Tsjevengoer

by Andrei Platonov, Lourens Reedijk (translator)

Sasja Dvanov trekt tijdens de burgeroorlog die na de Revolutie is uitgebroken door Rusland, samen met Stepan Kopjonkin, een soort Don Quichot die na Rosa Luxemburg (zijn Dulcinea) en de Revolutie zijn paard Proletarenkracht het meest waardeert. Ze komen terecht in het dorp Tsjevengoer, waar elf plaatselijke bolsjewieken het oercommunisme invoeren; ze liquideren of verdrijven de bourgeoisie en verzamelen het proletariaat en de leden van de overige klassen uit de omliggende dorpen om het communistisch paradijs definitief in te richten; voor ziekten, zorgen en zelfs de dood is geen plaats meer. De richtlijnen vanuit Moskou, waar de Nieuwe Economische Politiek intussen is begonnen, stuiten in het dorp op onbegrip en tegenstand.

Met onverbiddelijke logica laat Platonov zien hoe het communisme in Rusland wordt opgelegd zonder dat iemand weet wat het inhoudt, de bestuurders met hun ronkende leuzen evenmin als de slachtoffers, de havelozen.

Genres: Fiction, Russian Literature, Russia, Classics, Literature, Novels, Dystopia

411 pages, Paperback

First published January 1, 1928

About the author

Andrei Platonov, August 28, 1899 – January 5, 1951, was the pen name of Andrei Platonovich Klimentov, a Soviet author whose works anticipate existentialism. Although Platonov was a Communist, his works were banned in his own lifetime for their skeptical attitude toward collectivization and other Stalinist policies.

From 1918 through 1921, his most intensive period as a writer, he published dozens of poems (an anthology appeared in 1922), several stories, and hundreds of articles and essays, adopting in 1920 the Platonov pen-name by which he is best-known. With remarkably high energy and intellectual precocity he wrote confidently across a wide range of topics including literature, art, cultural life, science, philosophy, religion, education, politics, the civil war, foreign relations, economics, technology, famine, and land reclamation, amongst others.

His famous works include the novels The Foundation Pit and Chevengur.

Reviews

[Vit Babenco · Rating 5 out of 5]

I surmise Andrei Platonov, with his inimitable and very peculiar individual language, is a real torture for translators.

There are fringes of decay around old provincial towns. People come here to live straight out of nature. One such man appeared, his piercing face exhausted to the point of melancholy. He was able to fix or equip any manner of thing, but himself lived life unequipped. Nothing, from frying pan to alarm clock, had failed in its time to pass through the hands of this man. Nor had he ever refused to resole shoes, cast wolf shot, or stamp out phony medals to sell at old-fashioned country bazaars.

Those who can’t provide for themselves always rush to provide for others so they become a source of many troubles.
Chevengur is an extremely colourful communistic dystopia – one needs incredibly visionary abilities to see life in such a bleak light…

Then his hands fell back of their own accord, no longer requiring friendship. The Chekist understood and choked up. When a bourgeois has a bullet inside him, he needs friendship and comradeship just like a proletarian, although when he has no bullet inside, then he loves only property.

When human beings exist in suffering, squalor and misery not knowing there is a possibility of better life, they believe they are happy… Ignorance is bliss.

[Florina · Rating 5 out of 5]

I've never read anything like it before; the style is mesmerizing and completely enthralling. It can be read as a surreal and tragic fairytale of a utopic land (including, but not only USSR) where people seem to lose not only their humanity, but human substance itself; they become sleep-walkers in a vast, forgotten territory. You encounter glimpses of their past selves, or of a better self, but they are quickly swallowed by this lethargy of the human spirit. It's one of those books you'll have to read again and again to fully understand.

[Metodi Markov · Rating 1 out of 5]

Не мога да дочета тази книга.

Очевидно е, че съветския магически реализъм не е за мен, даже и когато се занимава с безсмислието и жестокостта на тази отвратително смъртоносна и дълбоко порочна система.

"Чевенгур" за времето си сигурно е била важна книга, но сега ми се вижда остаряла, провлачена и абсурдно натруфена.

Не изключвам обаче възможността, да се опитам някой ден пак да я подхвана.

[None Ofyourbusiness Loves Israel · Rating 5 out of 5]

Platonov's 1927-1929 suppressed novel, Chevengur, saddles us up alongside Sasha Dvanov, son of a man so curious about death he took a dive to experience it firsthand. Sasha, a child of revolution, sets off with Stepan Kopionkin, a knight on a not-so-white horse named "Strength of the Proletariat," on a quest to find the utopia of Communism. Their journey across the steppes is a kaleidoscope of characters – from revolutionaries to opportunists, each clinging to their own version of the future.

They stumble upon Chevengur, a town seemingly built on revolutionary dreams. The bourgeois are out, work is a communal affair, and everything not communist has been tossed on the bonfire of history.

But Chevengur is a peculiar paradise. It rearranges itself like a Rubik's Cube, with communist ideals interpreted in ever-shifting ways. Efforts to build this utopia seem as scattered as a flock of startled chickens, leaving everyone wondering if they're even building the right coop. The town itself becomes a kind of anti-hero, slowly dissolving the familiar Soviet structures, as if the vastness of the steppe itself rejects this new way of life. Perhaps the book's bleak ending is inevitable, but no less poignant for it.

Platonov's characters are a motley crew. Sasha, perhaps a stand-in for the young and idealistic Platonov himself, journeys with Kopionkin, a Don Quixote fueled by the memory of the murdered revolutionary Rosa Luxemburg. There's Chepurny, a fanatic trying to hammer communism into the town, Sasha's half-brother Prokofy, a man with a harsher edge, and a cast of others who weave a rich tapestry of the times.

Many are your typical party functionaries, yet they struggle to control Chevengur's bizarre brand of "natural" communism. Work for the good of all is taken to the extreme, with no one willing to work for themselves, but perfectly happy to build things for their neighbors. Is this a superior form of communism? That's the million-ruble question.

[Danilo Scardamaglio · Rating 4 out of 5]

Un piccolo capolavoro. Il villaggio della nuova vita, o Cevengur, è un romanzo di difficile classificazione, scritto in una lingua ed in uno stile completamente astruso, oscuro, seppure nella sua semplicità lessicale: la scrittura di Platonov è qualcosa di unico, incredibilmente camaleontica, capace di essere ironica, tragica, filosofica e magari anche tutto ciò contemporaneamente, assurdista ed a tratti surreale: di non assimilabile a nulla e nessuno. Persino la trama è di complessa definizione, e fino a circa pagina 80 avevo il dubbio che Platonov sapesse esattamente di cosa scrivere: vengono narrate le vite e le esperienze di differenti personaggi nel periodo di transizione dalla Russia zarista alla Russia sovietica, nella steppa al confine tra Russia ed Ucraina. Seppure l'immensità della steppa isoli i villaggi e le poche cittadine che la popolano, i destini di ogni personaggio sembrano convergere nella città-allegoria di Cevengur, villaggio liberato dalla borghesia ed issato dai suoi abitanti a prototipo di realizzazione del comunismo in terra. Tuttavia, nessuno dei personaggi del romanzo conosce realmente la teoria marxista, e così la loro idea di comunismo si plasma a seconda del loro ideale, del loro assoluto, creando delle condizioni materiali e spirituali nel villaggio completamente assurde: eppure nel corso del tempo effettivamente un qualcosa si realizza a Cevengur, seppure lontano dall'idea "governativa" di comunismo. Gli uomini davvero riescono a liberarsi dall'insieme di necessità e bisogni di matrice capitalistico-borghese, sostituendo valori come la competitività, la sopraffazione e l'oppressione, con amicizia, bontà e vicinanza umana. Questa liberazione è però piuttosto assimilabile ad un ritorno mitico alle origini delle essenze umane, ho compreso le critiche mosse da Gorkij a Platonov riguardo l'impossibilità di pubblicazione in quanto romanzo "anarchico", non affine alle direttive statali: la realizzazione di Cevengur muove piuttosto da posizioni anarco-primitiviste che marxiste. Inoltre, ogni personaggio del romanzo è mosso da un'inquietudine interiore, da un turbamento spirituale che li spingono a scelte completamente immotivate, oscure, che in alcuni casi vengono chiarite da Platonov nel corso del tempo, in altri casi restano oggetto dell'interpretazione più libera del lettore. Proprio in questa loro essenza condivisa, l'umanità di Platonov si erge a modello universale: l'inquietudine non motiva unicamente le scelte dei personaggi, ma è un qualcosa di insito nell'animo umano. Ciò che mi ha un po' deluso, di fronte ad un romanzo incredibile, è stato il finale: l'ho trovato troppo sbrigativo, troppo confusionario. È un romanzo che tuttavia vale assolutamente la pena leggere, proprio per la sua incredibile unicità.

[Gabriele · Rating 4 out of 5]

Raccontare di "Čevengur" non è affatto semplice, basti pensare che anche il solo voler catalogare quest'opera risulterebbe piuttosto problematico. Che cos'è esattamente "Čevengur"? Un romanzo d'avventura? Un'opera utopica? O forse distopica? La rappresentazione di un estremismo, quello del comunismo in terra sovietica, prossimo a venire o temuto nel suo arrivo? Cinquecento pagine dall'inizio di "Čevengur" si ha solo la sensazione di avere fra le mani un piccolo capolavoro solitario della letteratura russa, uno di quelli non catalogabili, frutto di un secolo di splendida letteratura e anticipatore di un periodo ancora in divenire.

Siamo intorno al 1926: Dostoevskij, Tolstoj e prima ancora Puškin, Lermontov e Gogol' hanno già posto le basi della grande letteratura russa. Dall'altra Charms, Dovlatov, Erofeev sono ancora al di là da venire con la loro carica ironica, a tratti dissacrante, ma sempre aderente alla difficile situazione sociale in terra sovietica. È in questo preciso momento storico che Platonov si presenta sulle scene: osteggiato in vita dalla censura ("Čevengur" stesso verrà pubblicato durante il disgelo, nel 1972, a vent'anni dalla scomparsa dell'autore), rappresenta il giusto anello di congiunzione fra la letteratura impegnata del periodo precedente e quella più "irriverente" del successivo. Echi di Dostoevskij e del grande realismo di Tolstoj sono vivi in Platonov, ma lo è anche il Gogol' allegorico dell'ultimo periodo (quello de "Le anime morte" per intenderci). Eppure, in questo realismo e in questa voglia di raccontare un determinato periodo storico, si annida già il voler mostrare una società complessa come quella russa sotto forma di caricatura, esagerandone i tratti ed esasperandone le conseguenze, esattamente ciò che a partire da metà '900 sempre più autori sovietici inizieranno a fare.

Dunque, che cos'è "Čevengur"? "Čevengur" è un grande "what if..." che parte dalla situazione sociale e politica del periodo e cerca di immaginarsi cosa sarebbe potuto essere (o cosa ancora potrebbe avvenire) se. Il grande "se" di Platonov è uno, semplicissimo: cosa succederebbe se il comunismo più rigoroso venisse non solo applicato, ma perseguito da tutti gli abitanti di una cittadina? Da qui parte la nuova fondazione di Čevengur, località immaginaria in mezzo alla steppa in cui il comunismo viene da un giorno all'altro imposto a tutti i suoi abitanti. Gli stessi abitanti che, tacciati immediatamente di far parte della borghesia, vengono in blocco trascinati fuori dalla cittadina, lasciandola di colpo priva di qualsiasi cittadino, comitato esecutore escluso. Come rimediare dunque? Ma andando a cercare i proletari dei dintorni, gli ultimi come Platonov ama definirli, e portarli a Čevengur, "dove il comunismo è un fatto compiuto". Qui una società composta da gente che non ha mai avuto un tetto sopra la testa cerca lentamente di ricomporsi, con il chiaro intento di perseguire gli ideali di un comunismo estremizzato in cui nessuno lavora ("basta il calore del sole per procurarci il necessario per vivere: le piante cresceranno da sé e noi ci nutriremo con esse") e nessuno possiede alcunché, in cui le giornate sono passate completamente a poltrire o a girovagare per il villaggio spoglio, in cui solo nei "sabati socialisti" è permesso metter mano agli strumenti da lavoro, in cui ogni viaggiatore proveniente dalla steppa viene visto come un possibile nemico del comunismo e quindi attentamente vagliato.

È una situazione che appare assurda fin dalle prime battute, ed è proprio su questa assurdità che il romanzo di Platonov si dileggia per tutto il tempo: "Čevengur" è una grande rappresentazione dell'assurdo, la caricatura di una società di cui anche gli abitanti della cittadina immaginaria vedono gli enormi limiti, ma che perseguono tenacemente anche a costo della propria vita. Le azioni di questi ultimi sono sconclusionate, apparentemente prive di ogni logica: case e giardini vengono immediatamente trascinati a braccia al centro della città in modo che tutti gli abitanti vivano giornalmente a stretto contatto, gli animali vengono tolti dai più ricchi per darli ai più poveri (nonostante il fatto che nessuno fra quei poveri avrà di che accudire le povere bestie), il lavoro viene accuratamente evitato (ma accettato e consigliato se si tratta di farlo per un compagno in difficoltà, con il risultato che dopo alcune settimane tutti saranno impegnati a lavorare), la morte viene ufficialmente debellata (e nel momento in cui qualcuno, incredibilmente, muore viene data la colpa al poco comunismo nell'aria), la solitudine amorosa viene curata andando a cercare le mogli fra le proletarie più povere delle città vicine (ma una volta portate a Čevengur si preferisce tenerle come madri e sorelle, perché nessuno di quei poveri proletari di Čevengur ha mai avuto in vita sua una donna da chiamare madre o sorella, e come tali le preferiscono). Il "comunismo", quasi fosse una persona reale, viene più volte atteso a Čevengur e più volte viene dimostrata la sua incontestabile presenza, una presenza confermata dal fatto che "l'autunno è un autunno decisamente più caldo dei precedenti", o che la popolazione riesce a vivere anche senza arare un campo (ma sfruttando le scorte della borghesia cacciata, quello sì): ogni buon avvenimento è merito del comunismo, ogni cattivo è dovuto a un comunismo ancora non del tutto giunto a Čevengur.

Ma Platonov non si ferma qui: il suo romanzo è costellato, come ogni buon romanzo russo, da personaggi caratteristici e tanto umani da rimanere facilmente nella memoria del lettore, e mai come in questo libro vediamo l'alternarsi di figure tanto differenti e, naturalmente, strambe come la vicenda raccontata. Basterebbe parlare di Kopenkin, comandante bolscevico che vive in sella a un cavallo di nome Forza Proletaria e che passa la sua vita nel ricordo della compagna Rosa Luxemburg, amandola di un amore che si divide fra quello fraterno del comunismo, quello di devozione verso la sua figura politica e quello romantico verso una donna così bella strappata alla vita ancora giovane. Ma ognuno dei protagonisti (sono tanti, almeno sette o otto quelli principali) risulta unico e pieno di sfaccettature, e anche lo stesso credo verso il comunismo è differente: c'è chi in Čevengur vede il vero compiersi del comunismo e chi invece ne dubita, chi ne vede solo una fase iniziale e chi invece un progetto oramai in via di conclusione (e cerca dunque di imporsi come proprietario di tutto, mandando in fumo proprio quel comunismo che ha perseguito in vita).

"Čevengur" è un romanzo a tratti satirico e irriverente, che suscita quel riso sottile che è un riso non di divertimento ma quasi di compatimento verso le vicende raccontate, lo stesso che autori come Erofeev, Dovlatov e in parte Charms esalteranno alcuni decenni dopo. Ma è anche un libro con tante immagini poetiche — si parla molto di amicizia e di amore fra le pagine di "Čevengur", sentimenti che vengono visti in tutte le loro varianti, da quelle più aride e imposte a quelle tanto delicate in cui c'è solo il pensiero dell'altro —, immagini che rendono malinconica una storia che ai suoi protagonisti risulta dai toni completamente differenti rispetto a quelli a cui il lettore è indotto. È una grande allegoria, sì, ma non c'è niente di più potente di un'allegoria non vuota come questa di Platonov, un'allegoria che, non si stenta a credere, sarebbe potuta essere la rappresentazione di una vicenda reale e solo un po' incredibile, piuttosto che la fantasia di uno scrittore.


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Bonus track (per chi ha ancora la pazienza di leggere queste righe)

Questa che riporto è una delle tantissime pagine in cui l'ironia di Platonov viene completamente allo scoperto. Siamo all'inizio della fondazione di Čevengur: Cepurnyj, appartenente al comitato costituente, sogna ad occhi aperti che Lenin venga a conoscenza di questa città costituita interamente sul comunismo. Da queste righe traspare una malinconica incredibile, in cui sogno e realtà si fondono insieme, mostrandoci proprio ciò a cui nel finale della mia recensione ho accennato:

"Probabilmente già tutto il mondo, tutta la forza elementare borghese sapeva che a Čevengur era apparso il comunismo, e ora più che mai il pericolo circostante era vicino. [...] Una sola cosa tranquillizzava ed eccitava Cepurnyj: c'era un lontano luogo segreto, nelle vicinanze di Mosca o sul rialto del Valdaj, chiamato Cremlino, dove Lenin, seduto sotto una lampada, pensava, non dormiva e scriveva. Che cosa stava scrivendo laggiù, in quell'istante? Eppure Čevengur c'era già, e per Lenin era giunta l'ora di smettere di scrivere, di unirsi nuovamente al proletariato e vivere. [...] [Cepurnyj] sapeva che in quel momento Lenin stava pensando a Čevengur e ai suoi bolscevichi, anche se non conosceva i cognomi di quei compagni. Lenin, probabilmente, stava scrivendo una lettera a Cepurnyj, affinché non dormisse, salvaguardasse il comunismo a Čevengur e attirasse a sé il sentimento e la vita di tutta la base popolare senza nome; affinché Cepurnyj non avesse paura di nulla, poiché il lungo tempo della storia era finito, e la povertà e il dolore si erano a tal punto moltiplicati che, oltre a loro, non era rimasto nulla; affinché Cepurnyj con tutti i compagni attendesse lui, Lenin, ospite nel suo comunismo, per abbracciare a Čevengur tutti i martiri della terra e porre fine al movimento dell'infelicità nella vita. E quindi Lenin avrebbe mandato un saluto e ordinato al comunismo di consolidarsi a Čevengur per sempre."

[Andrej Platonov, Čevengur, Einaudi, 2015, pp.322-323]

[Malacorda · Rating 2 out of 5]

Non l'ho proprio abbandonato (un'opzione immeritatamente volgare nei confronti di un libro che ha per carattere fondamentale l'essere sofisticato e raffinato); non posso nemmeno dire di averlo finito nel senso più compiuto del termine (terminare una lettura con un certo tasso di impegno e concentrazione ed entusiasmo è il privilegio che si riserva ai libri che si stanno amando oltre che leggendo); insomma, l'ho tirato via.

Una nuova esperienza di lettura al di fuori della propria "comfort zone" è sempre istruttiva e positiva; alcuni singoli passaggi sono fulminanti e illuminanti e sorprendentemente attuali; ma una parodia/pantomima/nonsenso che si protrae per cinquecento pagine è una pantomima che l'ha tirata troppo per le lunghe, ed è così che l'ho portato a termine spingendo - come si suol dire - l'elefante su per le scale, ma non è proprio la mia tazza di té.

Da qualche parte ho letto la definizione di "romanzo filosofico", che calza piuttosto bene: c'è più riflessione filosofica che azione. Personalmente lo definirei anche romanzo corale-satirico sulla rivoluzione russa, ma in questo non è arrivato per primo: Cuore di cane di Bulgakov racconta in maniera satirica un esperimento fantascientifico che è metafora della stessa rivoluzione. Il fatto che qui si filosofeggi umoristicamente e per di più in una dimensione fantasiosa e magica e onirica, rallenta di molto il ritmo della lettura, mentre Bulgakov ha saputo rendere la sua ironia ben più avvincente e avvolgente.

Romanzo utopico - la giustizia, l'equità e il benessere e la felicità di tutti sono la massima utopia possibile - e anche distopico - lo squallore di certi villaggi abbandonati fa pensare al lettore di essere più in un contesto post-atomico che non verso la fine della prima guerra mondiale.

Romanzo dell'assurdo: il socialismo viene invocato, atteso, cercato come se fosse un qualcosa che deve cadere giù dal cielo, o ancor meglio come se fosse Godot: i protagonisti attendono che questi arrivi, e nel frattempo non vivono e non agiscono ma si limitano a cincischiare e razzolare come passeri o come galline.

E' anche romanzo fortemente poetico, i cieli e le atmosfere delle steppe sono sempre presenti e concreti. Protagonisti concreti sono i treni, le locomotive e le stazioni: con il fumo, le sale d'attesa, lo sferragliare, le caldaie, dadi e controdadi di ogni tipo e misura. Al contrario, i protagonisti di tipo antropomorfo sono tutti allo stato per così dire "gassoso": sentivo il bisogno che i personaggi si presentassero in maniera un po' più "solida" ed invece se dovessi rappresentare quanto letto in un cortometraggio, sarei obbligata a far apparire i personaggi come semi-trasparenti, come fantasmi o come anime in procinto di volare via.

A tratti la storia propone una sorta di remake o parodia della coppia Don Chisciotte - Sancho Panza: a zonzo per la nuova (eppur vecchia) Rus'.

Alla fin fine, per una lettrice un po' ignorante come me, si prestano meglio le storie in formato tradizionale: in più passaggi ho desiderato che la storia della città di Čevengur mi venisse raccontata in modo da farmela capire un po' meglio, e mi sono ritrovata a rimpiangere Sulla faccia della terra di Angioni, per non parlare di Se non ora, quando? di Primo Levi, anche lì c'è una nuova comunità che viene fondata nella speranza di miglior progresso. Questo Platonov meriterebbe quattro stelle perché si percepisce benissimo il valore intrinseco dell'opera, ma come hanno già detto tanti altri, siamo lettori e non critici, e per il piacere della lettura proprio non so andare oltre le due stelle.

[Núria · Rating 4 out of 5]

Da la sensación de que Andréi Platónov escribe como si nadie antes que él hubiera escrito y como si, después, nadie hubiera de leer lo que él ha escrito. Escribe sin mirar atrás, quemando todos los puentes, avanzando a toda prisa como si se estuviera acabando el mundo. Quizás realmente se esté acabando, porque el paisaje que describe Platónov tiene un aire postapocalíptico fascinante. ‘Chevengur’ empieza en la Rusia pre-revolucionaria, cuando el hambre y la muerte campan a sus anchas en un territorio desolado, yermo y solitario. Y la fuerza que tiene el estilo de Platónov es incomparable.

‘Chevengur’ no está dividida en capítulos, no hay ninguna pausa en la narración, fluye con una intensidad y una rapidez ejemplares, pero aún así podemos dividirla en partes. En la segunda, después de que haya habido la revolución y la guerra civil esté prácticamente terminada, dos hombres salen a buscar el verdadero socialismo, que puede que haya surgido de forma natural en algún pueblo aislado. Son una especie de Quijote y Sancho Panza. Se llaman Kopionkin y Dvanov. El primero es el más idealista y el segundo el más práctico. El primero monta un caballo que se llama Fuerza Proletaria y también tiene su Dulcinea particular. En su caso se trata de Rosa Luxemburgo; es el amor que siente por esta mujer que fue asesinada y el deseo de ir a visitar su tumba cuando todo haya terminado que le ayudan a seguir adelante.

Kopionkin y Dvànov vagan por la estepa y encuentran campesinos endurecidos y analfabetos que intentan adaptar el socialismo “al pie de la letra”, lo cual da pie a situaciones de lo más absurdas y grotescas. Aquí empieza la sátira pura y dura, que impidió que esta novela fuera publicada en vida de Platónov. Sin embargo, ya antes, toda la novela ha sido plagada de un humor muy particular, incisivo y brutal, a veces sutil y a veces basto, pero siempre con un punto cruel.

Kopionkin y Dvanov no encuentran el socialismo que estaban buscando, se separan y vuelven a sus vidas insatisfactorias. Kopionkin sigue soñando con Rosa Luxemburgo pero cada vez está más desilusionado. Además, echa de menos a su amigo. Entonces, empiezan a llegar noticias de que en Chevengur, un pequeño pueblo perdido en la estepa, se ha implantado el verdadero comunismo, y será allí donde acabarán reencontrándose los dos protagonistas. Entonces empieza la tercera parte, la única que sucede en Chevengur, una parte que sigue teniendo un aire satírico, pero a la vez habla de la nostalgia que sienten todos estos hombres rudos que han llevado una vida muy dura, una nostalgia en lo más profundo por algo que nunca han tenido.

Se dice que Chevengur es un pueblo de paso que se creó cuando una serie de personas decidieron asentarse allí para esperar la segunda venida de Jesucristo que les iba a traer la felicidad completa. Ahora, Chevengur está habitada por hombres que confiaron que el comunismo también les traería la felicidad completa, pero empiezan a darse cuenta de que por más que ahora tienen para comer, siguen sintiendo una tristeza desgarradora y una soledad angustiante que nada puede mitigar. En Chevengur hay dos figuras que destacan encima de las otras, otro Quijote y otro Sancho Panza, a la manera de Kopionkin y Dvanov, uno es más práctico y el otro más idealista, pero los dos (como todos los personajes de esta novela) se sienten solos y necesitan del amor y del calor de sus semejantes. Y es precisamente esto lo que hace que esta novela trascienda los límites de la sátira, la literatura de denuncia, la recreación de una época determinada, y llegue a lugares a los que pocos libros suelen llegar.

[AiK · Rating 4 out of 5]

Этот роман был написан в 20-х годах, и, очевидно, его ждала судьба быть заблокированным советской цензурой. Впервые он был напечатан зарубежом, в начале 70-х, а в СССР только в 1988 году. Определить жанр этого романа очень сложно. Назвать его трагикомедией язык не поворачивается, поскольку страшного все-таки больше, чем смешного. Социальная антиутопия одновременно сталкивается и с утопией, и с реализмом. Кафкианский абсурд перемежается с сатирой и фантастикой. Автор высмеивает идею построения коммунизма, или хотя бы социализма в одном отдельно взятом городе. Жители мечтают о сытой жизни, но при этом ничего не делая. Чевенгурцы заполнили анкеты, и выяснилось, что они «живут ради Бога». Идеологии у них нет, они сплошь все ждут конца света. Коммунисты - довольно смешные в романе. Копёнкин влюблен в Розу Люксембург и мечтает доскакать на своем коне Пролетарская Сила до ее могилы, по пути, как богатырь, истребив всех буржуев. Чепурный тоже комичен – у него «руководящие революционные предчувствия», он хочет скорее строить коммунизм и пишет на заглавном листе Марксова тома, что «Исполнено в Чевенгуре», и что не нашлось у Маркса головы, чтобы сочинить об «остаточной сволочи». Чтобы построить социализм, нужно экспроприировать имущество у буржуев, а затем и у полубуржуев с неизбежным массовым расстрелом. Они объявляют единственным пролетарием солнце, а сами мучаются бездельем, работая только на субботниках. Заканчивается роман разгромом коммуны какими-то неизвестными кавалеристами. Вот здесь и непонятно, что же этим хотел сказать Платонов. Что это за сила, которая разрушит коммунизм в отдельно взятой стране? Выживший после атаки Саша Дванов, мучимый стыдом, продолжает путь отца, утонувшего в озере из желания узнать о загробном царстве. Но что означает согласие Прошки «бесплатно» пойти на поиски Саши?

[Sini · Rating 5 out of 5]

Andrej Platonov (1899-1951) wordt vaak een van de grootste Russische schrijvers van de 20e eeuw genoemd. Joseph Brodsky gaat zelfs nog verder: hij vindt Platonov minstens de evenknie en misschien nog wel groter dan Kafka, Joyce, Musil of Beckett. Voor hem hoort Platonov dus thuis in het echelon van de allergrootsten ter wereld. Zelf las ik zo'n 15 jaar geleden al het werk van Platonov met rode oren, en zijn vroege roman "Tjsevengoer" herlas ik laatst met euforische bewondering. Inderdaad, een genie, die Platonov, en "Tsjevengoer" is naar mijn idee een adembenemend bijzonder meesterwerk van zeer uitzonderlijke klasse, dat wel zes sterren verdient. Dus ik snap en deel Brodsky's uitbundige bewondering. Maar ergens begrijp ik ook wel waarom Platonov minder bekend is dan b.v. Kafka of Musil: zijn proza is namelijk ECHT adembenemend bijzonder en ongehoord ongewoon, en daardoor is het ook ongrijpbaar en niet te duiden zo dubbelzinnig. Ik hou daar van, maar dat geldt niet voor iedereen.

Het verhaal speelt grotendeels in het fictieve Russische dorp Tsjevengoer, in de vroege jaren '20, waar een aantal even kleurrijke als verweesde en verloren zielen druk bezig is het oercommunisme in te voeren. De "Nieuwe Economische Politiek" bestaat nog maar net, de bolsjewieken hebben de strijd nog niet volledig gewonnen: alles is nog onbepaald en ongevormd, en het communisme is vooral nog een utopische droom waarvan niemand nog weet wat hij inhoudt. Die droom nu wordt in een wel heel unieke, lyrisch-satirische stijl beschreven. In satirische stijl, omdat Platonov op werkelijk geniale wijze de holle frasen en mentale kronkelingen parodieert van de communistische machthebbers en op nog genialere wijze laat zien hoe al hun idealisme verstrikt raakt in paradoxen en dwaalwegen. Dat is vaak onweerstaanbaar komisch, maar tegelijk ook intens tragisch: de in zichzelf vastdraaiende zinnen van Platonov roepen wel heel pregnant gevoelens van verdwaaldheid en vergeefsheid op, en dat is om je dood te lachen en tegelijk ook om je gek te janken. Maar naast tragi-komisch satirisch is de stijl van Platonov ook lyrisch: vol vervoering en jubel over de droom van een betere wereld, vol poëtische kracht over de glimpen die de mensen soms voor even van die betere wereld menen te zien, vol bijna schrijnend meegevoel over het "levensongeduld" en de intense hunkering die deze droom in beweging zetten. De intensiteit van die hunkering wordt extra schrijnend door de enorme vergeefsheid die Platonov daarnaast ook evoceert: door de satire en de in zichzelf vastlopende zinnen, maar ook door de werkelijk ongehoord indringende beschrijvingen van de volstrekt lege steppe, de verlaten hemel "die zowel het kapitalisme als het communisme met een totale onverschilligheid gelijkelijk overdekte", de volkomen onverschillige natuur. Of door de gedachte "dat de mens van de worm afstamde, en een worm is een simpel akelig buisje waar helemaal niets in zit - alleen maar lege, stinkende duisternis". Of door passages over een visser die zichzelf verdrinkt, uit nieuwsgierigheid over wat er aan gene zijde van het leven ligt, ofwel omdat hij "zijn leven niet verdragen kon en het in de dood omzette om eerder de schoonheid van de andere wereld te leren kennen". En dat alles is ook nog eens omhuld met een bijzonder intrigerende en uiterst merkwaardige droomachtige sfeer: de gebeurtenissen zijn onwerkelijk als in een droom, de personages zijn op merkwaardige wijze van individualiteit ontheven en lijken soms bijna sprookjesfiguren, de natuurtaferelen zijn soms bijna surrealistisch van sfeer, tijd en ruimte zijn vaak merkwaardig ongrijpbaar, en alles wordt verteld door een verteller die alleen verwondert registreert en die niets duidt of analyseert.

De roman begint als volgt: "Oude provinciesteden hebben bouwvallige randen. De mensen die daar wonen, komen vaak zo uit de natuur. Eens verscheen daar een man - met zo'n spiedend en verdrietig uitgeput gezicht, een man die alles kon repareren en voor alle voorzieningen kon zorgen, behalve voor zijn eigen leven want dat leefde hij zonder voorzieningen". Merkwaardige zinnen, maar hoe meer je leest, hoe raker ze worden: de man in kwestie is verdoold en inderdaad iemand die aan "bouwvallige randen" leeft. Latere zinnen zijn nog raarder, maar minstens even raak. Bijvoorbeeld: "De weg voerde de Japanner heel lang met zich mee". Een wel heel ongewoon beeld, want sinds wanneer voert een WEG iemand met zich mee, maar het past precies bij het dwalende en verweesde personage in kwestie, net als zijn bijnaam "de Japanner" die treffend zijn uitheemsheid oproept. Enorm droefgeestig en bodemloos prachtig vind ik de volgende passage: "Hij lag de hele nacht stil, zonder slaap en met een hulpeloos hart. Het dorp om hem heen bewoog niet, met geen enkel levend geluid herinnerde het aan zijn bestaan, als had het voor eeuwig afstand genomen van zijn naargeestig somber lot. Slechts af en toe ritselden de naakte wilgen op het lege erf van de dorpsraad om de tijd naar de lente door te laten". Prachtige zinnen, die tot langzaam lezen en herlezen dwingen, en die juist door hun ongewoonheid extra aandacht oproepen voor het droeve lot van dit personage. En dat beeld van wilgen die ritselen om de tijd naar de lente door te laten..... Geweldig, juist omdat het zo poëtisch en meerduidig is en daardoor de meerduidigheid bewaart van dit troosteloze gevoel. En zo staat "Tsjevengoer" vol met adembenemend bijzondere zinnen en met opmerkelijk ongewone schoonheid. Zinnen ook die aanzetten tot geïnspireerde mijmeringen, bijvoorbeeld over de tijd, die voor sommige personages "slechts bestond als een raadsel in het mechanisme van een wekker", terwijl in een iets andere situatie "tijd leed was dat bewoog".

Die ongewone schoonheid schittert ook volop in de taferelen die Platonov schildert en de personages die hij beschrijft. Zoals bijvoorbeeld het personage Kopjonkin, die als een soort uitvergroting van Don Quichotte ronddavert op zijn paard Proletarenkracht, vechtend met de sabel voor het communisme, wanhopig trouw aan de gestorven Rosa Luxemburg die voor hem een verloren geliefde is en een verloren moeder tegelijk. Ongelofelijk hoe ontroerend deze totaal lachwekkende figuur beschreven wordt, ongelofelijk hoe zijn in wezen zinloze verering van Rosa Luxemburg tegelijk ook een beeld is van ridderlijke trouw. Op vergelijkbare wijze lachwekkend en ontroerend is een Russische revolutionair die rondloopt in een disfunctioneel harnas, gewapend is met al even disfunctionele bommen, en die woont te midden van zuilen die vormgegeven zijn als vrouwenbenen. Volkomen maf, allemaal, alleen groeien die zuilen door Platonovs vaardige pen uit tot rijke en meerduidige symbolen van ongrijpbaar verlangen en oninlosbare hunkering. Zo krijgt de groteske ridder in al zijn groteskheid tegelijk toch een grootste tragiek. Ook het personage Sasja Dvanov imponeert: een wees (zoals iedereen bij Platonov), daardoor totaal melancholiek en vol levensongeduld, en iemand die medemensen, kippen, dieren, huiselijke voorwerpen en zelfs locomotieven wil "voelen en ermee samenleven", zodanig zelfs dat hij zich verbeeldt dat hij een locomotief IS. Ook omhelst hij een locomotief, alsof die locomotief zijn moeder personifieert, of een liefdesobject dat ook in metaforische zin naar verre oorden vervoert aan gene zijde van leven en dood. Op soortgelijke wijze wil hij samenleven met de doden: "Rechts van Dvanovs weg lag op een afgekalfde verzakte grafheuvel het dorpskerkhof. De armzalige kruisen, verweerd door wind en water, staken trouw omhoog. Zij herinnerden de levenden die langs de kruisen liepen eraan dat de doden voor niets hadden geleefd en uit de dood op wilden staan. Dvanov stak zijn hand omhoog naar de kruisen opdat ze zijn medelijden met de doden door zouden geven naar de graven".

Zelden heb ik een boek gelezen waarin het verlangen naar betere werelden zo pregnant voelbaar werd gemaakt. Zelden heb ik een boek gelezen waarin de vergeefsheid van dit verlangen zo indringend naar voren kwam en waarin de totale zinloosheid van het leven mij zo naar de keel greep. Zelden ook las ik een boek dat zo vol stond met zulke ongelofelijk originele en zulke schitterende zinnen. Ik las het twee keer achter elkaar, en elke keer herlas ik de zinnen of bladerde ik er naar terug, omdat ik ze zo ongrijpbaar prachtig vond. Wat een meesterlijk boek, wat een uitzonderlijk geweldige schrijver. Er zit niks anders op: na "Tsjevengoer" ga ik nu ook de andere boeken van Platonov herlezen.

[Vladimir · Rating 5 out of 5]

One can live only to read this book.

[Max Nemtsov · Rating 5 out of 5]

ну вот, надо наконец доперечитать Платонова, потому что ни Чевенгур, ни Котлован я толком не помню - читал, когда они только вышли дешевыми изданиями в перестройку как "возвращенная" литература.

и тут конечно (как и прежде) вовсю жгут комментаторы: Ч, мол, у них "незавершенное на многих уровнях произведение, которое обладает всеми правами завершенного". вот что это, я вас спрашиваю, а? остальные толкования тоже вполне художественны и потешны. например, на полном серьезе объясняется слово "гундосый", а "Чевенгур" считается анаграммой топонима "Богучар". обрастание шерстью комментаторы объясняют одичанием, хотя у Платонова это явно совершенно точно следствие голода.

но вообще, конечно, другого такого воспевателя бессмысленной русской хтони еще поискать надо. слог его прекрасен в своем вычурном наивизме и магическом косноязычии - и тошнотворен одновременно. вернее сказать, тошнотворны темы и предметы описания им: от федоровского зомбачья и паровозного карго-культа до "культуры пролетариата", большевицкой некрофилии и крестьянской гигиены, а также это неизбывное народное желание везде насрать и все испортить или спиздить. в Ч Платонов, конечно, великий патологоанатом - вскрывал еще по-живому, пока оно не сдохло окончательно. хотя сдохло ли, вот вопрос. но и ужас, и вся нелепица совецкой жызни показаны очень наглядно, недарном усатое хуйло и его присные считали, что он издевается. эта звонкая насмешка в Ч уже слышится везде, а местами даже переходит в горькую злость, как с бессильной русской сатирой бывало испокон веку.

потому в итоге читать Ч не только вполне можно, но и нужно как ядовитый шедевр абсурда, конечно. странно, что русские литерати его таковым, похоже, не считают, п относятся со звериной прямо-таки серьезностью. да и с жанровой точки зрения он представляет загадку только для составительницы комментария - на самом деле, это вполне себе энциклопедический роман, нанизанный на освященную веками пикареску, сродни, например, "Дону Кихоту".

персонажи движутся путем бегунов к своему вымышленному Беловодью через разъебанный и засранный революцией пейзаж (ибо сами постановили "считать движение людей неотлож­ным признаком коммунизма") и встречают целую галерею народных уродов, вполне бессмысленно высказывающихся по поводу и без. мениппова сатира, одним словом. к Пинчону роман так же близок, если присмотреться, как, например, и "Петербург" Белого. удивительно и то, что Ч таковым никто в русскоязычном пространстве, похоже, не считает. в мировом тоже я, во всяком случае, не нашел - все с удлп смотрят на палец, а не на луну. ну ничего, кто-нибудь когда-нибудь диссертацию напишет, дарю замысел.

ну и непонятно, с какой это радости Ч зовут утопией - что ж там утопического-то на этой помойке со слабоумными или вовсе безмозглыми убийцами и вырожденцами-большевиками (которые, к тому же, в детстве мучили кошек)? безмозглость народа же такова, что автор как бы даже оправдывает большевицкое руководство им: без него народ даже не идиот, какое-то хтоническое варево, способное лишь на см. выше - все портить, ломать и везде гадить. ну или автор сам прямо говорит о Дванове, например: "с запавшими, слов­но мертвыми глазами, похожими на усталых сторожей". натуральные умертвия же.

в этой связи есть и дальневосточная загадка: это как раз про одного такого убийцу:

...раз войны не было, человек должен жить с родственниками, а родственники Кирея бы­ ли далеко — на Дальнем Востоке, на берегу Тихого океана, почти на конце земли, откуда начиналось небо, покрывав­шее капитализм и коммунизм сплошным равнодушием. Кирей прошел дорогу от Владивостока до Петрограда пеш­ком, очищая землю для Советской власти и ее идеи, и те­перь дошел до Чевенгура и спал, пока не отдохнул и не за­скучал. Ночами Кирей смотрел на небо и думал о нем как о Тихом океане, а о звездах — как об огнях пароходов, плы­вущих на дальний запад, мимо его береговой родины.

с какими это войсками шел он в сторону, противоположную общему вектору гражданской войны, интересно. и каким это путем на запад "мимо береговой родины" плывут пароходы. на западе от Владивостока суша лежит вообще-то. (но у Платонова и раньше были проблемы с географией, как мы помним)

* * *

К - не уверен я, кстати, что Платоновов язык раскрепощает стиль, скорее все-таки наоборот - особенно, если помногу зараз (pun intended). и Голышев прав - корявая поэтика его _делу_ только вредит, ею можно лишь _наслаждаться_ (как Геннадий "дамой с горностаем" (с) Линор). да и как вдохновляться книжкой, которая тошнотно описывает, как рабы копают себе могилу перед неизбежной казнью, при этом разговаривая на недочеловеческом языке вертухаев и партаппаратчиков в этом своем мутном мареве беспамятства, приблизительности и недомыслия. в К весь смысл образования по имени россия и выражен, и действительно счастлива та страна, на чей язык его невозможно перевести, - вернее, где Платонова вообще не поймут, потому что идиотизм русской и совецкой жизни натурально непостижим.

ну а последняя часть К - уже даже не модернистский абсурд, а чистейший сюрреализм, до которого русская словесность и посейчас, почти 100 лет спустя, не доросла. пространство слов, совершенно чужое русскому языку. восторженный гимн рабскому труду - недаром же автор так рвался на Беломор.

* * *

вот Львовский о Ч: https://polka.academy/articles/554
вот Голышев о К: https://m.colta.ru/articles/specials/...
а вот Сапрыкин о К: https://polka.academy/articles/73

[Jonathan · Rating 5 out of 5]

“Is man really such a danger to man that power has to stand between them? War is the doing of power and governments. Yes, all my days I keep thinking that war’s been thought up on purpose by governments. No ordinary person could have dreamed it up”
.
“This onlooker is the eunuch of a man’s soul. Here is what he witnessed.”
.
Andrey Platonov has become a staple of Russian absurdity in the view of modern literature now that his works are available in English translations, he will make the likes of Kafka an Borges seem tame, but everything is done with a purpose, capturing the tumultuous period of the Russian Revolution while transcending mere historical narrative to dive into profound philosophical and existential themes. He weaves these characters that reek of Laszlo Kraznahorkai’s usual suspects as they converge trying to find the Communist town of Chevengur, a symbol of Utopian aspirations amidst the chaos of revolution. A deluge of the dreadful and poor inhabit every town that our two main men, Dvanov and Kopionkin, travel to amongst horses with faint comparisons of Russian Don Quixote’s
.
Exploring the inherent contradictions and complexities of revolutionary ideology, grappling with idealism and reality, hope and disillusionment, Platonov masterfully portrays the struggles of individuals caught in the vortex of societal upheaval, all while they grapple with their own desires for meaning and fulfillment amidst the post revolutionary Russia. A thought provoking internal monologue of the proletariat working class searching for a form of government that works for them, a historical yet still timeless exploration of the human spirit and its capacity for resilience. Everything comes together with Platonov’s poetic prose and philosophical depth, through vivid descriptions he paints a lyrical picture of a society in flux, where the old order is crumbling and new possibilities emerge. Portraying the Soviet regime as both a force of liberation and oppression the internal struggle for a utopian vision easily sways the characters
.
Despite the bleak portrayal of Soviet society Chevengur is not without moments of beauty and hope, there’s stillness in grace and redemption amidst the chaos, celebrating resilience of the human spirit. The characters may be flawed at times but they posses a profound capacity for love and solidarity that transcends the limitations of their lives and circumstances. Chevengur is a timeless enduring quest for meaning in purpose in a world torn apart by ideology and strife.

[Hulyacln · Rating 5 out of 5]

Çevengur’un arka kapak yazısında şöyle yazıyor: ‘Ünlü devrimcilerin bedensiz hayalleriyle kuşatılmış, değişim için yapılacak tek şeyi -yani devrimi- hallettikten sonra öylece kalakalmış garip bir topluluğun öyküsü Çevengur. Her şeyin bittiği ve hiçbir şeyin başlamadığı bir dünyada insanın tabiatla bile mücadele etmek istemediği bir can sıkıntısının öyküsü.’
.
Can ile tanıştım Platonov ile, sarsmıştı beni. Sonra Dönüş’teki öykülerini okudum dilindeki eleştirinin ve mizahın tadını almıştım artık. Çevengur ise bambaşkaydı. Hem hayal hem çok gerçek bir hikaye, devrimin ilk yılları ve o apansız belirsizlik.
Hiçbir şeyi bilemeyiş, herkesten yükselen ayrı ayrı sesler ama bir türlü ‘olamayış’. Sürekli bir ‘ne yapacağız-ne yapıyoruz’ hali.
Ve sonda başlangıca dönüş, pek çok şey gibi.. Acı da döner bir gün rahmine..
.
Çok sevdim Çevengur’u, bunda Günay Çetao Kızılırmak çevirisinin de etkisi büyük elbet.

[Argos · Rating 4 out of 5]

1920'li yıllarda Rusya'da olanları mizahi dille anlatan kitap tekarlara düşerek gereksiz uzatılmış bu nedenle okumayı sıkıcı hale getiriyor.

[Patrick · Rating 5 out of 5]

Time to stop being lazy and actually write a review for once, well once again, I have a couple other books i have been meaning to write about, but I haven't gotten around to those, but I am not here to write about Cunning Folk and Boy's Life, both great books in, though Boy's Life is leagues above Cunning Folk, but I digress, I am here to talk about Chevengur by Andrey Platonov and translated by the famous husband and wife translating duo, NO!!! not Richard Pevear and Larissa Volokhonsky, but Richard and Elizabeth Chandler. Chevengur, written in 1928, published in fragments in a soviet magazine, the novel was banned in the Soviet Union till 1988 with the first publication in English being released a decade earlier. The novel, much like the steppes of Central Asia Alexander Borodin meditates on in his piece The Steppes of Central Asia, Chevengur is a sprawling novel in terms of its geography, but very tight with it's central cast. Unlike War & Peace, where there is a character for each day of the week, Chevengur instead hones in on a few key players to drive it's thematic point home. In short, this is basically the Soviet Don Quixote, you follow about four characters, one consistently throughout the novel, as they try to get by in post Tsarist revolution Russia as a new force suddenly starts taking hold, that palpable force is communism, and the cast serve as its missionaries in one capacity or another. This is an episodic novel in that the plot creeps along aimlessly, which harkens back to the steppe imagery, a sprawling landscape that you wander along from point to point as you creep along the horizon with not much in the way of variety, so the novel shines not in the plot, but in the multitude of character interactions you read about along the way as you read about how Communism is shaping the current landscape. Also, given the prevalence of the landscape in this novel, the descriptions of the scenery is straight up beautiful and full of symbolism to dissect whether it's a mythological like with the Cyclops from The Odyssey, biblical references galore such as references to Saul / Paul, the 12 apostles, fish / Christ or general quotes of scripture, or an allusion to some Russian folktale like with the Rusalka or quotes of Dostoevsky, lots of those, thankfully, the NYRB edition contains bountiful endnotes to trap these elusive details for the reader. In short, this is one of my favorite books of the year, if the idea of reading a satirical novel about post revolutionary Russia with a comedic style that would be fit for Don Quixote, then this is the book for you.

[David Barrera Fuentes · Rating 5 out of 5]

Una vez ,hablando con un amigo, conversábamos sobre esa literatura que, sin der explícitamente religiosa, plantea cierta espiritualidad en la manera en la que los conflictos se disponen. Una literatura más "reposada", pero mucho más exigente que los libros fast-food. En esa línea, esta novela toca esa vena certeramente: comunismo apocalíptico, el sufrimiento humano como revelación y una prosa que, sin querer ser lírica y sin malabares formales, rezuma esa hermosura poética que, siento a veces, hecho de menos en muuuuchos libros. Una puta joya

[Yuri Sharon · Rating 5 out of 5]

This novel has a deservedly massive reputation, and I can see why Uncle Joe didn’t like it. But is it, as some would have us think, the greatest (whatever that means) Russian novel of the Soviet period? To my mind, Bulgakov’s “The Master and the Margarita”, Zamyatin’s “We” and Solzhenitsyn’s “One Day ...” are also contenders. As is Platonov’s “The Foundation Pit”.
A problem with “Chevengur” reaching a wider audience is the detailed historical knowledge a reader requires to understand what is being discussed – footnotes at the back of the book hardly help.

[Sorin Hadârcă · Rating 5 out of 5]

Unusual novel indeed. It waited for some half a century to appear in print and, yet, didn't lose its novelty. It belongs to the great Russian tradition of anti-utopias. So, Chevengur is a town where communism... happens. What this means isn't very conforting. At times I thought of the Dvanov and Kopenkin as of some sort of Soviet Don Quixote and Sancho Panza. It's a must read.

[Adam Ferris · Rating 5 out of 5]

“Waves sound on the lake,
A fisherman lies below.
An orphan in a dream
Wanders high and low…”

What keeps us moving forward? Is it the fear of staying stuck or the hope of change?

Sasha Dvanov and Stepan Kopionkin have fully embraced the revolution with such passion in early Soviet Russia. So much so that they intend to start communism in all of the towns they pass across the rural terrain. Along the way, they come across counterrevolutionaries and rural folk confused and baffled by these changes to their communities. Until one day they come across a community called, you guessed it, Chevengur where some kind of utopic communism is happening. What is socialism? Is it achievable to live up to these ideals? What would that type of world look like?

“But then there are no footsteps to follow - and there never can be. Man lives his life forward with only darkness ahead of him.”

Platonov’s Chevengur is a wonderful historical novel about rural communism in the Soviet Union in the 1920s. Yet what makes this book such a masterful piece of literature is the depth of heart in its characters and pages. The main protagonists and the other characters search for something they long for in the depths of their souls. With passion, hope and despair they are looking for a better world. Some characters realize that this is not a political longing but a spiritual search within.

“It was the end of history, the end of time. Time moves only in nature - while man can’t escape melancholy.”

Sometimes just like Dvanov, we lay all the foundation necessary to create a better world, and even with our best efforts and intentions there comes a tipping point that we couldn’t foresee, only to leave us baffled, shattered and devastated. What is a life worth living? What aims truly fulfil our spiritual needs? Why do some of us go to the bitter ends of our existence to experience such an ephemeral longing? I guess the only thing permanent is change, always and forever.

[Kuszma · Rating 5 out of 5]

Íme az összekötő kapocs Gogol és az Új Őrültek (Pelevin, Szorokin és Tolsztaja) között. Platonov párját ritkító műve az utópiák jegyeit viseli magán, de különbözik tőlük abban, hogy cselekményét nem a jövőbe helyezi, mint kortársa, Zamjatyin, hanem a múltba ("antedatált utópia", istenien hangzik), a polgárháború sújtotta szovjet-orosz ’20-as évek elejére. És eme művet még meg is próbálta kiadatni 1929-ben! (Naná, hogy sikertelenül.) A Csevengur nem felhőtlen móka és kacagás, mint mondjuk (bizonyos megszorításokkal persze) Hasek Svejkje, hanem keserű komédia, amolyan kínunkban röhögős – himnusz az emberi ostobasághoz. Amolyan don quijote-i agyzsibbasztás költői körítéssel, a főbb szerepek egyikében magával a kommunista Don Quijote-val, Kopjonkinnal. (Aki amúgy nekem személyes kedvencem. A lovával, Proletárerővel együtt.) Szép, zseniális szatíra egy partvonalon túlra dobott írótól.

Különösen zavarba ejtő benne, hogy bár nem történelmi regény, és nem is akar annak tűnni, de számomra sokkal hitelesebben ábrázolja a korszak valódi jellemzőit, mint a hivatalos szovjet históriák. A regényidőben az ellátó és kommunikációs rendszerek összeomlottak, a végtelen sztyeppe túlsó oldalán árválkodó falvak épp úgy nem tudtak (és nem is akartak) kapcsolatot teremteni a központi hatalommal, mint ahogy az se velük. Kisebb dolga is nagyobb volt annál: épp birkózott a reakcióval*. De hát az Isten háta mögötti osztályok is szomjazták a kommunizmust, még ha nem is igen tudták, eszik-e vagy isszák azt. Ez az a (nagyon is valós) történelmi alaphelyzet, amiből kialakul a regény végletesen abszurd szituációinak zöme: amikor a műveletlenek és együgyűek elkezdenek a maguk csekély esze szerint ideológiát csinálni. Ami kicsit olyan, mintha egy csoport vak nekiállna külön-külön megrajzolni egy elefántot. Ennek a folyamatnak a kicsúcsosodása a képzeletbeli város, Csevengur, ahol felettébb örvendetes esemény tanúi lehetünk: elkészült a kommunizmus! Hurrá! Persze fura egy kommunizmus, de hát ha a proletárok úgy érzik, hogy elkészült, akkor ki vitatkozhatna velük? Talán az osztályidegen értelmiség, az okosok? Próbálják csak meg, majd le lesznek géppuskázva! Platonov elképzelt csodás kommunizmusának legszembeötlőbb tulajdonsága, hogy unalmas. Hogy végtelenül steril. Ami logikus: ha kész a kommunizmus, akkor mi dolga az embernek? Hiszen cselekedni vagy gondolkodni nem csak nem szükséges**, de egyenesen ellenjavalt, hiszen minden tett vagy gondolat opcionálisan elvesz egy tökéletes, elkészült világrendből. Úgyhogy nem maradt más hátra, mint lefeküdni, és éhen dögleni…

* Aztán persze eszébe jutottak a központi hatalomnak a távoli falvak… És akkor páros lábbal a közepükbe…
** "Prokofij, Csepurnij buzdítására, sajátosan értelmezte a munkát; eszerint nem egyéb, mint a harácsolás és az állati kizsákmányoló ösztön maradványa, mert hozzájárul a tulajdon létrejöttéhez, a tulajdon pedig az elnyomáshoz, ám a nap teljesen elegendő táplálékot nyújt az embereknek, és bárminémű növelése szándékos emberi munka által csak az osztályháború tüzét szítaná, mert fölösleges, káros tárgyakat hozna létre."

[Кремена Михайлова · Rating 4 out of 5]

"Там ние – доказваше му Хопнер – ще измерим целия комунизъм, ще му направим точен чертеж и пак ще се върнем в губернията; тогава вече ще бъде лесно да направим комунизъм на цялата шеста част от земното кълбо, един път в Чевенгур да ни дадат шаблона в ръцете."

"— Абе що за гнида си ти? Нали ти се казва от губернския изпълком да завършиш до лятото социализма! Щом като при нас има желязна дисциплина, извади меча на комунизма. Какъв Ленин си ти тук, ти си съветски страж, само задържаш темпа на разрухата, нещастна душо!"


"После Дванов докладва за текущия момент. Той взе предвид смъртната опасност, която заплашва комунизма, разселен в безлюдната враждебна степ, от кръстосващите бандити.

— Тези хора — каза Дванов за бандитите — искат да угасят зората, но зората не е свещ, а велико небе, където на далечните тайни звезди е скрито благородното и могъщо бъдеще на потомците на човечеството. Защото няма съмнение, че след завоюването на земното кълбо ще удари часът на цялата вселена, ще настане моментът на Страшния съд на човека над нея…

— Цветисто говори — началникът на живата тяга пак похвали Дванов.
— Проумявай мълчаливо — тихо го посъветва председателят.
— Вашата комуна — продължи Дванов — трябва да надхитри бандитите, за да не разберат те какво има тук. Трябва да организирате работата така умно и сложно, че да няма очевидност от комунизъм, а всъщност да е налице."


"— Някаква нова икономическа политика! — тихо се учудваше човекът. — Чисто и просто лепнали са прякор на комунизма! И на мене по прякор ми викат чевенгурец, трябва да се търпи!
Човекът стигна до Дванов и Хопнер и ги попита:
— Кажете ми де: в мене комунизмът напира като стихия и мога ли аз да го спра с политика, или не бива?
— Не бива — каза Дванов.
— Ами като не бива, има ли тогава място за съмнение? — отвърна си сам успокоително човекът и измъкна от джоба си стиска тютюн. Беше дребен на ръст, облечен в работното облекло на комунист — шинел, свален от гърба на войник дезертьор от царската война, — с мъничък нос на лицето.
Дванов позна в него комуниста, който мърмореше пред него на събранието.
— Откъде се взе ти? — попита Хопнер.
— От комунизма. Чувал ли си за такъв пункт?
— Да не би да има такова село, в памет на бъдещето?
Човекът се зарадва, че ще има какво да разкаже.
— Какво ти село? Ти да не си безпартиен? Има такъв населен пункт, цял уезден център. По-рано се наричаше Чевенгур. А пък аз там бях доскоро председател на ревкома.
— Чевенгур не е далече от Новоселск, нали? — попита Дванов.
— Разбира се, че не е далече. Само че там живеят гамаи и не идват при нас, а ние сложихме край на всичко.
— Какъв край? — недоверчиво попита Хопнер.
— На цялата световна история, за какво ни е тя?
Нито Хопнер, нито Дванов го попитаха нещо повече."

[Bläckätare · Rating 5 out of 5]

Тук няма с какво да се успокоиш – очаквай нещо.
***
Свободата живее само там, където човекът е свободен пред самия себе си, където не изпитва срам и съжаление за себе си. И затова всеки човек може да бъде свободен и никой не може да го лиши от свободата, ако самият той не го пожелае. Насилието, което човек поиска да употреби уж за да удовлетвори собствената си свобода, всъщност ще унищожи тази свобода, защото, където има сила, там няма свобода, свободата е там, където има съвест и човек не се срамува за делата си. (1927)

[Omar Abu samra · Rating 5 out of 5]

“The more I lived, the more I remembered you, and there I was, thinking. I’d already lost you, I was walking around looking for you, it was impossible even to think about love, because the body of a beloved was created for the oblivion thoughts and feelings, for wordless labor of love and the mortal exhaustion that is only consolation in love”

[Mehmet · Rating 5 out of 5]

Efsane bir kitap, olağanüstü. Yeniden yeniden okumak gerek, öyle güzel.

[Ian Scuffling · Rating 4 out of 5]

I’m not an expert in Russian history. Very far from it, in fact. Most of what I know, especially of the Russian Revolution, is filtered through the antagonistic perspective of a post-Cold War American public school system. Which is to say, heavily biased and limited in scope. Despite the fall of the Soviet Union being fully in history’s rear-view mirror (i.e. closer than it may appear even in 1997 when I entered secondary ed.), American schooling was (and is) still putting its thumb on the scales of anticommunist rhetoric and teaching. All of this is to get to the point that reading Andrey Platonov’s 1929 masterwork, Chevengur is likely one of very few first-hand experiences I’ve read of the communist revolution in Russia.

The novel, long unpublished for its subversive nature, is an elegiac tale of the promises lost in the immediate aftermath of ideological revolution. This plays out in the rise and fall of Chevengur, a utopia of communism in the immediate aftermath of the Russian Civil War—as revolutionaries Sasha Dvanov and Stepan Kopionkin traverse the steppe of Russia to establish communism, they catch wind of Chevengur where communism is reportedly already established.

Upon arriving, in this almost mythic place, Dvanov and Kopionkin discover something less than what they envisioned. Platonov creates a kind of inversion of expectations by filling Chevengur as a place where everything that isn’t communism has been removed—and by virtue of that fact, communism has been established. This is made apparent in a flashback to the establishment of communism in Chevengur when those leading the change in the town make clear they have yet to read Marx and begin making changes based on surface readings of the text.

For Platonov, the promises of communism soured from utopic promise to dystopian nightmare of state power as we see the satirical “requisitioning” of grain from starving populations across the steppe and the irony of Lenin’s market-oriented New Economic Policy in response to the wide-spread destruction in the wake of the war. This allegory mirrors much of the utopic rhetoric still employed today by communists seeking for a humane response to capitalism’s cold callousness. Sasha and Kopionkin’s idealism and mythos of soviet communism gets destroyed by the reality of Chevengur where no one will work, wives are shared communally, and the bourgeoisie are brutally executed.

There were parts of Chevengur that reminded me a bit of Samuel R. Delany’s Dhalgren in how the towns functioned as communal living spaces where there’s an ever-present feeling of an outside threat coming to destabilize a chaotically assembled system. The fragility of Chevengur as a town seems ever on the precipice much in the same way we’re unsure of the safety and stability of the inhabitants of Delany's Bellona. There’s also a kind of inversion of how a communistic society could work in Delany’s version where Platonov’s more disillusioned with the reality of communism.

However, even as I write this, I can’t help but wonder if there’s another way to read Platonov’s novel as hopeful about the promise of communism in Soviet Russia.

[Thomas · Rating 3 out of 5]

not really sure what to make of this one. it seems to be a sprawling, meandering , occasionally dreamlike satire aimed to quite a large extent at the utopian currents present during the russian revolution and early ussr. it's just full of barely clad peasant guys wandering around saying that they've achieved 'communism' by, for example, rearranging buildings to be closer together, and there is a don quixote like character obsessed with the memory of rosa luxemburg who rides a horse named 'strength of the proletariat'. none of these guys seem to actually understand what communism really is, how it might work, or what it would actually involve, and they seem to only loosely even be connected with the central government, even in the later parts of the book when the civil war is long since finished. it reminded me, a little, of the parts in bettelheim's class struggles in the ussr where he is talking about how few bolsheviks there were in rural areas, and how loose their connection to the peasants was. some of the sections where it becomes clear that the chevenurians have merely rearranged the property that already existed in the town reminded me also of william hinton's fanshen, where there is some in depth discussion of the fact that redistribution of property isn't enough - it needs to be accompanied by an increase in production as well, but a boost in production without a change in property relations would also not have solved anything. platonov worked as a rural land surveyor for a number of years so it's likely that he would have seen problems like this playing out firsthand in the course of his work. it is a little hard to gauge platonov's attitude to communism more generally though, since the book seems to view everything from such an ironic distance - there are some passages that seem to be more critical of communism as a whole rather than the utopian tendencies that are the focus of much of the book, but there are so many layers of irony being deployed here that it's really not clear. i found the book almost too oblique to really enjoy, i think maybe i need to read the foundation pit soon to get a better idea of what he's doing here.

[Francesco · Rating 5 out of 5]

a Cevengur o si fa il comunismo o si muore... un capolavoro semisconosciuto, forza su andate a comprarlo

[Oleksandr Zholud · Rating 4 out of 5]

This is a communistic dystopia (?) written is a dreamlike experimental prose by Andrei Platonov in the late 1920s and first published on the West in the 70s and in the USSR in 1988. The title, Chevengur is a made-up word (there are multiple interpretations of what it should mean, for it isn’t clearly reminiscent of any real word) and the name of the town, where communism self-emerged, because all its alternatives were systematically eliminated.

There are several lengthy pieces inside the story not related to the main idea of creating of socialist utopia, which are nice snapshots of the craziness of fanatics after the Bolsheviks got the power. For example, a train with Red sailors (they are an iconic Soviet image, fighting not naval but land battles) moving to the frontline:
In Liski he got onto a train. It was full of sailors and Chinese making their way to Tsaritsyn. The sailors delayed the train in order to beat up the man in charge of the station nourishment point for giving them soup with no meat in it; after this the train set off peacefully. The Chinese ate all the fish soup the Russian sailors had refused, then used bread to mop up all the nourishing moisture from the sides of the soup pails and said to the sailors, in reply to their questions about death, “We love death! We love it very much!”

There are a lot of snapshots of easy fast ways used to solve serious problems, like a redistribution of property:
Proud with power, Dostoevsky indicated with his hand that revolutionary feeling filled him from belly to neck. The method of division he had thought up was simple and clear: the best horses and cows were going to the poorest peasants. But since there was so little livestock, hardly anything was left for the middle peasants—just a sheep apiece for a few of them.
…
“In that case, listen to me, the whole throng of you! I shall ask as a simple fool. What, I ask you, is Petka Ryzhov going to do with my trotter? The only fodder Petka’s got is the straw on his roof. He doesn’t have so much as a spare stake in his plot, and the same half potato’s been stewing in his belly for over two days now. And secondly—now don’t be upset, Fyodor Mikhailovich, your business is revolution, we do understand—what’s going to happen later as regards the foals? We’re the poor peasants now. Does that mean the new horse owners will be bearing foals to benefit the likes of us? You must ask them, Fyodor Mikhailovich. Will these poor-peasant horse owners want to feed calves and foals just for us?”
…
“In five years’ time, as I see it, no one will have any livestock higher than a chicken.

There are other examples, like a decision to cut up a forest to replace it with fields, because per acre fields give higher returns. Or a group that lives in the confiscated mansion and their only job is to discuss global questions, so they eat what left from the previous owner. There are some small pieces, which show attitude toward children by their mothers in this “glorious past” so beloved by Right: There was one old woman, Ignatievna, who cured infants of hunger: she gave them an infusion of mushrooms mixed with sweet herbs, and the children fell peacefully silent with dry foam on their lips. A mother would kiss her child on its now aged, wizened forehead and whisper, “He’s done with suffering, the dear. Praise the Lord!”
Or And it was only the occasional unusual woman who had not smothered at least one of her newborn babies—and not necessarily on account of poverty, but in order to live more freely and enjoy love with her man.

The communist utopia is Chevengur is no less grotesque: There would be no labor or other occupations awaiting them the following day, since the sun— honored in Chevengur as the universal proletarian—now worked alone in the town on behalf of all and for the sake of all. People were not obliged to carry out any work whatsoever. At Chepurny’s instigation, Prokofy had come up with a particular interpretation of labor, declaring it once and for all to be a surviving remnant of bourgeois greed and animal-exploitative voluptuousness, since labor led to the creation of property, and property to oppression. The sun itself issued rations entirely adequate to support people, and any augmentation of these rations through deliberate human labor merely fed the bonfire of class warfare, since it led to the creation of superfluous harmful objects. This Buddhist communism comes after the death or exile of anyone, who isn’t proletarian enough and the scene of gathering all ‘bourgeoise’ to throw them away from the town, which turn into a massacre for me has a clear parallel to what has happened years after the book was written, like Nazis gathering of Jews e.g. during Babyn Yar operation…

Note that all of the above wasn’t written by some White émigré or ardent anti-communist, but by the author who supported the 1917 revolution and the coming of the Soviets, who lived and worked in the USSR till his death in 1951.

[Stephen Rowland · Rating 3 out of 5]

I finished this a month or two ago but I've delayed saying anything about it while I've been reading other English translations of Platonov's work. Platonov is said to be "untranslateable" by some, not to mention that he's not always the most coherent writer, perhaps even purposely incoherent at times, but "Chevengur" struck me as incomprehensible nearly 25% of its duration. How am I to say if it's the author's writing or the translation if I don't know a single word in Russian? At this point, though, I feel fairly comfortable putting the blame on this translator. Of course this is the ONLY full English version of "Chevengur" ever published and I doubt anyone's in a rush to put out a new one, so there isn't much I can do, and it's not as if it's a lousy novel; I'd only recommend it for Platonov enthusiasts, though, and not those unfamiliar with his writings. I also feel the need to mention that it features the UGLIEST cover art of any other book I own, and I own a lot of embarrassing science fiction shit. I loathed looking at it every day for the months it took me to finish.