a 16-year-old encounters an enemy soldier alone in the woods and shoots him, an event that changes him forever. It would be too simple to say he’s haunted by it, but as traumatic memories will do, it floats into his consciousness unprovoked years later, even after he’s settled in Paris as an émigré. The first line grabs you: “Of all my memories, of all life’s innumerable sensations, the most onerous was that of the single murder I had committed.” While no one was a witness, eerily enough he comes across a description of the encounter in a book, and seeks out the author, Alexander Wolf.

While Gazdanov meanders in the plot from there in ways that may be dissatisfying to the reader, there is an ephemeral, dream-like quality to his writing, and as in one of his other books, ‘The Buddha’s Return’, this one is highly philosophical. The narrator has a sense of detachment, a little cynicism, and a heightened awareness of the transience of life and the “constant, icy proximity to death”, even as he’s going through his ‘normal life’, reporting on boxing matches, sitting in cafes, and having a love affair. We wonder about the mystery behind Alexander Wolf, and whether he is a split personality, an actual ghost, or some symbol of life ending at pivotal moments and starting again anew. Meanwhile, the actual point of the book seems to be in dualities: randomness and coincidence, life and death, isolation and interconnectedness, chance and fate, passion and intellect, and of course, the narrator and Alexander Wolf. One gets the sense that Gazdanov himself didn’t know where to take his initial premise, but the book succeeds for me because of the intelligence of his ruminations.

Quotes:
On chance, and unforgettable moments:
“Right then, I was struck by the thought that if I wanted to explain fully why this had happened, how it had been possible and how I now came to find myself in the forest on a summer’s night, in the rain, with a woman of whose existence I had known nothing only a few months before (and yet without whom I was now unable to imagine my life), I would have to spend years labouring and taxing my memory. I would probably be able to write a few volumes on it into the bargain. How was it all possible, the steady rhythm of the rain, the feeling of this head resting in my lap – my muscles already begun to get used to the imprint made by this round, tender weight on them – this face I was looking at in the darkness, as if leaning over my own fate, and this unforgettable feeling of blissful plenitude?”

On the cycle of a day:
“When I wake up every morning, I think to myself, Today my life will begin in earnest. I’ll feel as though I’m not much older than sixteen again, and that man who has known so much tragedy and sadness, he who fell asleep in my bed the previous night, will seem alien and distant, and I’ll comprehend neither his inner weariness nor his frustration. Then, as I go to sleep every night, I feel as though I’ve lived a long life, and yet all I’ve taken from it is the loathing and burden of lingering years. And so the day passes.

On happiness:
“If we’re possessed of that tragic, ferocious courage that forces man to live with his eyes open, can we really ever be happy? It’s impossible even to imagine that the world’s most extraordinary people were happy. Shakespeare couldn’t have been happy. Nor could Michelangelo.”

On interconnectedness:
“Every human life is connected to other human lives, those in turn are connected with others, and when we reach the logical end of this sequence of interrelations, we approach the sum total of people inhabiting the vast surface of the terrestrial globe. The constant threat of death in all its endless diversity hangs over every man, every life: catastrophe, train crash, earthquake, tempest, war, illness, accident, all manifestations of a blind and merciless power, a peculiarity of which consists in our inability ever to predict the moment when it – this instantaneous break in the history of the world – will happen.”

On love:
“’Every love affair is an attempt to thwart fate; it’s a naïve illusion of brief immortality,’ he once said. ‘Nevertheless, it’s probably the best thing that we’re ever given to know.’”

On passion:
“She was lying supine, her arms behind her head, without the slightest hint of modesty, gazing at my face with her impossibly serene eyes – it seemed almost incredible. Even when I felt (and not for the first time in my life) that inexplicable synthesis of pure emotion and physical sensation filling not only my entire consciousness, but everything, everything without exception, even the farthest muscles of my body; even then, when she said, ‘You’re hurting me,’ with so languorous an intonation that it seemed entirely misplaced, betraying neither complaint nor protest; and even then, when she gave a spasmodic shudder – her eyes remained just the same: deathly still.” ( )

A forgotten Russian classic, recently reissued by Pushkin Press. The 'twist' at the heart of the story is less shocking than perhaps the author would have hoped, and generally the tone of the book puts this more in the 'minor classic' subcategory, but it is a worthwhile read for sure. ( )

Wonderful little novel that I will happily re-read sometime in the future. ( )