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Линии судьбы, или Сундучок Милашевича
В декабре 1992 года впервые в истории авторитетнейшая в мире Букеровская премия по литературе присуждена русскому роману. И первым букеровским лауреатом в России стал Марк Харитонов, автор романа «Линии судьбы, или Сундучок Милашевича». Своеобразная форма трехслойного романа дает читателю возможность увидеть историю России XX века с разных ракурсов, проследить начало захватывающих событий, уже зная их неотвратимые последствия.
83 pages, Unknown Binding
First published February 1, 1996
90 people want to read
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Displaying 1 - 3 of 3 reviews
December 1, 2017
I don't know that any review I write can really do justice to Mark Kharitonov's Lines of Fate, the winner of the first Russian Booker Prize in 1992. Were it not for the fact that there so few other reviews, I wouldn't even try. After finishing up the last few pages, my immediate thoughts were that, if I had any hope of really understanding all the nuances of the novel, I was going to have to start over at page 1 and read it all again. Perhaps it might even require a third time.
The broad strokes of the plot are fairly easy to draw: Anton Andreyevich Lizavin, a researcher looking to complete a doctoral dissertation, investigates the little known literary lights of his hometown. One name comes to his attention--Simeon Milashevich, a minor figure, forgotten by history, and at first seeming only a small postscript to the researcher's diggings. Yet through the course of his investigations, Milashevich continues to intrude, until the researcher discovers a trunk full of candy wrappers on which Milashevich scribbled his notes when paper was in short supply in the early years of the revolution. This trunk full of ramblings and disconnected ideas eventually becomes an obsession with Lizavin, and though it is never explicit, the reader (or this reader, at any rate) can see that it is the similarities between the two lives, separated by decades, which propel Lizavin's compulsion to discover the twists of Milashevich's life.
And it is likely there is much more--without rereading, though, I wouldn't feel confident enough to posit other, more subtle meanings. Mr. Kharitonov's writing is vague and often impressionistic, looping back and forth through time and place that may be less familiar to English readers than those closer to events. The sustained effect of the prose is similar to listening to someone who trails off at the end of every sentence, never quite capping off a thought before leaping forward to the next one. As I say, those more familiar with life in Russia or the former Soviet Union might not need this 'capping off', and are quite capable of making these connections unassisted. For myself, I felt like the book was tied together with cobwebs, and the least disturbance would break the chain of associations from one event to another. Yet, at the same time, there were moments when I thought I was reading a truly great book--a verifiable classic. It is possible that the very fact of the book's vagueness allows the reader to imprint on it a personal response which may seem to elevate its worth, I don't know--but at the same time, there were times when I thought the book was particularly acute at defining our relation to the world and to the past in intriguing and insightful ways.
Philosophical inquiries aside, one thing the book does well is give a view of life in the Soviet system, but does so rather as a reflection of the way the people live and think, rather than by shining a direct light on it. Or perhaps in silhouette is a better way to describe it, as it is portrayed more as a kind of negative space through which the characters move. Nevertheless, there is a pervasive sense of oppression throughout the novel which is offset, to some degree, by a resigned fatalism--as if these men and women believe they are simply meant to bear on their shoulders the weight of the world as they have found it. And it is the lines of fate, the seemingly unconnected, random events of our lives--those coincidences that fiction generally eschews as unbelievable--which are, in fact, our strongest ties to the world and to each other.
Well, as I said, to pretend that I was able to penetrate this novel's nuances and subtleties would be a lie. Philosophical novels, I have found, are almost always either impenetrable or laughably ideological. Depending on the reader, Lines of Fate, could, I suppose, belong to either camp--I found it slippery; hard to keep it in focus for sustained periods. There may come a day when I give it another try--though I will also say that, during the course of writing this review, I reread several passages, and I'm no longer quite so clear about the efficacy of rereading--it may remain impenetrable to this reader for a long time yet.
The broad strokes of the plot are fairly easy to draw: Anton Andreyevich Lizavin, a researcher looking to complete a doctoral dissertation, investigates the little known literary lights of his hometown. One name comes to his attention--Simeon Milashevich, a minor figure, forgotten by history, and at first seeming only a small postscript to the researcher's diggings. Yet through the course of his investigations, Milashevich continues to intrude, until the researcher discovers a trunk full of candy wrappers on which Milashevich scribbled his notes when paper was in short supply in the early years of the revolution. This trunk full of ramblings and disconnected ideas eventually becomes an obsession with Lizavin, and though it is never explicit, the reader (or this reader, at any rate) can see that it is the similarities between the two lives, separated by decades, which propel Lizavin's compulsion to discover the twists of Milashevich's life.
And it is likely there is much more--without rereading, though, I wouldn't feel confident enough to posit other, more subtle meanings. Mr. Kharitonov's writing is vague and often impressionistic, looping back and forth through time and place that may be less familiar to English readers than those closer to events. The sustained effect of the prose is similar to listening to someone who trails off at the end of every sentence, never quite capping off a thought before leaping forward to the next one. As I say, those more familiar with life in Russia or the former Soviet Union might not need this 'capping off', and are quite capable of making these connections unassisted. For myself, I felt like the book was tied together with cobwebs, and the least disturbance would break the chain of associations from one event to another. Yet, at the same time, there were moments when I thought I was reading a truly great book--a verifiable classic. It is possible that the very fact of the book's vagueness allows the reader to imprint on it a personal response which may seem to elevate its worth, I don't know--but at the same time, there were times when I thought the book was particularly acute at defining our relation to the world and to the past in intriguing and insightful ways.
Philosophical inquiries aside, one thing the book does well is give a view of life in the Soviet system, but does so rather as a reflection of the way the people live and think, rather than by shining a direct light on it. Or perhaps in silhouette is a better way to describe it, as it is portrayed more as a kind of negative space through which the characters move. Nevertheless, there is a pervasive sense of oppression throughout the novel which is offset, to some degree, by a resigned fatalism--as if these men and women believe they are simply meant to bear on their shoulders the weight of the world as they have found it. And it is the lines of fate, the seemingly unconnected, random events of our lives--those coincidences that fiction generally eschews as unbelievable--which are, in fact, our strongest ties to the world and to each other.
Well, as I said, to pretend that I was able to penetrate this novel's nuances and subtleties would be a lie. Philosophical novels, I have found, are almost always either impenetrable or laughably ideological. Depending on the reader, Lines of Fate, could, I suppose, belong to either camp--I found it slippery; hard to keep it in focus for sustained periods. There may come a day when I give it another try--though I will also say that, during the course of writing this review, I reread several passages, and I'm no longer quite so clear about the efficacy of rereading--it may remain impenetrable to this reader for a long time yet.
April 11, 2015
If your philosophy is that reality is a bunch of broken kaleidoscope images with connections only generated by a chance turn of the tube, then this is your book. On a sentence/paragraph level this is a very well written and powerful book with indelible images and poetry. In line with the author's philosophy, though, it is hard swimming against the current of indeterminate and unknowable that every paragraph propagates.
I think the book may be better than this reader was during the week it took me to get through it. May others have better luck.
I think the book may be better than this reader was during the week it took me to get through it. May others have better luck.
March 29, 2017
Список лауреатов литературной премии «Русский Букер» открывает роман Марка Харитонова «Линия Судьбы, или Сундучок Милашевича», написанный в начале восьмидесятых годов, опубликованный в 1992 году. В романе рассказывается о писателе Семёне Кондратьевиче Богданове, чья доля вела его через реалии советского государства с первых дней основания, и в итоге ни к чему не привела. Не приведёт жизнеописание к полезным мыслям и читателя. Харитонов смешал вымысел с ещё большим вымыслом, разбавив повествование порцией хронологических причуд.
(c) Trounin
(c) Trounin
Displaying 1 - 3 of 3 reviews