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Moscow to the End of the Line
In this classic of Russian humor and social commentary, a fired cable fitter goes on a binge and hops a train to Petushki (where his "most beloved of trollops" awaits). On the way he bestows upon angels, fellow passengers, and the world at large a magnificent monologue on alcohol, politics, society, alcohol, philosophy, the pains of love, and, of course, alcohol.
164 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1969
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About the author
Venedikt Erofeev
32 books115 followersVenedikt Vasilyevich Erofeev (Венедикт Ерофеев) was a Russian writer.
He managed to enter the philology department of the Moscow State University but was expelled from the University after a year and a half because he did not attend compulsory military training.
Later he studied in several more institutes in different towns including Kolomna and Vladimir but he has never managed to graduate from any, usually being expelled due to his "amoral behaviour" (freethinking).
Between 1958 and 1975 Yerofeyev lived without propiska in towns in Russia, Ukraine, Belarus and Lithuania, also spending some time in Uzbekistan and Tadjikistan, doing different low-qualified and underpaid jobs.
Yerofeyev is best known for his 1969 poem in prose Moscow-Petushki (several English translations exist, including Moscow to the End of the Line and Moscow Stations). It is an account of a journey from Moscow to Petushki (Vladimir Oblast) by train, a journey soaked in alcohol. During the trip, the hero recounts some of the fantastic escapades he participated in, including declaring war on Norway, and charting the drinking habits of his colleagues when leader of a cable laying crew.
Yerofeyev died of throat cancer.
He managed to enter the philology department of the Moscow State University but was expelled from the University after a year and a half because he did not attend compulsory military training.
Later he studied in several more institutes in different towns including Kolomna and Vladimir but he has never managed to graduate from any, usually being expelled due to his "amoral behaviour" (freethinking).
Between 1958 and 1975 Yerofeyev lived without propiska in towns in Russia, Ukraine, Belarus and Lithuania, also spending some time in Uzbekistan and Tadjikistan, doing different low-qualified and underpaid jobs.
Yerofeyev is best known for his 1969 poem in prose Moscow-Petushki (several English translations exist, including Moscow to the End of the Line and Moscow Stations). It is an account of a journey from Moscow to Petushki (Vladimir Oblast) by train, a journey soaked in alcohol. During the trip, the hero recounts some of the fantastic escapades he participated in, including declaring war on Norway, and charting the drinking habits of his colleagues when leader of a cable laying crew.
Yerofeyev died of throat cancer.
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November 2, 2024
Genre of drinking songs is known since the ancient times and by writing his drinking poem Venedikt Erofeev managed to widen boundaries of the genre significantly. Moscow to the End of the Line is written in a gloomy but frilly vers libre.
The protagonist awakens to a fine and crisp morning full of freshness…
And using commuter rail the hero embarks on the epochal suburban journey. And some local travels can be much more exotic than any voyages around the world… While travelling one may encounter a lot of intriguing fellow commuters…
And the travelled distance corresponds to the consumed liquor… And the more one drinks the stranger becomes the world and the more enigmatic turns reality…
Even the most hopeless boozers must have their romantic ideals…
The protagonist awakens to a fine and crisp morning full of freshness…
Oh, that morning burned in the heart! Oh, the illusory nature of calamity. Oh, the irretrievable! What’s worse about this burden which no one has yet called by any name, what’s worse – paralysis, or nausea? Nervous exhaustion or mortal sorrow somewhere in the region of the heart? But, if that all equal, then all the same what’s worse about it – tetanus, or fever?
And using commuter rail the hero embarks on the epochal suburban journey. And some local travels can be much more exotic than any voyages around the world… While travelling one may encounter a lot of intriguing fellow commuters…
The other passengers looked at me almost indifferently with their round, vacant eyes.
I like that. I like that my country’s people have such empty, bulging eyes. This instills in me a feeling of legitimate pride. You can imagine what the eyes are like where everything is bought and sold – deeply hidden, secretive, predatory and frightened. Devaluation, unemployment, pauperism… People look at you distrustfully, with restless anxiety and torment. That’s the kind of eyes they have in the world of Filthy Lucre.
And the travelled distance corresponds to the consumed liquor… And the more one drinks the stranger becomes the world and the more enigmatic turns reality…
If I should ever have any children, I’ll hang on their wall a portrait of the Procurator of Judaea, Pontius Pilate, so that they will grow up neat and clean. Procurator Pontius Pilate standing there washing his hands – that’s the right kind of portrait.
Even the most hopeless boozers must have their romantic ideals…
May 18, 2007
Imagine a drunken Dante on an epic railway journey to nowhere, pondering the merits of various cocktails made from furniture polishes and solvents, debating the meaning of life and the worth of his soul, hilarious and tragic by turns. That'll give you a rough idea of what it's like to fall into this book. A delight every time I reread it.
Read
March 19, 2020Maybe the best book about Brezhnev's Russia imaginable. If you are the kind of person who has ever got drunk with friends, stormed a police station and then declared war on Norway then you will find much here that is familiar.
It's a book rich in allusion starting from the title (Moscow to Petushki) and structure, which is reminiscent of Radishchev's Journey from St.Petersburg to Moscow,whose description of the country landed the author in a certain secure facility at the pleasure of her Imperial Highness Catherine II - it doesn't pay always to be too truthful about the homeland, but also in cocktail recipes (all of which are firmly in the 'do not try at home' category). My father once working with a pair of alcoholics asked them how do you know when you've become an alcoholic and got past the probationary period of merely being a heavy drinker, said the first: when you find yourself straining metal polish. To which the second said: Nah, nah, you know that you're an alcoholic when you drink your metal polish neat . And the cocktail recipes are much of that kind, combining eye watering products such as Soviet medicated shampoos, the spiritual states that one finds ones self in after drinking are thoroughly detailed for the readers enlightenment.
It's a drunken, tragic, comic book with some beautiful graphs plotting the daily drinking of a small team of theoretical cable layers who due to the drinking never seem to reach the phase of practical application. These graphs cost the narrator his job. That's the kind of story this is. In other words it is a story about Breshnev's Russia in which opting out is achieved curtsey of our old friend intoxicating liquor. But in a sense I've started this review from the bottom of the wrong glass. The narrator is on a train to visit his sweetheart, guarded by angels, with a bottle or two of spirits in his case in the event of the angels not being quite up to the job. He once worked laying cables in the vicinity of the Kremlin - a building he tells us repeatedly that he's never seen. The work is reflective of Breshnev's Russia, they do a day's work in good weather, then rain obliges them to shelter in their rest hut with a bottle of the good stuff. Rain ruins cable, requiring them to relay cable in good weather. Repeat.
Anyway a degree of freedom is achieved through enslavement to the bottle. While journeying towards Petushki, the narrator meets, inevitably, other drinkers, and has a close encounter with the ticket inspector whose awful authority is warded off only through a Sherizhardian story touching upon the conviction and obsessive fascination that the Soviet people the author says have that foreigners are forever engaged in homosexual activity, and the coming of the end times when the femme fatal of the east will remove her final veil - a prospect that even in imagination proves too overwhelming for the unfortunate conductor - again I offer this up as no substitute for responsible professional advice, I personally have stuck to buying a ticket - not that I wish to suggest that British train conductors are adverse to good rambling story.
Any way our narrator has a rich cultural conversation with his fellow band of drinkers in which the author discusses, possibly even invents, the concept of vicarious drunkenness - so for example Goethe in Faust can remain a teetotaller, or a modest imbiber because he has sub-contracted his hedonism to his characters - just as in The Glass Bead Game through careful yoga and long meditation one can explore and experience lives one will never live so too writing for Erofeev allows authors vicarious vices. By analogy one notes that but for the lucky circumstance of a market for crime fiction its authors would be dangerous people to live near to. He has for me an unforgettable paragraph on the prim and proper and entirely sober Rimsky-Korsakov coming across Modest Mussorgsky , drunk and asleep in a ditch, prodding him with his walking stick and telling him to get back to work on his immortal opera Khovanshchina, only as soon as Rimsky-Korsakov's back is turned Mussorsky abandons the working desk for the bottle. And that's the kind of book this is. Mussorsky due to excessive drinking died with most of his musical projects unfinished, the orchestration generally done by other far more restrained hands including Rimsky-Korsakov's . And in a way the entire novel is an indictment or perhaps a statement of the way things are - after a hard day one reaches for a glass, in a hard society one reaches for a bottle, and being prodded with an elegant walking stick doesn't really rearrange the fundamental experience of life.
It's a book rich in allusion starting from the title (Moscow to Petushki) and structure, which is reminiscent of Radishchev's Journey from St.Petersburg to Moscow,whose description of the country landed the author in a certain secure facility at the pleasure of her Imperial Highness Catherine II - it doesn't pay always to be too truthful about the homeland, but also in cocktail recipes (all of which are firmly in the 'do not try at home' category). My father once working with a pair of alcoholics asked them how do you know when you've become an alcoholic and got past the probationary period of merely being a heavy drinker, said the first: when you find yourself straining metal polish. To which the second said: Nah, nah, you know that you're an alcoholic when you drink your metal polish neat . And the cocktail recipes are much of that kind, combining eye watering products such as Soviet medicated shampoos, the spiritual states that one finds ones self in after drinking are thoroughly detailed for the readers enlightenment.
It's a drunken, tragic, comic book with some beautiful graphs plotting the daily drinking of a small team of theoretical cable layers who due to the drinking never seem to reach the phase of practical application. These graphs cost the narrator his job. That's the kind of story this is. In other words it is a story about Breshnev's Russia in which opting out is achieved curtsey of our old friend intoxicating liquor. But in a sense I've started this review from the bottom of the wrong glass. The narrator is on a train to visit his sweetheart, guarded by angels, with a bottle or two of spirits in his case in the event of the angels not being quite up to the job. He once worked laying cables in the vicinity of the Kremlin - a building he tells us repeatedly that he's never seen. The work is reflective of Breshnev's Russia, they do a day's work in good weather, then rain obliges them to shelter in their rest hut with a bottle of the good stuff. Rain ruins cable, requiring them to relay cable in good weather. Repeat.
Anyway a degree of freedom is achieved through enslavement to the bottle. While journeying towards Petushki, the narrator meets, inevitably, other drinkers, and has a close encounter with the ticket inspector whose awful authority is warded off only through a Sherizhardian story touching upon the conviction and obsessive fascination that the Soviet people the author says have that foreigners are forever engaged in homosexual activity, and the coming of the end times when the femme fatal of the east will remove her final veil - a prospect that even in imagination proves too overwhelming for the unfortunate conductor - again I offer this up as no substitute for responsible professional advice, I personally have stuck to buying a ticket - not that I wish to suggest that British train conductors are adverse to good rambling story.
Any way our narrator has a rich cultural conversation with his fellow band of drinkers in which the author discusses, possibly even invents, the concept of vicarious drunkenness - so for example Goethe in Faust can remain a teetotaller, or a modest imbiber because he has sub-contracted his hedonism to his characters - just as in The Glass Bead Game through careful yoga and long meditation one can explore and experience lives one will never live so too writing for Erofeev allows authors vicarious vices. By analogy one notes that but for the lucky circumstance of a market for crime fiction its authors would be dangerous people to live near to. He has for me an unforgettable paragraph on the prim and proper and entirely sober Rimsky-Korsakov coming across Modest Mussorgsky , drunk and asleep in a ditch, prodding him with his walking stick and telling him to get back to work on his immortal opera Khovanshchina, only as soon as Rimsky-Korsakov's back is turned Mussorsky abandons the working desk for the bottle. And that's the kind of book this is. Mussorsky due to excessive drinking died with most of his musical projects unfinished, the orchestration generally done by other far more restrained hands including Rimsky-Korsakov's . And in a way the entire novel is an indictment or perhaps a statement of the way things are - after a hard day one reaches for a glass, in a hard society one reaches for a bottle, and being prodded with an elegant walking stick doesn't really rearrange the fundamental experience of life.
September 28, 2020
Recently, I drank beer with a friend whose native language is Arabic. As our bottles clinked, I asked him if there was anything we could say in Arabic that would be appropriate, such as "cheers", na zdorovya, etc. “No”, he laughed, “it is prohibited!” I then asked if there was an Arabic word for "hangover." No, he said. Not even some sort of impolite or forbidden word, I asked, or a word to describe people from other countries who’ve had too much alcohol, and what they experience when they wake up the next morning? No one who spoke Arabic ever observed such a thing and wanted to describe it? The closest thing, he told me, is a word that simply means "out of one’s mind", which, from the perspective of a native English speaker, isn’t very close at all.
Yesterday I thought of this book, and I got to wondering how many words Russian has for "hangover." I know of one, bodoon, but I get the impression there may be others. On the last page of my used copy of Moscow to the End of the Line, or Moskva-Petushki, there is written in pencil, under the questions “make a fig?” and “money to buy drinks?”, a “recipe” for a drink called “Tear of a Komsomol Girl”, a recipe that looks to me like it’s potentially fatal. When I asked my Russian teacher about it, she said that people really drank things like this during the Soviet Union. She also said the book is one of her favorites.
I think I can understand why. Along with A Confederacy of Dunces, it’s one of the few genuinely funny books I’ve read- and like that book, also very sad. A man, having recently been fired from his job, gets on a train in Moscow, intending to go to Petushki- the end of the line. He meets all sorts of characters on the train, real and imagined, including, inevitably, the devil, who demands that the man answer impossible and scatological riddles.
I don’t want to spoil anything, but as the book went along, and the man got closer to his destination, I got a clearer understanding of what Yerofeyev was trying to do- and the sense of tragedy, of a life passing by in a haze, and the large-scale tragedy of Communism, became more apparent. The book is a little like a night of drinking heavily; everything at first seems enjoyable and humorous, then you start to feel depressed and vaguely ill, and realize you shouldn’t be urinating off the edge of the roof…and if you’ve really drunk too much, maybe you drift into some awful realm of the spirit like the one depicted in the last 20 or so pages. Maybe there’s a word for that in Russian.
I don’t know much about Yerofeyev’s life, but I get the sense that he lived his book. I watched a small part of a documentary about him, and when he was interviewed he was lying on a couch in his apartment, barely able to move, speaking through a hole in his throat. I don’t know how old he was at the time, but the back cover of the book says that he lived only to 55. Moscow to the End of the Line and Walpurgis Night, or The Steps of the Commander (which I haven’t yet read) seem to be the only novels of his translated into English. The back cover mentions two other titles with intriguing names, Annunciation and Notes of a Psychopath, but I don’t know if they’ve been translated.
August 23, 2021
Cînd s-a publicat prima dată, în 2006, traducerea acestui roman a iscat o înverșunată dispută literară. Unii au pretins că e vorba de o capodoperă, de o carte-cult. Alții au fost mai puțin entuziasmați: fac parte din rîndul acestor nefericiți...
Am impresia că narațiunea lui Erofeev vine din Gogol (dar nu cel din Suflete moarte, ci Gogol din Mantaua, din povestiri, deci), din Daniil Harms, poate și din Nabokov (cel din Invitație la eșafod, din Mașenka etc.), deși Nabokov e mai grav...
Venedikt Erofeev (1938 - 1990) a fost, desigur, un prozator foarte inteligent, bun manipulator de lecturi, ingenios (pagina cu întrebările Sfinxului e memorabilă, ca și sfîrșitul cărții), teribilist, ironic, pișicher. Dar poemul „metafizic" rămîne, am impresia, în pură gratuitate. Pînă la urmă, care e miza acestui exercițiu succint de virtuozitate narativă? Greu de spus...
În consecință: am citit romanul asemenea exegetului „realist" (incriminat de Emil Iordache într-o notă), care nu poate vedea, vai, în povestea lui Erofeev decît odiseea unui biet Villon născut „dincolo de cercul polar", într-o „mică stație de cale ferată"...
La o a doua lectură, pe paragrafe, mi-am propus să identific (la rîndu-mi) aluziile neremarcate de traducător și exegeți. Sau pe acelea care nu sînt semnalate înadins la subsol. Am identificat o aluzie la (vă vine să credeți?) marele Rabelais. Într-un pasaj, naratorul zice că a stat un timp în cameră, la Orehovo-Zuevo, cu patru buni amici. El era al cincilea. Se înțelegeau atît de bine încît dacă unul dintre cei cinci zicea: „Baieți, eu beau vin de Porto", toți, la unison, se sculau și beau vin de Porto. Dacă altul voia vodcă, toți beau vodca.
Pasajul în cauză este o parodie, probabil, a secțiunii despre mănăstirea de ambe sexe a fratelui Des Entommeurs, Thélème. Care avea drept suveran principiu invincibilul Fă ce-ți place! Și unde dacă unul zicea: „Mă culc", toți se culcau ca să-i facă pe plac. Numai că mănăstirea lui Erofeev conține, vedem, doar frați, nu și surori.
Mă amuz, așadar, vînînd presupuse aluzii intertextuale. Din păcate, nu sînt un bun cunoscător de literatura rusă și multe trimiteri îmi scapă. Traducătorul le-a subliniat doar pe cele din Lenin, Turgheniev, Gorki etc. nu și pe cele din scriitorii apuseni. Să mai vedem...
Am impresia că narațiunea lui Erofeev vine din Gogol (dar nu cel din Suflete moarte, ci Gogol din Mantaua, din povestiri, deci), din Daniil Harms, poate și din Nabokov (cel din Invitație la eșafod, din Mașenka etc.), deși Nabokov e mai grav...
Venedikt Erofeev (1938 - 1990) a fost, desigur, un prozator foarte inteligent, bun manipulator de lecturi, ingenios (pagina cu întrebările Sfinxului e memorabilă, ca și sfîrșitul cărții), teribilist, ironic, pișicher. Dar poemul „metafizic" rămîne, am impresia, în pură gratuitate. Pînă la urmă, care e miza acestui exercițiu succint de virtuozitate narativă? Greu de spus...
În consecință: am citit romanul asemenea exegetului „realist" (incriminat de Emil Iordache într-o notă), care nu poate vedea, vai, în povestea lui Erofeev decît odiseea unui biet Villon născut „dincolo de cercul polar", într-o „mică stație de cale ferată"...
La o a doua lectură, pe paragrafe, mi-am propus să identific (la rîndu-mi) aluziile neremarcate de traducător și exegeți. Sau pe acelea care nu sînt semnalate înadins la subsol. Am identificat o aluzie la (vă vine să credeți?) marele Rabelais. Într-un pasaj, naratorul zice că a stat un timp în cameră, la Orehovo-Zuevo, cu patru buni amici. El era al cincilea. Se înțelegeau atît de bine încît dacă unul dintre cei cinci zicea: „Baieți, eu beau vin de Porto", toți, la unison, se sculau și beau vin de Porto. Dacă altul voia vodcă, toți beau vodca.
Pasajul în cauză este o parodie, probabil, a secțiunii despre mănăstirea de ambe sexe a fratelui Des Entommeurs, Thélème. Care avea drept suveran principiu invincibilul Fă ce-ți place! Și unde dacă unul zicea: „Mă culc", toți se culcau ca să-i facă pe plac. Numai că mănăstirea lui Erofeev conține, vedem, doar frați, nu și surori.
Mă amuz, așadar, vînînd presupuse aluzii intertextuale. Din păcate, nu sînt un bun cunoscător de literatura rusă și multe trimiteri îmi scapă. Traducătorul le-a subliniat doar pe cele din Lenin, Turgheniev, Gorki etc. nu și pe cele din scriitorii apuseni. Să mai vedem...
May 14, 2018
E giù a bere
La leggenda di Venedikt Erofeev ci consegna un antieroe negativo, un nomade metafisico, un profeta illegittimo nell'oscura cultura sovietica, come ben testimoniano le voci raccolte dall'ottimo e vitale Paolo Nori. Mosca-Petuskì è il suo trattato sul fatalismo necessario, dallo stile enfatico e burlesco; si tratta di un libro basato sulla convinzione che “tutti gli uomini di valore in Russia bevono come spugne”, perché in un mondo di menzogne solo l'alcol non mente. Si diffuse clandestinamente come samizdat, diventando un classico in breve tempo. Poema dello zapoj, l'ubriacatura di lungo corso, ammirato da Eduard Limonov, è un testo dionisiaco e fantastico, che mescola in una ricetta surreale quanto realista compassione e derisione, oralità e poesia, celeste e infernale. Giocando tanto con Gogol che con Bulgakov, il delirante viaggio di un vagabondo muove dalla città alla periferia alla ricerca di una chimerica ragazza, tra metafore del mal di vivere e viscerali rivelazioni linguistiche, inserendo il racconto dentro un'incompiuta parodia del mondo e moltiplicandone le forme in modo comico e catastrofico. Erofeev riesce a creare con la sua visione un'intimità universale, mentre un riso cannibalesco travolge sia la letteratura che la rivoluzione, dando un senso doloroso e grottesco alla nostra transitoria interpretazione del vivere.
“Perché la vita umana, non è forse un breve ciclone dell'anima? E' anche un'eclissi dell'anima. E' come se tutti noi fossimo ubriachi, solo ognuno per conto suo, uno ha bevuto di più, l'altro di meno”.
La leggenda di Venedikt Erofeev ci consegna un antieroe negativo, un nomade metafisico, un profeta illegittimo nell'oscura cultura sovietica, come ben testimoniano le voci raccolte dall'ottimo e vitale Paolo Nori. Mosca-Petuskì è il suo trattato sul fatalismo necessario, dallo stile enfatico e burlesco; si tratta di un libro basato sulla convinzione che “tutti gli uomini di valore in Russia bevono come spugne”, perché in un mondo di menzogne solo l'alcol non mente. Si diffuse clandestinamente come samizdat, diventando un classico in breve tempo. Poema dello zapoj, l'ubriacatura di lungo corso, ammirato da Eduard Limonov, è un testo dionisiaco e fantastico, che mescola in una ricetta surreale quanto realista compassione e derisione, oralità e poesia, celeste e infernale. Giocando tanto con Gogol che con Bulgakov, il delirante viaggio di un vagabondo muove dalla città alla periferia alla ricerca di una chimerica ragazza, tra metafore del mal di vivere e viscerali rivelazioni linguistiche, inserendo il racconto dentro un'incompiuta parodia del mondo e moltiplicandone le forme in modo comico e catastrofico. Erofeev riesce a creare con la sua visione un'intimità universale, mentre un riso cannibalesco travolge sia la letteratura che la rivoluzione, dando un senso doloroso e grottesco alla nostra transitoria interpretazione del vivere.
“Perché la vita umana, non è forse un breve ciclone dell'anima? E' anche un'eclissi dell'anima. E' come se tutti noi fossimo ubriachi, solo ognuno per conto suo, uno ha bevuto di più, l'altro di meno”.
March 7, 2018
From the Author
--Moscow to the End of the Line
--Moscow to the End of the Line
January 5, 2009
If dialectical materialism were turned on its head, something like angels would probably fall out. If you got drunk enough to cross Moscow a thousand times without ever seeing the Kremlin, something like freedom would happen, despite the State. If poky old Petushki became Eden, just because you loved and it was there, materialism would be turned right side up again, but with the angels left in. That’s Erofeev, whose incredibly Russian cocktail of sadness & joy, shame, spirituality, and sensual skewering of Lenin is Marxism’s inadvertent glory & a gorgeous f-you to Kremlins everywhere.
September 4, 2025
Пият и се насират. Насират се от пиене. Продължават да пият насрани. И все някой друг им е виновен, и все не ги разбират...
И чегъртат като надрана грамофонна плоча, за необятната руска душа, дето групата съветски учени скрити под земята в Магадан все не е успява да открие и да докаже, че аджеба съществува.
Ерофеев гениално предава тази генетична катастрофа, този задънен, миризлив и опикан край на еволюцията и ще остане съответно неразбран от стадотo homo sovieticus, паразитиращо върху почти 1/6 от земната суша.
Щеше да е смешно, ако не беше жалко - за да забравят душевната си мизерия, те поемат орални всякакви гадости. От течност за чистачки, през всякакви домашни пукници и бъркочи (самагони, вакса за обувки върху хляб и прочие извращения), та дори и препарат за чистене на вани, без да се притесняват, че ще се усмъртят, то това тяхното живот ли е въобще...
Великая и могучая, да бе. ;)
В одном из своих последних интервью Венедикт Ерофеев сказал, что больше всего из написанного им, ему нравится "Москва-Петушки". "Читаю и смеюсь, как дитя. Сегодня, пожалуй, так написать не смог бы. Тогда на меня нахлынуло. Я писал эту повесть пять недель…"
"Мне нравится, что у народа моей страны глаза такие пустые и выпуклые. Это вселяет в меня чувство законной гордости… Можно себе представить, какие глаза там. Где все продается и все покупается:…глубоко спрятанные, притаившиеся, хищные и перепуганные глаза…
Смотрят исподлобья, с неутихающей заботой и мукой - вот какие глаза в мире чистогана… Зато у моего народа - какие глаза! Они постоянно навыкате, но - никакого напряжения в них. Полное отсутствие всякого смысла - но зато какая мощь! (Какая духовная мощь!) Эти глаза не продадут. Ничего не продадут и ничего не купят. Что бы ни случилось с моей страной, во дни сомнений, во дни тягостных раздумий, в годину любых испытаний и бедствий - эти глаза не сморгнут. Им все божья роса…"
След три часа висене на опашка, Жан-Пол Белмодо си тръгва разстроен, защото новото божоле е свършило...
P.S.
Нищо не се е променило:
Това ревю се оказа юбилейно - №500! :)
И чегъртат като надрана грамофонна плоча, за необятната руска душа, дето групата съветски учени скрити под земята в Магадан все не е успява да открие и да докаже, че аджеба съществува.
Ерофеев гениално предава тази генетична катастрофа, този задънен, миризлив и опикан край на еволюцията и ще остане съответно неразбран от стадотo homo sovieticus, паразитиращо върху почти 1/6 от земната суша.
Щеше да е смешно, ако не беше жалко - за да забравят душевната си мизерия, те поемат орални всякакви гадости. От течност за чистачки, през всякакви домашни пукници и бъркочи (самагони, вакса за обувки върху хляб и прочие извращения), та дори и препарат за чистене на вани, без да се притесняват, че ще се усмъртят, то това тяхното живот ли е въобще...
Великая и могучая, да бе. ;)
В одном из своих последних интервью Венедикт Ерофеев сказал, что больше всего из написанного им, ему нравится "Москва-Петушки". "Читаю и смеюсь, как дитя. Сегодня, пожалуй, так написать не смог бы. Тогда на меня нахлынуло. Я писал эту повесть пять недель…"
"Мне нравится, что у народа моей страны глаза такие пустые и выпуклые. Это вселяет в меня чувство законной гордости… Можно себе представить, какие глаза там. Где все продается и все покупается:…глубоко спрятанные, притаившиеся, хищные и перепуганные глаза…
Смотрят исподлобья, с неутихающей заботой и мукой - вот какие глаза в мире чистогана… Зато у моего народа - какие глаза! Они постоянно навыкате, но - никакого напряжения в них. Полное отсутствие всякого смысла - но зато какая мощь! (Какая духовная мощь!) Эти глаза не продадут. Ничего не продадут и ничего не купят. Что бы ни случилось с моей страной, во дни сомнений, во дни тягостных раздумий, в годину любых испытаний и бедствий - эти глаза не сморгнут. Им все божья роса…"
След три часа висене на опашка, Жан-Пол Белмодо си тръгва разстроен, защото новото божоле е свършило...
P.S.
Нищо не се е променило:
Това ревю се оказа юбилейно - №500! :)
August 1, 2020
A metaphysical seance of hard intellectual drinking.
And now I know where all these quotes come from.
And now I know where all these quotes come from.
December 1, 2017
A fun and funny intoxicated ramble around Moscow. The man wrecked by affect disorders not fun.
I hoped the angels might help him, but they embarrassed and silent.
I hoped the angels might help him, but they embarrassed and silent.
May 15, 2011
Oh, crap, another Russian writer without a beard! It always makes me so sad. Like seeing a squirrel without a tail. It seems unnatural, unfair. Freakish.
I'm impressed by his attempt at a Clark Gable 'stache though.
So in the little bit of research I did on this book I found that it's considered a "postmodernist prose poem" which I didn't necessarily pick up on while I was reading it. (The "poem" bit, I mean - the "postmodernist" part was quite evident.) Now I'm not sure what to think. I feel like I should re-read it in light of the whole "prose poem" thing, but no - Proust is waiting for me patiently at the bedside table and there's that whole book I'm reading for my real-life Pretentious Bookclub, so there's just no time for a re-read of this. So let it be known that it's a "prose poem". Maybe that will help you going into your own reading of it and then you won't have your world turned upside down like mine was.
Even though Erofeev didn't sport the Russian-classic (ie, beard), he did write about an alcoholic, so he gets to keep his Russian literary citizenship for that at least. Supposedly pseudo-autobiographical it follows the story of Venichka who has just lost his job as a cable fitter for charting how much alcohol he and his coworkers drank. The majority of the story takes place on a train from Moscow to Petushki and involves the various discussions that take place between Venichka and his other travelers. Alcohol is consumed. Duh.
Petushki is where Venya's lover and child await him, it is his "salvation and joy"; unlike Moscow which obviously is meant to be all about restriction, destruction, and everything else bad about Russia in 1968 when Erofeev wrote the story. One thing I love about the Russians is their veiled references to their oppressive society - being a postmodern work it probably goes without saying that I missed more than I should have because I suck at reading postmodern works sometimes. I should be in therapy for this problem. But I am trying, so shove it.
I also want to give a shout-out to the fantastic cover art that was chosen, Self Portrait with Demons (James Ensor). Perfect fit.
I'm impressed by his attempt at a Clark Gable 'stache though.
So in the little bit of research I did on this book I found that it's considered a "postmodernist prose poem" which I didn't necessarily pick up on while I was reading it. (The "poem" bit, I mean - the "postmodernist" part was quite evident.) Now I'm not sure what to think. I feel like I should re-read it in light of the whole "prose poem" thing, but no - Proust is waiting for me patiently at the bedside table and there's that whole book I'm reading for my real-life Pretentious Bookclub, so there's just no time for a re-read of this. So let it be known that it's a "prose poem". Maybe that will help you going into your own reading of it and then you won't have your world turned upside down like mine was.
Even though Erofeev didn't sport the Russian-classic (ie, beard), he did write about an alcoholic, so he gets to keep his Russian literary citizenship for that at least. Supposedly pseudo-autobiographical it follows the story of Venichka who has just lost his job as a cable fitter for charting how much alcohol he and his coworkers drank. The majority of the story takes place on a train from Moscow to Petushki and involves the various discussions that take place between Venichka and his other travelers. Alcohol is consumed. Duh.
Petushki is where Venya's lover and child await him, it is his "salvation and joy"; unlike Moscow which obviously is meant to be all about restriction, destruction, and everything else bad about Russia in 1968 when Erofeev wrote the story. One thing I love about the Russians is their veiled references to their oppressive society - being a postmodern work it probably goes without saying that I missed more than I should have because I suck at reading postmodern works sometimes. I should be in therapy for this problem. But I am trying, so shove it.
I also want to give a shout-out to the fantastic cover art that was chosen, Self Portrait with Demons (James Ensor). Perfect fit.
June 6, 2020
полагаю, эта книга навсегда станет для меня примером того, как важно читать до конца.
дело в том, что основную часть «Москвы — Петушков» я читала... не сказать чтобы с трудом — книга написана легко и весело, очень живым и чистым языком, её можно воспринимать как обычный сборник анекдотов, — но с видом довольно кривым. я совсем не из тех «легковесных», кого, по Ерофееву, ожидает где-то там благодать, я — из «серьёзных», и сентиментальное пьянство, а вместе с ним пьяная набожность — регистр чувства и мысли мне понятный, но слишком уж неглубокий, быстро себя исчерпывающий. да-да, высокое и низкое, аполлоническое и дионисийское, постоянное снижение регистра библейских притч и романтизация советского быта. даже когда пошёл густой и действительно в полной мере жуткий «Малхолланд драйв», когда реальность стала распадаться и заселяться хтоническими тварями, я лишь кивнула: ну, да, а чего ожидать в конце запоя, как не белочки?
но потом я дочитала до:
«Ибо жизнь человеческая не есть ли минутное окосение души? и затмение души тоже. Мы все как бы пьяны, только каждый по-своему, один выпил больше, другой меньше...» — ну и далее.
и ведь не то чтобы я на этих строках поняла что-то про книгу, чего не понимала раньше, всё-таки лирический религиозно-экзистенциальный сюжет в ней не заметить сложно. но у меня случился эмоциональный контакт с текстом, которого прежде не было; и ретроспективно по нему всему прок��тился, и до меня *добралось*.
короче, мне очень понравилось.
финала такого я, кстати, совершенно не ожидала. в смерти-то ничего страшного нет — прямо было сказано, окосение — минутное, а вот кольцевая композиция вызывает подлинное отчаяние. и никуда не вырвешься, и ничего не выучил, и там же и остался. эх.
P. S. не подглядывая в критические заметки, при непосредственном восприятии — я была уверена, что неизвестные четверо — это евангелисты. коль уж скоро Господь предаёт и ангелы оборачиваются злобными детьми, логично вроде, что убивать должны не какие-то абстрактные легионеры, а те самые, которых узнаёшь и при этом не хочешь называть. соседи по общежитию, которых на самом-то деле всё это время смущало, что ты не ходишь в сортир и пребываешь с ними всё-таки не в одной весовой категории, которые рядом с тобой чувствуют себя примитивным пролетариатом.
но никто из критиков мою возвышенно интеллектуальную гипотезу не разделяет.
дело в том, что основную часть «Москвы — Петушков» я читала... не сказать чтобы с трудом — книга написана легко и весело, очень живым и чистым языком, её можно воспринимать как обычный сборник анекдотов, — но с видом довольно кривым. я совсем не из тех «легковесных», кого, по Ерофееву, ожидает где-то там благодать, я — из «серьёзных», и сентиментальное пьянство, а вместе с ним пьяная набожность — регистр чувства и мысли мне понятный, но слишком уж неглубокий, быстро себя исчерпывающий. да-да, высокое и низкое, аполлоническое и дионисийское, постоянное снижение регистра библейских притч и романтизация советского быта. даже когда пошёл густой и действительно в полной мере жуткий «Малхолланд драйв», когда реальность стала распадаться и заселяться хтоническими тварями, я лишь кивнула: ну, да, а чего ожидать в конце запоя, как не белочки?
но потом я дочитала до:
«Ибо жизнь человеческая не есть ли минутное окосение души? и затмение души тоже. Мы все как бы пьяны, только каждый по-своему, один выпил больше, другой меньше...» — ну и далее.
и ведь не то чтобы я на этих строках поняла что-то про книгу, чего не понимала раньше, всё-таки лирический религиозно-экзистенциальный сюжет в ней не заметить сложно. но у меня случился эмоциональный контакт с текстом, которого прежде не было; и ретроспективно по нему всему прок��тился, и до меня *добралось*.
короче, мне очень понравилось.
финала такого я, кстати, совершенно не ожидала. в смерти-то ничего страшного нет — прямо было сказано, окосение — минутное, а вот кольцевая композиция вызывает подлинное отчаяние. и никуда не вырвешься, и ничего не выучил, и там же и остался. эх.
P. S. не подглядывая в критические заметки, при непосредственном восприятии — я была уверена, что неизвестные четверо — это евангелисты. коль уж скоро Господь предаёт и ангелы оборачиваются злобными детьми, логично вроде, что убивать должны не какие-то абстрактные легионеры, а те самые, которых узнаёшь и при этом не хочешь называть. соседи по общежитию, которых на самом-то деле всё это время смущало, что ты не ходишь в сортир и пребываешь с ними всё-таки не в одной весовой категории, которые рядом с тобой чувствуют себя примитивным пролетариатом.
но никто из критиков мою возвышенно интеллектуальную гипотезу не разделяет.
April 4, 2020
Jedan mi je umni knjižar nedavno, tokom nekog od beskrajnih prelistavanja ove knjige, usputno dobacio kako je to najbolja studija o alkoholizmu ikad napisana. I to nije zvučalo kao rečenica uvežbavana da bi se knjiga prodala, nikako.
Valjda sam je se zato prve setio, nakon čitanja, kad je postalo jasno koliko je bezobrazno istinita. No, problem je što je ovaj tekst i toliko više od tog, planinski jakog komplimenta.
Pritom, gotovo da uopšte ne mislim na njenu ludačku subverzivnost koja razgolićuje čitav jedan masivni sistem u kom je nastajala, orući po njegovim osnovama, tokom ovog kratkotrajnog i urnebesnog putovanja na relaciji od Moskve ka Petuškama, ili možda u obrnutom pravcu, a zbog kojeg je decenijama živela na preštampavanju i samizdat primercima. Ne.
Pa čak ne mislim ni na višeslojnost i čitav repertoar dvosmislenih pojmova, detalja, rečenica, koje referišu na mnoga druga štiva, koji dišu filozofiju, antičku istoriju, ranohrišćanske radove, koji referišu na enciklpedijsko znanje autora, koje potopljeno u beskonačne okeane alkohola eksplodira u svom kvalitetu, ma kakvi.
Zapravo najviše mislim na život koji tutnja i pulsira tokom kloparanja voza, na život koji je pun duha, cinične i apsurdne vedrine u sveopštem mraku, život kojeg ni zariveno šilo u završnoj sceni nije ugasilo, oda slobodnom životu, pa da.
Valjda sam je se zato prve setio, nakon čitanja, kad je postalo jasno koliko je bezobrazno istinita. No, problem je što je ovaj tekst i toliko više od tog, planinski jakog komplimenta.
Pritom, gotovo da uopšte ne mislim na njenu ludačku subverzivnost koja razgolićuje čitav jedan masivni sistem u kom je nastajala, orući po njegovim osnovama, tokom ovog kratkotrajnog i urnebesnog putovanja na relaciji od Moskve ka Petuškama, ili možda u obrnutom pravcu, a zbog kojeg je decenijama živela na preštampavanju i samizdat primercima. Ne.
Pa čak ne mislim ni na višeslojnost i čitav repertoar dvosmislenih pojmova, detalja, rečenica, koje referišu na mnoga druga štiva, koji dišu filozofiju, antičku istoriju, ranohrišćanske radove, koji referišu na enciklpedijsko znanje autora, koje potopljeno u beskonačne okeane alkohola eksplodira u svom kvalitetu, ma kakvi.
Zapravo najviše mislim na život koji tutnja i pulsira tokom kloparanja voza, na život koji je pun duha, cinične i apsurdne vedrine u sveopštem mraku, život kojeg ni zariveno šilo u završnoj sceni nije ugasilo, oda slobodnom životu, pa da.
June 17, 2022
Cartea lui Venedikt Erofeev, Moscova – Petușki, mi-a amintit într-o oarecare măsură de Naked Lunch, a lui William S. Burroughs, atît prin abordarea originală: un narator privește lumea prin aburii alcoolului, celălalt prin cei ai drogurilor, cît și prin situarea în vecinătatea genialității scriiturii, fără să ajungă pînă la urmă la ea. David Lodge spunea despre Burroughs că poate fi incitant, adesea distractiv în incoerența lui ce mimează suprarealismul, dar că ceea ce scrie el nu e totuşi literatură. Cam același lucru l-am simțit citindu-l pe Erofeev: în ciuda intertextualității abile, a ironiei fine și a ambiguității, in ciuda faptului că m-a amuzat teribil, nu-s foarte sigură că ceea ce am citit e mai mult decît teribilism literar. Poate nu degeaba și-a intitulat autorul scrierea „poem”, că mi-au venit în minte, nu o dată, cîntece de pahar mai mult sau mai puțin licențioase (dintre care, desigur, nu putea lipsi faimosul Eu beu, al lui Pavel Stratan 😊).
Povestea micuței opere este chiar mai interesantă decît conținutul ei (conținut care parodiază celebrele călătorii inițiatice), căci, fiind scrisă în perioada comunistă (care, după cum bine știm, nu prea încuraja genul ăsta de scriitură carnavalescă) a circulat multă vreme în manuscris, via samizdat, fiind publicată în Rusia abia pe la sfîrșitul anilor ’80, vagabondînd deci la periferia spațiului literar așa cum autorul ei vagabonda la periferia spațiului socialist.
Cred totuşi că Eofeev îi e superior lui Burroughs, atît din punct de vedere compozițional cît și stilistic. Pe de o parte, lumea pe care o creează este delicios ambiguă, regăsindu-se în ea accente parodice ale celebrului suflet rus, care în sfîrșit și-a găsit pacea într-o orînduire care îl protejează de orice dubii și suferințe:
Pe de altă parte, Erofeev este maestru în amestecul de registre stilistice cu efecte umoristice de cea mai bună calitate:
Intertextualitatea este si ea generatoare de umor, fie implicit, verificînd mucalit întinderea cunoștințelor literare ale cititorului („Ceva nu-i bine în lume. E ceva putred în tot regatul și toți au creierii pe-o parte.”) fie explicit, în citate aproximative și interpretări haotice:
Sau făcînd asociații ilariant de plastice:
Sau, în sfîrșit, mînuind cu dexteritate imaginile oximoronice doar ca să arunce mucalit în cititor cu tot felul de panseuri absurde și fără nici un sens:
Mă opresc aici, nu înainte de a mă întreba, ca mulți alții, cîte subtilități ale scriiturii sale s-or fi pierdut în traducere.
P:S. 3,5 stele rotunjite la patru fie și numai pentru doza sănătoasă de rîs.
Povestea micuței opere este chiar mai interesantă decît conținutul ei (conținut care parodiază celebrele călătorii inițiatice), căci, fiind scrisă în perioada comunistă (care, după cum bine știm, nu prea încuraja genul ăsta de scriitură carnavalescă) a circulat multă vreme în manuscris, via samizdat, fiind publicată în Rusia abia pe la sfîrșitul anilor ’80, vagabondînd deci la periferia spațiului literar așa cum autorul ei vagabonda la periferia spațiului socialist.
Cred totuşi că Eofeev îi e superior lui Burroughs, atît din punct de vedere compozițional cît și stilistic. Pe de o parte, lumea pe care o creează este delicios ambiguă, regăsindu-se în ea accente parodice ale celebrului suflet rus, care în sfîrșit și-a găsit pacea într-o orînduire care îl protejează de orice dubii și suferințe:
Îmi place că poporul țării mele are ochii atît de goi și de bulbucați. Asta îmi imprimă un sentiment de legitimă mîndrie. Ne putem imagina ce fel de ochi sînt acolo. Unde totul se vinde și totul se cumpără: ...ochi bine ascunși, pitiți, rapaci și înspăimîntați... Inflație, șomaj, pauperism... Se uită pe sub sprîncene, cu îngrijorare perpetuă și suferință – iată ce fel de ochi sînt în lumea banilor peșin...
În schimb, ce ochi are poporul meu! Sînt mereu holbați, dar n-au în ei nici un fel de tensiune. Deplină absență a oricărui sens, în schimb – ce vigoare (ce vigoare spirituală!); ochii ăștia n-au să te vîndă. N-au să vîndă nimic și n-au să cumpere nimic. Orice s-ar întîmpla cu țara mea, în zile de îndoială, în zile de împovărătoare meditații, în vremuri de încercări și amaruri felurite – ochii ăștia n-au să clipească.
Pe de altă parte, Erofeev este maestru în amestecul de registre stilistice cu efecte umoristice de cea mai bună calitate:
De-o viață întreagă mă apasă acest coșmar, coșmarul că ești înțeles anapoda, nu, nu „anapoda“, ci strict pe dos, adică de-a dreptul porcește, adică antinomic.”
Intertextualitatea este si ea generatoare de umor, fie implicit, verificînd mucalit întinderea cunoștințelor literare ale cititorului („Ceva nu-i bine în lume. E ceva putred în tot regatul și toți au creierii pe-o parte.”) fie explicit, în citate aproximative și interpretări haotice:
Mai era și Hegel. Asta mi-o aduc aminte foarte bine: era și Hegel. Spunea: „Nu există deosebiri, în afara deosebirii de grad între gradele diferite și absența deosebirii“. Adică, dacă-i să traducem asta într-un limbaj ca lumea: „Cine nu bea acum?"...
Sau făcînd asociații ilariant de plastice:
Sufletul meu e precum burdihanul calului troian, încap multe în el.
Sau, în sfîrșit, mînuind cu dexteritate imaginile oximoronice doar ca să arunce mucalit în cititor cu tot felul de panseuri absurde și fără nici un sens:
Ziua noastră de mîine e mai luminoasă decît cea de ieri și cea de astăzi. Dar cine garantează că ziua noastră de poimîine nu va fi mai rea decît cea de alaltăieri?
Trebuie să respectăm, repet, străfundurile sufletului altuia. Trebuie să ne uităm în ele, chiar dacă acolo nu-i nimic, chiar dacă acolo nu-s decît aiureli e tot una: uită-te și respectă, uită-te și nu scuipa...
Mă opresc aici, nu înainte de a mă întreba, ca mulți alții, cîte subtilități ale scriiturii sale s-or fi pierdut în traducere.
P:S. 3,5 stele rotunjite la patru fie și numai pentru doza sănătoasă de rîs.
March 11, 2021
Сугурно да је ово у време појављивања било револуционарно, субверзивно дело и "прст у око" званичној совјетској културној и друштвеној струји. Несумњива је ширина образовања аутора и огроман број интертекстуалних, затим библијских, као и референци на бројне историјске догађаје.
Ипак, овакав начин "изведбе", у виду гротескних трабуњања и сновиђења једног пијанца напросто није нешто у чему сам уживао.
Ипак, овакав начин "изведбе", у виду гротескних трабуњања и сновиђења једног пијанца напросто није нешто у чему сам уживао.
September 23, 2022
Tutti dicono: il Cremlino, il Cremlino. Con tutto quello che ne ho sentito dire, non l’ho mai visto. Quante volte ormai (mille volte) , con addosso il ciclone o l’anticiclone ho attraversato Mosca da nord a sud, da occidente a oriente, dall’inizio alla fine, da una parte all’altra e a casaccio, non l’ho mai visto neanche una volta.
Il viaggio tragicomico di un uomo perennemente ubriaco, circondato da persone quasi tutte perennemente ubriache, ha parecchi momenti divertenti, come quando il controllore (ubriaco) si fa pagare in grammi di vodka.
“I controllori! I controllori!”, ha rimbombato in tutti i vagoni, rimbombava ed esplodeva: “I controllori!”
A dire la verità, sulla linea di Petuskì nessuno ha paura dei controllori, perché tutti sono senza biglietti. Se qualche rinnegato compra il biglietto, allora è lui, naturalmente, a essere a disagio quando passano i controllori: quando gli si avvicinano per il biglietto, non guarda nessuno, né il controllore né il pubblico, come se volesse sprofondare per la vergogna. E il controllore osserva il suo biglietto con una specie di schifo e a lui, in particolare, lo guarda come per annientarlo, come se guardasse un rettile. E i passeggeri, i passeggeri guardano il portoghese con occhi grandi, belli, come per dire: Abbassa gli occhi, contaballe! Ti rode la coscienza, eh?, razza di un bastardo! E il controllore lo guardano in faccia ancora più apertamente: Eccoci qua, puoi forse biasimarci? Vieni da noi, Semenyc, non ti faremo torto …
Prima che Semenyc diventasse controllore capo, le cose erano tutte diverse: a quei tempi i senza biglietti venivan cacciati nelle riserve, come gli indiani, e li picchiavano in testa con dei volumi dell’enciclopedia Efron e Brokgauz e poi li multavano e li buttavano giù dal treno.
Il controllore capo Semenyc aveva cambiato tutto. Aveva soppresso tutte le multe e le prenotazioni. Aveva fatto in un modo più semplice. Prendeva da quelli che non avevano il biglietto un tot di grammi al chilometro.
Così, l’innovazione di Semenyc aveva rafforzato il legame tra i controllori e le masse, ne aveva abbassato il prezzo, l’aveva semplificato e umanizzato. E in quel fremito generale che si diffondeva al grido di “Controllori!” non c’era nessuna paura. In quel fremito c’era solo del presentimento.
Però tutto questo delirio dopo un po’ stanca. Comunque il libro, già negli anni Settanta e Ottanta, quando ancora girava in clandestinità, era uno dei più letti e amati dai russi. Evidentemente ha colto lo spirito del popolo russo, il suo male di vivere e il suo personale modo di ribellarsi all’autorità.
“L’immortale poema di Venedikt Erofeev – scrive il critico Evgenij Popov – ormai lo conoscono tutti quelli che hanno un rapporto, per quanto minimo, con la letteratura o, nella peggiore delle ipotesi, con la vodka”.
Il viaggio tragicomico di un uomo perennemente ubriaco, circondato da persone quasi tutte perennemente ubriache, ha parecchi momenti divertenti, come quando il controllore (ubriaco) si fa pagare in grammi di vodka.
“I controllori! I controllori!”, ha rimbombato in tutti i vagoni, rimbombava ed esplodeva: “I controllori!”
A dire la verità, sulla linea di Petuskì nessuno ha paura dei controllori, perché tutti sono senza biglietti. Se qualche rinnegato compra il biglietto, allora è lui, naturalmente, a essere a disagio quando passano i controllori: quando gli si avvicinano per il biglietto, non guarda nessuno, né il controllore né il pubblico, come se volesse sprofondare per la vergogna. E il controllore osserva il suo biglietto con una specie di schifo e a lui, in particolare, lo guarda come per annientarlo, come se guardasse un rettile. E i passeggeri, i passeggeri guardano il portoghese con occhi grandi, belli, come per dire: Abbassa gli occhi, contaballe! Ti rode la coscienza, eh?, razza di un bastardo! E il controllore lo guardano in faccia ancora più apertamente: Eccoci qua, puoi forse biasimarci? Vieni da noi, Semenyc, non ti faremo torto …
Prima che Semenyc diventasse controllore capo, le cose erano tutte diverse: a quei tempi i senza biglietti venivan cacciati nelle riserve, come gli indiani, e li picchiavano in testa con dei volumi dell’enciclopedia Efron e Brokgauz e poi li multavano e li buttavano giù dal treno.
Il controllore capo Semenyc aveva cambiato tutto. Aveva soppresso tutte le multe e le prenotazioni. Aveva fatto in un modo più semplice. Prendeva da quelli che non avevano il biglietto un tot di grammi al chilometro.
Così, l’innovazione di Semenyc aveva rafforzato il legame tra i controllori e le masse, ne aveva abbassato il prezzo, l’aveva semplificato e umanizzato. E in quel fremito generale che si diffondeva al grido di “Controllori!” non c’era nessuna paura. In quel fremito c’era solo del presentimento.
Però tutto questo delirio dopo un po’ stanca. Comunque il libro, già negli anni Settanta e Ottanta, quando ancora girava in clandestinità, era uno dei più letti e amati dai russi. Evidentemente ha colto lo spirito del popolo russo, il suo male di vivere e il suo personale modo di ribellarsi all’autorità.
“L’immortale poema di Venedikt Erofeev – scrive il critico Evgenij Popov – ormai lo conoscono tutti quelli che hanno un rapporto, per quanto minimo, con la letteratura o, nella peggiore delle ipotesi, con la vodka”.
September 11, 2015
I don't drink nearly enough to appreciate this book.
July 2, 2014
Каюсь, я никогда не читала "Москву-Петушки". Какое же упущение с моей стороны! Это поистине гениальное произведение, в котором автор, рассказчик и главный герой совпадают - это все Веничка Ерофеев.
Вот и он:
"Москва-Петушки" - ода человеку советскому. Не хотела бы я быть переводчиком, и переводить "Москву-Петушки" на другие языки, потому что никто, кроме людей с нашим, русским менталитетом, не поймет этой книги. Ну едет главный герой, ну напился, ну рассказывает анекдоты и байки по пути. И что? Нет, чтобы понять всю глубину, нужно быть нами, быть носителем глубокой русской души!
Всю поэму можно разобрать на цитаты, и всю жизнь обойтись только цитатами из нее. А еще Москва-Петушки бесценный сборник отличных алкогольных коктейлей и всяческих полезных в быту рецептов, как и говорилось выше.
И как вписаться в коллектив тоже есть ценные советы:
Читать дальше на BookGeek.ru!
Вот и он:
"Москва-Петушки" - ода человеку советскому. Не хотела бы я быть переводчиком, и переводить "Москву-Петушки" на другие языки, потому что никто, кроме людей с нашим, русским менталитетом, не поймет этой книги. Ну едет главный герой, ну напился, ну рассказывает анекдоты и байки по пути. И что? Нет, чтобы понять всю глубину, нужно быть нами, быть носителем глубокой русской души!
Не смейтесь. У меня богатый опыт в создании коктейлей. От Москвы и до Петушков пьют эти коктейли до сих пор, не зная имени автора; пьют «Ханаанский бальзам», пьют «Слезу комсомолки», и правильно делают, что пьют. Мы не можем ждать милостей от природы. А чтобы взять их у нее, надо, разумеется, знать их точные рецепты; я, если хотите, дам вам эти рецепты. Слушайте.
Всю поэму можно разобрать на цитаты, и всю жизнь обойтись только цитатами из нее. А еще Москва-Петушки бесценный сборник отличных алкогольных коктейлей и всяческих полезных в быту рецептов, как и говорилось выше.
Я в их годы делал так: вечером в четверг выпивал одним махом три с половиной литра ерша — выпивал и ложился спать, не раздеваясь, с одной только мыслью: проснусь я утром в пятницу или не проснусь? И все-таки утром в пятницу я не просыпался. А просыпался утром в субботу, и уже не в Москве, а под насыпью железной дороги, в районе Наро-Фоминска. А потом — потом я с усилием припоминал и накапливал факты, а, накопив, сопоставлял. А сопоставив, начинал опять восстанавливать напряжением памяти и со всепроникающим анализом. А потом переходил от созерцания к абстракции, другими словами, вдумчиво опохмелялся, и, наконец, узнавал, куда же все-таки девалась эта пятница.
И как вписаться в коллектив тоже есть ценные советы:
— Нет, вы меня не так поняли, ребята… просто я…
— Нет, мы тебя правильно поняли…
— Да нет же, не поняли. Не могу же я, как вы: встать с постели, сказать во всеуслышание: «Ну, ребята, я …ать пошел!» или «Ну, ребята, я …ать пошел!» Не могу же я так…
Читать дальше на BookGeek.ru!
March 14, 2021
Dramaturški je korektno biti pripit za vreme knjige. Sledeći put čitam je u vozu, na relaciji Lazarevac-Karaburma - sa čekanjem na ukrštanje u Kolubarskom Leskovcu i Resniku, kako bih postigao, naravski - dobro opskrbljen unučićima.
June 1, 2021
If you've ever wondered what it would be like to ride a Moscow train in Soviet Russia while completely drunk out of your mind then this is the book for you. You're in for a treat full of drunken musings, hallucinations and epiphanies about life, politics and work, complete with Keynesian diagrams to boot! This is a uniquely Russian book replete with that famous self-deprecating black Soviet humor that is unique to the period. The ramblings get more and more incoherent as our protagonist gets closer and closer to his destination -- or does he? I guess that is the question.
June 10, 2025
Erofeev's novel struck a chord with readers yearning for escape in Brezhnev's stagnant Soviet Union. Khrushchev, Brezhnev's predecessor, had attempted to loosen the reins after Stalin's iron grip, but his reforms fizzled, leaving a society teetering between liberalization and discontent.
"Moscow to the End of the Line" follows Venichka, a fictionalized Erofeev, on a booze-soaked odyssey. Waking up hungover in a stairwell, he embarks on a quest to reach Petushki, a mythical paradise near Moscow where his lover and child supposedly reside. This journey, fueled by cheap liquor, becomes a metaphor for escape from the suffocating Soviet system.
Moscow itself transforms into a sprawling symbol of the regime. Venichka desperately navigates its labyrinthine streets, the Garden Ring road a constant reminder of the city's inescapable grip. His descent into drunken revelry stands in stark contrast to the ideal of the "New Soviet Man" – a sober, upstanding citizen. Through his slurred monologues and conversations, Venichka lampoons the Soviet project, its empty promises and stifling reality. He throws shade at past leaders, a risky act in a society where dissent was a dangerous game.
Venichka's cynicism reflects a broader disillusionment. The censors, fearing his intoxicated pronouncements would resonate with a restless public, banned the book. However, its popularity in underground circles ("samizdat") proved their point. "Moscow to the End of the Line" is a darkly comic portrait of a nation drowning its sorrows.
Here, Venichka is like a drunken Moshe Dayan (he mentions him quite a bit), navigating a political minefield with a bandaged eye, unable to see the true path forward. His pronouncements, laced with humor and despair, echo the melancholic realism of Turgenev's superfluous men, adrift in a society that offers no mooring. There's a whiff of Louis Aragon's surrealist defiance in his rants, a desperate attempt to find beauty in the ashes. But beneath the intoxicated bravado lies a deep-seated fear, a fear that the Soviet utopia has become a dystopian nightmare.
"Moscow to the End of the Line" follows Venichka, a fictionalized Erofeev, on a booze-soaked odyssey. Waking up hungover in a stairwell, he embarks on a quest to reach Petushki, a mythical paradise near Moscow where his lover and child supposedly reside. This journey, fueled by cheap liquor, becomes a metaphor for escape from the suffocating Soviet system.
Moscow itself transforms into a sprawling symbol of the regime. Venichka desperately navigates its labyrinthine streets, the Garden Ring road a constant reminder of the city's inescapable grip. His descent into drunken revelry stands in stark contrast to the ideal of the "New Soviet Man" – a sober, upstanding citizen. Through his slurred monologues and conversations, Venichka lampoons the Soviet project, its empty promises and stifling reality. He throws shade at past leaders, a risky act in a society where dissent was a dangerous game.
Venichka's cynicism reflects a broader disillusionment. The censors, fearing his intoxicated pronouncements would resonate with a restless public, banned the book. However, its popularity in underground circles ("samizdat") proved their point. "Moscow to the End of the Line" is a darkly comic portrait of a nation drowning its sorrows.
Here, Venichka is like a drunken Moshe Dayan (he mentions him quite a bit), navigating a political minefield with a bandaged eye, unable to see the true path forward. His pronouncements, laced with humor and despair, echo the melancholic realism of Turgenev's superfluous men, adrift in a society that offers no mooring. There's a whiff of Louis Aragon's surrealist defiance in his rants, a desperate attempt to find beauty in the ashes. But beneath the intoxicated bravado lies a deep-seated fear, a fear that the Soviet utopia has become a dystopian nightmare.
May 8, 2012
One of the most *beautiful* books I've ever read, hands down. Through a haze of alcohol, Soviet repression, and the hypnotic rhythm of a subway journey, Erofeev turns his drunken slapstick into brilliant satire, his own maudlin self pity into the lyrically transcendent.
February 20, 2020
Ova knjiga je za mene otkriće. Veoma zanimljiva i dobra za brzo čitanje, kada hoćete da odmorite od nekih napornih romana ili napornog života. Mali Princ na alkoholu (SSSR verzija).
January 2, 2025
Venedict Erofeev: Μόσχα με βότκα
Δεν είναι Πόλεμος και Ειρήνη, αλλά ο Τολστόι έπινε μόνο το κρασάκι της Θείας Κοινωνίας, ενώ ο Βενέδικτος θα έκανε τον Μπουκόβσκι να μοιάζει πιο ροδαλός κι από γυμνάστρια σε πρωινάδικο.
ΕΥΤΥΧΩΣ που δεν ήμουνα σ’ εκείνο το τραίνο, στο Βότκα εξπρές.. Στο πλοίο των τρελλών που, έχοντας εκτροχιαστεί, επιταχύνει αφηνιασμένο προς τον προορισμό του - το τρομώδες παραλήρημα..
Ο σταθμάρχης Erofeev έχει επιβιβαστεί (μαζί με τον κλειδούχο) στο δρομολόγιο των καταραμένων, αυτών που ξανακέρδισαν την ανεμελιά τους καταβάλλοντας πρόθυμα το τίμημα – και τι τίμημα..
Το «πρόθυμα» είναι νομίζω η λέξη-κλειδί, εδώ. Οι γενναίοι εξερευνητές και εξερευνήτριες μας το έχουν χωρίς δισταγμό καταβάλει, μαζί με το χαρτόσημο - και τον φόρο καμινάδας κιόλας (ακούς Εμίλιε; https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/3... )..
Η μισή χώρα on board σε μια συντροφική, μπρεγκελική κραιπάλη, χωρίς αύριο. Θα μου πεις, ποια ήταν η εναλλακτική στη Ρωσία του Μπρέζνιεφ; Θα σου πω, ποια και στην Ευρώπη της Ούρσουλα Ούντερ ντερ Λίντεν;
ΕΥΤΥΧΩΣ που οι χρόνοι όπου δεν ανησυχούσα καθόλου για το αν θα χάσω τη στάση μου, έχουν παρέλθει ανεπιστρεπτί - και το όποιο ενδιαφέρον μου για το θέμα είναι καθαρά λογοτεχνικό. Καμιά απολύτως νοσταλγία, εντάξει;
ΑΠΟΚΛΕΙΣΤΙΚΑ βιβλιοφιλικά μιλώντας όμως, τα αξιοθέατα της διαδρομής Moskva-Petuski φαίνεται να είναι πιο πολλά κι από αυτά του Βατικανού. Ας είναι..
Καραφάκι:
"Όταν η γη σαν μια ειρκτή γίνεται νοτερή,
Όπου η Ελπίδα νυχτερίδα ολόγυρα πετάει
Με τα δειλά φτεράκια της τους τοίχους απωθεί
Και το κεφάλι σ’ οροφές σαθρές καταχτυπάει."..
Charles Baudelaire, les fleurs du mal - Μελαγχολία..
Ο ίδιος ο σύντροφος Γιεροφέγιεφ δεν πήγε πολύ μακριά. Κατέβηκε απ’ το συρμό στα 51 του, θέλω να πιστεύω από ανάφλεξη των αναθυμιάσεων. Ή μάλλον από εσωτερική ανάφλεξη, παρόμοια με κάποιους βουδιστές μοναχούς - σε ένδειξη διαμαρτυρίας ίσως - για αυτό που ξεκίνησε αλλιώς, όμως έγινε μια νοτερή παρωδία κόσμου..
Καπάκι, απ’ το (λογοτεχνικό) καραφάκι:
Distill My Heart: https://www.cocktailbuilder.com/recip...
VENEDICT EROFEEV - ΜΟΣΧΑ ΜΕ ΒΟΤΚΑ
Na zdorovya!
Δεν είναι Πόλεμος και Ειρήνη, αλλά ο Τολστόι έπινε μόνο το κρασάκι της Θείας Κοινωνίας, ενώ ο Βενέδικτος θα έκανε τον Μπουκόβσκι να μοιάζει πιο ροδαλός κι από γυμνάστρια σε πρωινάδικο.
ΕΥΤΥΧΩΣ που δεν ήμουνα σ’ εκείνο το τραίνο, στο Βότκα εξπρές.. Στο πλοίο των τρελλών που, έχοντας εκτροχιαστεί, επιταχύνει αφηνιασμένο προς τον προορισμό του - το τρομώδες παραλήρημα..
Ο σταθμάρχης Erofeev έχει επιβιβαστεί (μαζί με τον κλειδούχο) στο δρομολόγιο των καταραμένων, αυτών που ξανακέρδισαν την ανεμελιά τους καταβάλλοντας πρόθυμα το τίμημα – και τι τίμημα..
Το «πρόθυμα» είναι νομίζω η λέξη-κλειδί, εδώ. Οι γενναίοι εξερευνητές και εξερευνήτριες μας το έχουν χωρίς δισταγμό καταβάλει, μαζί με το χαρτόσημο - και τον φόρο καμινάδας κιόλας (ακούς Εμίλιε; https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/3... )..
Η μισή χώρα on board σε μια συντροφική, μπρεγκελική κραιπάλη, χωρίς αύριο. Θα μου πεις, ποια ήταν η εναλλακτική στη Ρωσία του Μπρέζνιεφ; Θα σου πω, ποια και στην Ευρώπη της Ούρσουλα Ούντερ ντερ Λίντεν;
ΕΥΤΥΧΩΣ που οι χρόνοι όπου δεν ανησυχούσα καθόλου για το αν θα χάσω τη στάση μου, έχουν παρέλθει ανεπιστρεπτί - και το όποιο ενδιαφέρον μου για το θέμα είναι καθαρά λογοτεχνικό. Καμιά απολύτως νοσταλγία, εντάξει;
ΑΠΟΚΛΕΙΣΤΙΚΑ βιβλιοφιλικά μιλώντας όμως, τα αξιοθέατα της διαδρομής Moskva-Petuski φαίνεται να είναι πιο πολλά κι από αυτά του Βατικανού. Ας είναι..
Καραφάκι:
"Όταν η γη σαν μια ειρκτή γίνεται νοτερή,
Όπου η Ελπίδα νυχτερίδα ολόγυρα πετάει
Με τα δειλά φτεράκια της τους τοίχους απωθεί
Και το κεφάλι σ’ οροφές σαθρές καταχτυπάει."..
Charles Baudelaire, les fleurs du mal - Μελαγχολία..
Ο ίδιος ο σύντροφος Γιεροφέγιεφ δεν πήγε πολύ μακριά. Κατέβηκε απ’ το συρμό στα 51 του, θέλω να πιστεύω από ανάφλεξη των αναθυμιάσεων. Ή μάλλον από εσωτερική ανάφλεξη, παρόμοια με κάποιους βουδιστές μοναχούς - σε ένδειξη διαμαρτυρίας ίσως - για αυτό που ξεκίνησε αλλιώς, όμως έγινε μια νοτερή παρωδία κόσμου..
Καπάκι, απ’ το (λογοτεχνικό) καραφάκι:
Distill My Heart: https://www.cocktailbuilder.com/recip...
VENEDICT EROFEEV - ΜΟΣΧΑ ΜΕ ΒΟΤΚΑ
Na zdorovya!
December 8, 2023
Perché la vita dell'uomo non è forse un attimo di ebbrezza dell'anima?
Un treno e le sue tante stazioni come la vita. Con i compagni di viaggio proviamo a condividere amore e compassione. La destinazione è Petuski, dove cantano gli usignoli e l’aria profuma di gelsomino e dove ci attende la nostra Regina. E oltre Petuski, là c’è il nostro amore di bambino, quello che ha già imparato la lettera ju. Nella preziosa valigetta abbiamo i regali per loro. E la vodka e il vino che ci sono necessari, perché la vita picchia duro e tentiamo di ingannarla. Solo che le cose poi si confondono, non è detto che la direzione sia quella giusta, forse stiamo tornado verso Mosca, verso quei burocrati disumani al servizio di un regime immenso, feroce, pauroso. Che proviamo a gabbare, con un po’ di ironia…e vodka. Ma poi ci può capitare di dichiarare guerra alla Norvegia, incontrare Satana, e la Sfinge, e Mitridate re del Ponto, e di ritrovarci infine sotto le mura del Cremlino al cospetto dei 4 cavalieri dell’apocalisse.
Un treno e le sue tante stazioni come la vita. Con i compagni di viaggio proviamo a condividere amore e compassione. La destinazione è Petuski, dove cantano gli usignoli e l’aria profuma di gelsomino e dove ci attende la nostra Regina. E oltre Petuski, là c’è il nostro amore di bambino, quello che ha già imparato la lettera ju. Nella preziosa valigetta abbiamo i regali per loro. E la vodka e il vino che ci sono necessari, perché la vita picchia duro e tentiamo di ingannarla. Solo che le cose poi si confondono, non è detto che la direzione sia quella giusta, forse stiamo tornado verso Mosca, verso quei burocrati disumani al servizio di un regime immenso, feroce, pauroso. Che proviamo a gabbare, con un po’ di ironia…e vodka. Ma poi ci può capitare di dichiarare guerra alla Norvegia, incontrare Satana, e la Sfinge, e Mitridate re del Ponto, e di ritrovarci infine sotto le mura del Cremlino al cospetto dei 4 cavalieri dell’apocalisse.
July 29, 2021
Letto tutto d'un fiato, o meglio: bevuto in quattro sorsi.
Questo libro mi ha riconciliato con i veri valori spirituali (alcoolici) della vita.
Un viaggio nell'ebrezza che è anche un viaggio nella tragica condizione umana.
Bellissimo!
Questo libro mi ha riconciliato con i veri valori spirituali (alcoolici) della vita.
Un viaggio nell'ebrezza che è anche un viaggio nella tragica condizione umana.
Bellissimo!
February 9, 2012
I've read this book 'bout 1 000 times. It's ultimate answer to your pain, depress and even happiness.
April 26, 2022
ei teagi kas nutta või naerda või juua viina punase veiniga
teine kord oli VEEL parem kui esimene
teine kord oli VEEL parem kui esimene
August 24, 2025
Grozničav san koji polako prestaje da se razlikuje od stvarnosti – pretočen u roman-poemu na izvanredan način. Ovo je knjiga o kreativnom, poetičnom unutrašnjem svetu na koji se obrušava turobna stvarnost.
Iz naslova se naslućuje putopis glavnog junaka, koji kreće vozom od Moskve prema Petuškama, malom gradiću gde ga čeka voljena žena. Naš junak je inteligentan, obrazovan čovek zaglibio u zavisnost od alkohola do te mere da ona potpuno preuzima njegov život. Jeftina ruska vodka i "kreativni" kokteli (šampon protiv peruti, kolonjska voda…) očito su bili najbolji prijatelji onih sa margine društva koji su u alkoholu tražili izbavljenje od samoće i od nakaradnog sistema.
Sentimentalno putovanje ubrzo prerasta u pijani košmar: voz postaje simbol života koji klizi bez jasnog odredišta. Svaka stanica i novo poglavlje je kao nova nota delirijuma koji narator proživljava.
Moskva–Petuški je mozaik žanrova: od putopisnog dnevnika do horora, od filozofske rasprave do distopije; lavirint književnih i biblijskih aluzija, političkih karikatura i grotesknih slika svakodnevice.
Sve je napisano u slobodnom, neformalnom stilu, gde se prepliću uzvišene misli i sočno psovanje, bez zadrške i preispitavanja da li će se neko naći uvređen. Jerofejev više nije mario – njegov voz je već jurio ka kraju sveta...
4.5/5
„Nije li ljudski život samo trenutno pijanstvo duše? A i pomračenje duše. Svi smo kao pijani, ali svako na svoj način, jedan je popio više, drugi manje. I na svakog drugačije deluje: jedan se ovom svetu smeje u lice, drugi na grudima ovog sveta plače…“
Iz naslova se naslućuje putopis glavnog junaka, koji kreće vozom od Moskve prema Petuškama, malom gradiću gde ga čeka voljena žena. Naš junak je inteligentan, obrazovan čovek zaglibio u zavisnost od alkohola do te mere da ona potpuno preuzima njegov život. Jeftina ruska vodka i "kreativni" kokteli (šampon protiv peruti, kolonjska voda…) očito su bili najbolji prijatelji onih sa margine društva koji su u alkoholu tražili izbavljenje od samoće i od nakaradnog sistema.
Sentimentalno putovanje ubrzo prerasta u pijani košmar: voz postaje simbol života koji klizi bez jasnog odredišta. Svaka stanica i novo poglavlje je kao nova nota delirijuma koji narator proživljava.
Moskva–Petuški je mozaik žanrova: od putopisnog dnevnika do horora, od filozofske rasprave do distopije; lavirint književnih i biblijskih aluzija, političkih karikatura i grotesknih slika svakodnevice.
Sve je napisano u slobodnom, neformalnom stilu, gde se prepliću uzvišene misli i sočno psovanje, bez zadrške i preispitavanja da li će se neko naći uvređen. Jerofejev više nije mario – njegov voz je već jurio ka kraju sveta...
4.5/5
„Nije li ljudski život samo trenutno pijanstvo duše? A i pomračenje duše. Svi smo kao pijani, ali svako na svoj način, jedan je popio više, drugi manje. I na svakog drugačije deluje: jedan se ovom svetu smeje u lice, drugi na grudima ovog sveta plače…“
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