A queer anthem for doomed youth by the author of Virtuoso and A Door Behind a Door
On the longest night of a Berlin winter two women sit side-by-side. Both fled the Soviet Union as children, one from Ukraine, and her girlfriend from Russia.
A thigh shifts, fingers fold in, a shoulder is lowered. Neither speak.
As silence weighs heavy between them, decades of Ukrainian and Russian history resurface, from Yiddish jokes, Kyiv’s DIY queer parties and the hidden messages in Russian pop music, to resistance in Odessa, raids in Moscow clubs and the death of their friend.
As the requiem inside the narrator’s head expands within the darkness of the room, she asks the all-important question: what does it mean to have hope?
Yelena Moskovich is a Soviet-Ukrainian American and French writer and artist. She immigrated to America with her family as Jewish refugees in 1991. After graduating with a degree in playwriting from Emerson College, Boston, she moved to Paris to study at the Lecoq School of Physical Theatre, and later for a Masters degree in Art, Philosophy and Aesthetics from Université Paris 8. She co-founded her own theatre company, La Compagnie Pavlov in Paris in 2009 (since inactive). Her plays and performances have been produced in the US, Canada, France, and Sweden. She has also written for Vogue, Frieze, Apartamento, Times Literary Supplement, Paris Review, amongst others. In 2018, she served as a curator and exhibiting artist for the Los Angeles Queer Biennial. She lives in Paris
Rings true to the contradictory experience of being slavic and queer, of the experience of cultural pride for a country that doesn't want you, of the echoes of genocide felt across the generations.
Moskovich juxtaposes love and joy and pleasure with the experiencing and witnessing of human cruelty and ugliness, on the macro and microscopic levels, from dancing in the kitchen to famine, the book meanders through the complexities of existing in this world, leaking raw humanity from every stanza. One of the most beautiful writing styles I've ever read.
‘Nadezhda in the Dark’, as best as I could describe it, feels as if Moskovich’s words are fingers running through strands of hair, sometimes gently, and other times catching knots and pulling to unloose them. There is a tenderness even in its melancholic moments; Moskovich takes care to embrace the fluidity of thought and emotion in its inevitable ebb and flow through images and remembrances by beautifully capturing the inferences of experiences and (the seeking and acknowledgement of) identity and trauma and history and people and emotions as she weaves between memories, stories, and facets of the present.
There are no justifications for why someone does and thinks the way they do but the acknowledgement of the feelings and the associations that trigger such feelings. Nadezhda establishes itself by asserting that what make up a life is the living and what makes life living are our perceptions filtered through our experiences and the emotions that embed themselves into the meaning we make of our world.
How whole and comprehensive the experience, reading Nadezhda, was.
Moskovich writes prose beautifully. A glimpse into a life and history I am not too familiar with. A literary critic aptly described her writing as “trying to get to the heart of desire, grief, and love” or something to that effect.
Moskovich takes us through the imperfect but honest love of the protagonist and her partner, how they navigate mental health, friendships with people of shared histories, her own attachment to Ukraine. The characters hold past lives, and the book shows how they hold their many truths in this shared space.
Moskovich ties the common themes together neatly, she is a great storyteller with a dark but welcomed sense of humour. There were many raw, poetic lines in the book - lots of heart scribbles on the margins.
Nadezhda in the Dark is unlike anything I've ever read. Prosaic yet personal, the narrative is knot-shaped, moving from past to present as though there was no distinction between the two. I received a digital copy of this book in exchange for an honest review, but the moment I can I plan to get a physical copy to tab and underline. So many passages were so emotionally told I felt in the character's shoes. Seriously beautiful, with a bunch of queer eastern-european writers mentioned to follow up on.
A great read. Ostensibly a love story between the narrator and Nadezhda, this book is about so much more. It describes the experience of a young queer person growing up amongst so much war and destruction, homophobia and antisemitism. The author masterfully combines the romantic aspects with historical happenings, and narrates the present lives of the protagonists in Berlin against the backdrop of the characters’ traumatic upbringing and how it is to grow up in post-Soviet Ukraine and Russia. The author uses very evocative imagery throughout and conveys the story in an unusual and compelling format.
Is this really poetry or is this an innovative way by which Moskovich is trying to show how the fabric of life itself is disintegrating? This writing style certainly makes the reader stop in bewilderment, start again and reflect.
Some quotes that caught my eye:
... in the east you don't need tragedy to grieve, you can just grieve life itself...
... my therapist reminded me that sometimes I take things a bit literally, and people can use words not to put forth facts but to make wishes...
This book touches so specifically on being a young queer person in the midst of a lot of chaos. So gentle yet so powerful at the same time, the prose was so poetically written that I felt like I was being guided through the dream of the protagonist. Easily one of my favourites of the year.
An interesting read I picked up at an LGBTQ+ book store. Lesbian short story poetry with some political war elements thrown, some of these elements I didn't understand as much. But lovely all the short stories about the couple and friends they had. Good read!
What a night! These lines are her thoughts and memories as the two women sit knee-to-knee in the dark on a cold night in Berlin, and her love for Nadezhda gives her hope.