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Il figlio del sottosuolo
Figlio di un atleta africano e di una donna siberiana, il piccolo Mbobo cresce tra i corridoi e le sale delle più celebri stazioni della metropolitana di Mosca. La sua breve esistenza solitaria copre lo stesso arco temporale della decadenza e del crollo dell'Unione Sovietica, e ha per sfondo l'intricato schema della metropolitana, corpo sotterraneo della città e proiezione inconscia del sistema sovietico. Un fiabesco regno del sottosuolo che incanta con i suoi ambienti sfarzosi, monumentali, ma è a tratti inquietante, come una misteriosa ragnatela in cui Mbobo, abbandonato dal padre prima della nascita e poi dalla madre, cerca rifugio dalla crudeltà e dall'indifferenza del mondo in superficie, un mondo sempre più frammentato, che ha perduto i suoi punti di riferimento e si sta progressivamente dissolvendo.
352 pages, Kindle Edition
First published January 1, 2013
11 people are currently reading
561 people want to read
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 38 reviews
February 19, 2014
"My mother died when I was eight, and I died four years later. And is all there is to my Moscow life…"..."The rest is just decaying, late-blown blooms of memories…" explains Kirill, better known as Mbobo or Pushkin, the narrator of Hamid Ismailov's The Underground. It is a roller-coaster of a ride...criss-crossing the Moscow Metro system, one station at a time. The novel reads like a complex jigsaw puzzle where the pieces may play more than one possible role.
"...and is all there is to my Moscow life…"."The rest is just decaying, late-blown blooms of memories…" explains Kirill, better known as Mbobo or "Pushkin", the narrator of Hamid Ismailov's The Underground. It is a roller-coaster of a ride...criss-crossing the Moscow Metro system, one station at a time. The novel reads like a complex jigsaw puzzle where the pieces may play more than one possible role.
These early introductory sentences, quoted above, couldn't be more stark or precise as to his condition: he writes from beyond the grave, a stream of consciousness that allows him to reflect on his complicated and exceptional young life. Why complicated and exceptional? His mother, of Khakassian ethnicity, came to Moscow from Siberia to work as a hostess at the Moscow Olympics. Her fling with an African Olympian resulted in the child Mbobo... A African-Khakass mixed race child's existence was not easy in those days, whether on the playground or, later, in school. He compensated by developing into an avid reader... evidence is sprinkled throughout the narrative.
The only places where Mbobo feels safe and happy are the grandiose hallways of the Moscow Metro stations. His mind, even while his body is decaying, eaten up and crumbling, remains vivid and retraces the routes he has taken with his beloved "Mommy Moscow" or those, after her death, explored on his own late into the nights, avoiding conflicts or worse of any kind with people "on the surface". His mother couldn't go back home and had to survive on existence level, unless she could hook up with a man to support her and her child. Two of these, Uncle Gleb, a writer, and Uncle Nazar, a policeman, play important roles in Mbobo's life.
The book's chapters are organized roughly in chronological order but, as memory does, Mbobo's mind flips back and forth, as he revisits, randomly, the various Metro Stations in central Moscow. The chapter headings tell the reader in which station he finds himself on a given day. The Metro system, in fact, is his home; he describes the older stations viscerally and with great affection. For the young boy, as imagined from the grave of an adult, each trip is an adventure, and a starting point for his story telling.
If you ever visited Moscow's Metro stations, especially the older stations, you will recognize them from the narrator's descriptions. If not, google one of the respective sites to get an impression. It adds to the understanding of the young boy's love for life underground, in contrast to the problems above ground.
"...and is all there is to my Moscow life…"."The rest is just decaying, late-blown blooms of memories…" explains Kirill, better known as Mbobo or "Pushkin", the narrator of Hamid Ismailov's The Underground. It is a roller-coaster of a ride...criss-crossing the Moscow Metro system, one station at a time. The novel reads like a complex jigsaw puzzle where the pieces may play more than one possible role.
These early introductory sentences, quoted above, couldn't be more stark or precise as to his condition: he writes from beyond the grave, a stream of consciousness that allows him to reflect on his complicated and exceptional young life. Why complicated and exceptional? His mother, of Khakassian ethnicity, came to Moscow from Siberia to work as a hostess at the Moscow Olympics. Her fling with an African Olympian resulted in the child Mbobo... A African-Khakass mixed race child's existence was not easy in those days, whether on the playground or, later, in school. He compensated by developing into an avid reader... evidence is sprinkled throughout the narrative.
The only places where Mbobo feels safe and happy are the grandiose hallways of the Moscow Metro stations. His mind, even while his body is decaying, eaten up and crumbling, remains vivid and retraces the routes he has taken with his beloved "Mommy Moscow" or those, after her death, explored on his own late into the nights, avoiding conflicts or worse of any kind with people "on the surface". His mother couldn't go back home and had to survive on existence level, unless she could hook up with a man to support her and her child. Two of these, Uncle Gleb, a writer, and Uncle Nazar, a policeman, play important roles in Mbobo's life.
The book's chapters are organized roughly in chronological order but, as memory does, Mbobo's mind flips back and forth, as he revisits, randomly, the various Metro Stations in central Moscow. The chapter headings tell the reader in which station he finds himself on a given day. The Metro system, in fact, is his home; he describes the older stations viscerally and with great affection. For the young boy, as imagined from the grave of an adult, each trip is an adventure, and a starting point for his story telling.
If you ever visited Moscow's Metro stations, especially the older stations, you will recognize them from the narrator's descriptions. If not, google one of the respective sites to get an impression. It adds to the understanding of the young boy's love for life underground, in contrast to the problems above ground.
March 8, 2014
"The metro is my innards: my thoughts, my experiences, my life, my cavities, my arteries. If you cut me open on the operating table, you wouldn't find blue veins and red arteries, but the multicolored web of the Moscow metro stations."
August 22, 2023
O lupta a minorităților plasată într-un univers atât de special creat de autor: metroul.
O carte complexă în care introspecția este ascunsă în spatele evenimentelor aparent banale din viața unui om, oferind cititorului posibilitatea să se identifice cu sentimentele personajului.
Un amalgan de emoții care escaladeaza până la limita tragicului.
O carte complexă în care introspecția este ascunsă în spatele evenimentelor aparent banale din viața unui om, oferind cititorului posibilitatea să se identifice cu sentimentele personajului.
Un amalgan de emoții care escaladeaza până la limita tragicului.
November 27, 2021
Phew -- this is a dense book, and one whose many layers are unlikely to fully open up to readers (such as myself) who are not well-read in Russian literature and the waning days of the Soviet Union. It's narrated by the ghost/corpse of Mbobo aka Kirill aka Pushkin, a 12-year-old boy whose body rots away as he tells his life story -- in other words, literally, Notes From the Underground... His mother was a Kakassian from Siberia who came to Moscow to work at the 1980 Olympics and had a tumble with an unnamed African athlete, resulting in Mbobo. And just to complete the identity blend, her paternal grandfather was Russian, supposedly descended from 13th-century Russian hero Alexander Nevsky.
The boy's life story is told via the framework of Moscow metro stations, with each 2-5 page section pegged to a particular station (at the time of the Olympics, there were about 110 stations, today there are double that). This framework allows for a freewheeling, almost stream of consciousness weaving in of Soviet history, architecture, and arts to his autobiography. The magnificent underground stations become a kind of refuge from the boy, or as he puts it about 2/3 of the way into the book: "The metro is my innards, my thoughts, my experiences, my life, my cavities, my veins, my arteries. If you cut me open on the operating table, you wouldn't find blue veins and red arteries, but the multicolored web of the Moscow metro stations."
The boy's life is clearly dense with meaning (his mother's name is "Moscow"), and his struggles at schools, and his mother's rocky relationships with a drunk literary figure named Gelb, and then a policeman from one of the Central Asian republics, named Nazar, are clearly meant to contain social and political allegories. The author, after fleeing Uzbekistan, lived for a time in Moscow and it's hard not to sense vignettes of his own experience navigating the city as a non-Russian, in the boy's story. Literary references and real-life writers abound, and in that sense, it's a bit of a struggle to read while knowing that most of these are completely passing me by. For the non-expert in Russian literature, the book is best perhaps, at evoking a sense of dusk settling over Soviet-era Moscow.
The boy's life story is told via the framework of Moscow metro stations, with each 2-5 page section pegged to a particular station (at the time of the Olympics, there were about 110 stations, today there are double that). This framework allows for a freewheeling, almost stream of consciousness weaving in of Soviet history, architecture, and arts to his autobiography. The magnificent underground stations become a kind of refuge from the boy, or as he puts it about 2/3 of the way into the book: "The metro is my innards, my thoughts, my experiences, my life, my cavities, my veins, my arteries. If you cut me open on the operating table, you wouldn't find blue veins and red arteries, but the multicolored web of the Moscow metro stations."
The boy's life is clearly dense with meaning (his mother's name is "Moscow"), and his struggles at schools, and his mother's rocky relationships with a drunk literary figure named Gelb, and then a policeman from one of the Central Asian republics, named Nazar, are clearly meant to contain social and political allegories. The author, after fleeing Uzbekistan, lived for a time in Moscow and it's hard not to sense vignettes of his own experience navigating the city as a non-Russian, in the boy's story. Literary references and real-life writers abound, and in that sense, it's a bit of a struggle to read while knowing that most of these are completely passing me by. For the non-expert in Russian literature, the book is best perhaps, at evoking a sense of dusk settling over Soviet-era Moscow.
October 5, 2025
Lo sfondo-protagonista di questo romanzo, che si inserisce nella grande tradizione russa a cui paga tributi più o meno evidenti durante tutta la narrazione, è la topografia della Mosca sotterranea: il metrò prima visto come luogo spaventoso acquisisce fascino fino a diventare un rifugio, il punto fermo dei movimenti e della vita del protagonista. Nonostante la giovane età del narratore non abbiamo un vero e proprio romanzo di formazione, ma più un testo decadente dove lo sgretolarsi dei valori in superficie si mischia con i tentativi di sopravvivenza con punti di riferimento variabili e insicuri nel sottosuolo; inoltre essendo un appassionato lettore, altro modo per evadere dalla realtà ma al contempo trovare punti fermi come le stazioni per un treno, sempre uguali a sé stesse e quindi a cui si può tornare, lo scritto è maturo nello stile e condito da intermezzi poetici intensi e strazianti, che sicuramente elevano il testo.
Un grande autore in grado di parlare di infanzia, senza scadere nel retorico, rendendola una lettura per adulti che non ha il sapore di fittizio: il tutto con un tono fiabesco eppure così concreto nella descrizione del razzismo, della lotta per le necessità più basiche, nella violenza e nella conflittualità anche interiore, di un bambino che cambia, vede il mondo cambiare e che cerca di dare un ordine e significato agli eventi senza che nessuno gli fornisca gli strumenti.
Un grande autore in grado di parlare di infanzia, senza scadere nel retorico, rendendola una lettura per adulti che non ha il sapore di fittizio: il tutto con un tono fiabesco eppure così concreto nella descrizione del razzismo, della lotta per le necessità più basiche, nella violenza e nella conflittualità anche interiore, di un bambino che cambia, vede il mondo cambiare e che cerca di dare un ordine e significato agli eventi senza che nessuno gli fornisca gli strumenti.
May 6, 2018
Mama mea, Moscova nu îți oferă o lectură ușoară. Este o carte deosebit de complexă, cu multe înțelesuri profunde, scrisă în genul realismului magic, acel gen ficţional modern în care evenimentele fantastice şi fabuloase sunt incluse într-o naraţiune, menţinând tonul credibil al prezentării obiective a realităţii.
Recenzia mea:
https://www.delicateseliterare.ro/mam...
Recenzia mea:
https://www.delicateseliterare.ro/mam...
Read
December 20, 2015A blurb quote places Ismailov in the tradition of Gogol, Bulgakov, Platonov. The book mentions many Russian and Soviet writers, some famous to most international readers (Pushkin, Maxim Gorky, Dostoevsky) others known to those with a deeper interest. There are curious motifs and scenes which feel as if they must be allusive, but to what exactly, I didn’t know. The notes explained some of what was explicitly named; much wasn’t. (To someone who knows their stuff, it would likely all fall into place as did the bit about the Gorbachev-lookalike Nabokov fan who confesses about his 'underage girlfriend'.) Sub-chapters are named after Moscow underground stations: how enthralling and resonant that could be for the reader who has their own strata of memories of them and sees the journeys on a map in their head.
At least I remembered a little of its times, from almost as limited a perspective as the narrator, he a younger child at the time, who doesn’t have a solid home with TV news to sit in front of… “Why do all the Russian priministers keep dying?” I remember asking. How tense that period was, not knowing what implications their next leader would have for the world… The wonder here when the Gorbachev era flowered wasn’t always the case there – “the time of the dry law, a time when alcohol was all but prohibited”. In 1991-93, a time we remember mostly for notable music trends, they had food shortages and a massive rise in violent crime. There are names like Eduard Shevardnardze (now there’s one I hadn’t heard in a while) and Andrei Sakharov. Another perspective on those times was very welcome, but a third person or adult narrator, with more to say about them, would have been more satisfying.
It kills hope on the second page, when we learn that the narrator’s mother died when he was eight, and he himself aged twelve. (He is literally now an underground boy or man, in his coffin.) I’d started the book a few times before; this bit had always made it seem futile. I remembered advice to new screenwriters, ‘don’t open a film with a dead child’ (Bruce Robinson), and understood why. Horses of God, whose teenage narrator died carrying out a terrorist attack and has gained wisdom in the afterlife, was a book with a point and a well-defined story. It was harder to find a reason to keep going in The Underground, though it became fairly interesting.
Kirill, aka Mbobo is the son of a half-Russian, half Khakassian Siberian woman who worked at the Moscow Olympics, and an athlete she slept with, from an unknown African country. (I wondered if ‘Khakassian’, and her and her sister’s great beauty, was supposed to allude to Circassian women, but perhaps that play on words doesn’t work in all languages.) She is named ‘Moscow’ in an heavy-handed allusion that doesn’t sit too well with the intelligence of the rest of the book. Before the birth of her son (during which her father beat her up, having seen the child’s skin colour) she had worked in a car factory, but Mbobo follows her through a chaotic life that includes modelling for dodgy artists, probable prostitution, alcoholism, and living off sometimes violent boyfriends, one a writer for a state organisation, the other a policeman. These men later look after him, rather haphazardly, after her death. This is a narrative of snapshots, not wholly coherent because life wasn’t for him. The boy becomes fascinated by the underground and almost symbiotically measures his life by it. It seems he was becoming rather literary, prompted by Gleb, one of his stepfathers – and by being nicknamed Pushkin (the least objectionable of the more or less racist names he’s continually called by Russians who’ve never met another real-life black person, regardless of official ideals of friendship between nations). I felt this literariness a bit indulgent – an author choosing to write about the subject he knows best – whilst there’s barely any mention of sports and running. I can’t believe a young boy who knows he’s the son of an Olympic athlete wouldn’t be very keen to do these things and to prove himself (Mbobo’s own running ability is only referred to when he’s bullied). Not that I know about Russian schools of the 80s, but wouldn’t they maybe have been keen to train him up and get him on teams?
In Ismailov’s The Dead Lake, translated by Andrew Bromfield, the language and imagery were superlative - all in all an enchanting book - whereas this translation by Carol Ermakova has that magic only sporadically. The books have some themes in common, but sentence by sentence, they rarely seemed like the work of the same writer. (It's most stylistically interesting in the early pages - and then nearing the end, in the way child narrators tend to get more complex as they get older.) I may have liked The Underground better if Bromfield had translated it; as it was, much of its power depended on allusions to Russian literary tradition and Moscow psychogeography, neither of which I knew well enough to appreciate the novel in full.
At least I remembered a little of its times, from almost as limited a perspective as the narrator, he a younger child at the time, who doesn’t have a solid home with TV news to sit in front of… “Why do all the Russian priministers keep dying?” I remember asking. How tense that period was, not knowing what implications their next leader would have for the world… The wonder here when the Gorbachev era flowered wasn’t always the case there – “the time of the dry law, a time when alcohol was all but prohibited”. In 1991-93, a time we remember mostly for notable music trends, they had food shortages and a massive rise in violent crime. There are names like Eduard Shevardnardze (now there’s one I hadn’t heard in a while) and Andrei Sakharov. Another perspective on those times was very welcome, but a third person or adult narrator, with more to say about them, would have been more satisfying.
It kills hope on the second page, when we learn that the narrator’s mother died when he was eight, and he himself aged twelve. (He is literally now an underground boy or man, in his coffin.) I’d started the book a few times before; this bit had always made it seem futile. I remembered advice to new screenwriters, ‘don’t open a film with a dead child’ (Bruce Robinson), and understood why. Horses of God, whose teenage narrator died carrying out a terrorist attack and has gained wisdom in the afterlife, was a book with a point and a well-defined story. It was harder to find a reason to keep going in The Underground, though it became fairly interesting.
Kirill, aka Mbobo is the son of a half-Russian, half Khakassian Siberian woman who worked at the Moscow Olympics, and an athlete she slept with, from an unknown African country. (I wondered if ‘Khakassian’, and her and her sister’s great beauty, was supposed to allude to Circassian women, but perhaps that play on words doesn’t work in all languages.) She is named ‘Moscow’ in an heavy-handed allusion that doesn’t sit too well with the intelligence of the rest of the book. Before the birth of her son (during which her father beat her up, having seen the child’s skin colour) she had worked in a car factory, but Mbobo follows her through a chaotic life that includes modelling for dodgy artists, probable prostitution, alcoholism, and living off sometimes violent boyfriends, one a writer for a state organisation, the other a policeman. These men later look after him, rather haphazardly, after her death. This is a narrative of snapshots, not wholly coherent because life wasn’t for him. The boy becomes fascinated by the underground and almost symbiotically measures his life by it. It seems he was becoming rather literary, prompted by Gleb, one of his stepfathers – and by being nicknamed Pushkin (the least objectionable of the more or less racist names he’s continually called by Russians who’ve never met another real-life black person, regardless of official ideals of friendship between nations). I felt this literariness a bit indulgent – an author choosing to write about the subject he knows best – whilst there’s barely any mention of sports and running. I can’t believe a young boy who knows he’s the son of an Olympic athlete wouldn’t be very keen to do these things and to prove himself (Mbobo’s own running ability is only referred to when he’s bullied). Not that I know about Russian schools of the 80s, but wouldn’t they maybe have been keen to train him up and get him on teams?
In Ismailov’s The Dead Lake, translated by Andrew Bromfield, the language and imagery were superlative - all in all an enchanting book - whereas this translation by Carol Ermakova has that magic only sporadically. The books have some themes in common, but sentence by sentence, they rarely seemed like the work of the same writer. (It's most stylistically interesting in the early pages - and then nearing the end, in the way child narrators tend to get more complex as they get older.) I may have liked The Underground better if Bromfield had translated it; as it was, much of its power depended on allusions to Russian literary tradition and Moscow psychogeography, neither of which I knew well enough to appreciate the novel in full.
January 26, 2026
“Chi riesce a tollerare sé stesso quando non ha nulla da fare per più di cinque minuti?”
February 6, 2023
O lectură sfâșietoare despre rasism, părinți abuzivi, exces de alcool, metrouri moscovite, toate pe fundalul unei Uniuni Sovietice ce e pe cale să se destrame.
În primul rând, Ismailov aduce un omagiu tuturor marilor clasici ruși, proiectând un personaj central care este într-o continuă suferință și pentru care singurele lucruri care îi oferă ocazia de a contempla viața sunt prețioasele sale stații subterane, unde își îngroapă suferința.
Este scrisă într-o notă atât de lirică și covârșitor de profundă, dezvăluind cele mai adânci trăiri ale protagonistului, descrise complex, dezordonat, real, pline de analogii ce ne conduc, din nou, la universul Moscovei reci și comuniste, plină de oameni care nu au timp să își ridice capul din cauza greutăților pe care fiecare le poartă.
Mi-a plăcut extrem de mult să mă cufund în această realitate din trecut, mi-a rupt sufletul în două.
O recomand din toată inima dacă sunteți fani ai cărților triste și pline de substraturi sentimentale, sensuri ascunse, codate într-o expresivitate pe alocuri abstractă!
În primul rând, Ismailov aduce un omagiu tuturor marilor clasici ruși, proiectând un personaj central care este într-o continuă suferință și pentru care singurele lucruri care îi oferă ocazia de a contempla viața sunt prețioasele sale stații subterane, unde își îngroapă suferința.
Este scrisă într-o notă atât de lirică și covârșitor de profundă, dezvăluind cele mai adânci trăiri ale protagonistului, descrise complex, dezordonat, real, pline de analogii ce ne conduc, din nou, la universul Moscovei reci și comuniste, plină de oameni care nu au timp să își ridice capul din cauza greutăților pe care fiecare le poartă.
Mi-a plăcut extrem de mult să mă cufund în această realitate din trecut, mi-a rupt sufletul în două.
O recomand din toată inima dacă sunteți fani ai cărților triste și pline de substraturi sentimentale, sensuri ascunse, codate într-o expresivitate pe alocuri abstractă!
February 15, 2020
An outstandingly bad translation!!! It’s killing the book!
Although my native tongue is Russian I started reading it in English because I wanted to recommend it for my Book Club. I’m just three chapters in and can tell that for an English speaker it will be impossible to make any sense of the text. Hamid Ismailov’s prose is lost in translation. Starting with the very first sentence of the book. Shame! I’ll keep reading though to see where it will take me,
Although my native tongue is Russian I started reading it in English because I wanted to recommend it for my Book Club. I’m just three chapters in and can tell that for an English speaker it will be impossible to make any sense of the text. Hamid Ismailov’s prose is lost in translation. Starting with the very first sentence of the book. Shame! I’ll keep reading though to see where it will take me,
February 26, 2022
O carte scrisă cu măiestrie ,despre tristeți datorate comportamentului celor de lânga tine atunci când te văd diferit ,când te judecă fară să le pese cu ce te confrunți !
Foarte frumoasă descrierea metroului moscovit ,te face să îți dorești să il vezi cu ochii tăi , nu numai din imagini !
Prezent si distructiv răul produs de alcool cu urmări dramatice in viețile oamenilor !
Merită citită !
Foarte frumoasă descrierea metroului moscovit ,te face să îți dorești să il vezi cu ochii tăi , nu numai din imagini !
Prezent si distructiv răul produs de alcool cu urmări dramatice in viețile oamenilor !
Merită citită !
Read
January 13, 2024I love a good Anna Karenina reference
December 7, 2021
That second star was generous.
June 21, 2017
I hate to rate a book, much less "review" it, from reading the first 20 pages or so and skimming the rest .... but I will. Someone is putting this book in the grand tradition of both Russian (or Soviet) greats and our best satires. This is why all my cologne comes from magazine samples that I collect while waiting in dental and medical offices.
Is this guy half-American (as in USA)? Nope. Would have fooled me. Yes, Dickens, the beloved Hans Christian Andersen, and any number of authors could spring to mind for winning us over with their earnest presentations of youthful protagonists having the odds stacked against them ... but underlying this novel and its 12-year-old Afro-Russian narrator, even if subtly so, seems to live the beating of our dead horse called victimization and something closer to our current "politics of equitability." Don't talk so much and just show us the kid.
Cut the guy a break, E-Foil, he's from Uzbekistan and got some degree in Bath (England). Okay. But his protagonist evoking Pushkin and others doesn't sit right. Plus I love metros ... particularly Soviet-built ones ... and The Underground, which takes place mostly in Moscow metro stations, didn't do them a single atmospheric favor. When he does decide to explicitly describe one of the "most beautiful metro stations," he gives us "precise discourse" and anti-politics.
Instead of a grand satire in the great Russian tradition, The Underground is a book that's half-cartoonish with a literary veneer, of the sort that's always abetted by referencing great writers of the past. That is no shot on cartoons, which I prefer. Add the faux-soulful descriptions of nature and the changing of seasons so that things don't appear entirely ego-driven for our little fellow. And thus, if you're one of the millions who are now tossing out "fly" superlatives to J---t Diaz, Jhumpa Lahiri, (et al) and that sort of semi-lit rage, probably you'll like this too.
Is this guy half-American (as in USA)? Nope. Would have fooled me. Yes, Dickens, the beloved Hans Christian Andersen, and any number of authors could spring to mind for winning us over with their earnest presentations of youthful protagonists having the odds stacked against them ... but underlying this novel and its 12-year-old Afro-Russian narrator, even if subtly so, seems to live the beating of our dead horse called victimization and something closer to our current "politics of equitability." Don't talk so much and just show us the kid.
Cut the guy a break, E-Foil, he's from Uzbekistan and got some degree in Bath (England). Okay. But his protagonist evoking Pushkin and others doesn't sit right. Plus I love metros ... particularly Soviet-built ones ... and The Underground, which takes place mostly in Moscow metro stations, didn't do them a single atmospheric favor. When he does decide to explicitly describe one of the "most beautiful metro stations," he gives us "precise discourse" and anti-politics.
Instead of a grand satire in the great Russian tradition, The Underground is a book that's half-cartoonish with a literary veneer, of the sort that's always abetted by referencing great writers of the past. That is no shot on cartoons, which I prefer. Add the faux-soulful descriptions of nature and the changing of seasons so that things don't appear entirely ego-driven for our little fellow. And thus, if you're one of the millions who are now tossing out "fly" superlatives to J---t Diaz, Jhumpa Lahiri, (et al) and that sort of semi-lit rage, probably you'll like this too.
October 11, 2018
Bleak on the surface with some bright sparks in the underground: this essentially sums up this book. It's about identity, belonging, domestic abuse, racism. I was curious to read about the experiences of a mixed-race child, a product of an African athlete and a Russian woman when they met during the 1980 Moscow Olympics. My interest piqued because of recent comments (by a minister, if I remember correctly) urging Russian women not to hook up with foreigners during the World Cup. So in that sense, The Underground felt timely. That aside, it wasn't particularly exciting for me.
September 24, 2025
“Così sono le ossa a suggerirmi una metafora: la metropolitana è lo scheletro di Mosca, e io ci striscio dentro come un verme, da una giuntura all’altra, in cerca di un pezzo di carne ancora non decomposta, o del midollo non ancora evaporato dove, di solito, è racchiusa una minuscola isola di dolore.”
February 19, 2016
Maybe I should take a break from Russian novels. I found myself not caring in the least where this one went, not that it went anywhere anyway.
March 7, 2016
Книга на русском: http://magazines.russ.ru/druzhba/2009...
Не пытайтесь искать эту книгу в Москве – не найдёте. Похоже, что переведённый на английский язык роман Хамида Исмайлова "Мбобо" имеет в США более широкий круг читателей, чем оригинал в России. И ведь речь о книге, написанной на русском, действие в которой происходит в Москве – или, точнее, под Москвой. Побывав в крупных книжных магазинах, я был удивлён, что даже имени автора не оказалось в базе данных. И это вызывает сожаление.
В Узбекистане, на родине писателя, переводчика и журналиста Исмайлова, тоже не найти его книги, ведь они - запрещены (сам автор поживает в Англии). "Мбобо" был опубликован в журнале "Дружба Народов" в 2009 году, и, как ещё один пример плачевного состояния книжного рынка, я не нахожу свидетельств того, что книга когда-либо появлялась на русском языке в печатном издании.
В основе романа - пронзительное повествование об одиночестве и поиске любви. Это история короткой жизни чёрного мальчика в Москве, рождённого от неизвестного африканского отца и сибирской матери по имени "Москва". В ходе повествования наш герой "умер уже больше, чем жил" – точнее, он прожил до двенадцати лет. Детство Мбобо определяется московским метро, которое становится единственным местом в городе, где он чувствует себя комфортно. Форма романа соответствует его содержанию: каждая глава носит название одной из станций метро, которая как-то связана с предстоящими происшествиями.
Мбобо появляется в Москве под конец другого, непрочитанного и недоступного ему романа: во время распада Советского Союза. В этом буйном контексте, он пытается не столько найти собственную историю и идентичность, сколько какую-то нишу, приют, не в отличие от утробы его матери - Москвы (город или женщина). Но всё-таки складывается впечатление, что Мбобо, в отсутствие ясного понятия о собственной идентичности, старается создать себе новую личность посредством литературы. Даже в таком раннем возрасте он начинает думать "по-достоевски" и вставляет в рассказ, без кавычек, целые фразы из русских классиков, жуткое присутствие которых раскрывает новое значение в нашей современности (действительно ли всё смешалось у Облонских?). Но не ясно, цитирует ли он эти книги нарочно, или неосознанно его жизнь переплетается с ними. Он сам, путаясь в своих мыслях, спрашивает – "Из какой книги моих мозгов? Из какой литеры воспоминания?"
Несмотря на то, что с самого раннего детства к Мбобо люди относятся не как к человеку, а, цитируя Пушкина, как к "зверю", это не просто рассказ постороннего человека. Непохожесть у него исходит прежде всего изнутри, и его внешний вид, "черненький, как корочка перекопченного сала", просто обостряет ощущение "другого". Необычные обстоятельства его собственного рождения бесконечно захватывают его мысли; они преследуют его как некая тень, от которой невозможно отдалиться. Сталкиваясь с надписью на мраморной стене метро, он наивно, по-детски, не узнаёт в ней ругательство, а вместо этого, вдруг предстаёт перед ним его собственный, неизвестный отец, насильственный поступок которого дал ему жизнь: " ...шаг и футболка, шаг и надпись – "fucker", ещё один – "Mother", и вот оно – белозубое лицо черного спортсмена, снимающего эту малолетку…". Под конец романа, все его силы концентрируются на том, чтобы уйти из истории, которую он унаследовал. Его собственная жизнь начинает представляться как бесконечный круг, "выбиться из которого – это как ребёнку сорваться с карусельной лошадки".
Внутреннее смятение Мбобо продолжает кипятиться на медленном огне в атмосфере испуга, бедности и расизма, из которых состоит его о��ружающий московский мир. На протяжении его жизни появляется лишь один человек, который не судит его по цвету кожи. Но Мбобо, "не находя других объяснений, подозревал в нём дальтоника". Самое удивительное то, что Мбобо, жертва такой ненависти, ни разу не обвиняет тех, которые ему причиняют вред. Он защищает пьяного отчима, погнавшегося за мамой с ножом в руках. Когда бандиты вторгаются в квартиру и почти убивает одного из тех немногих людей, которые оказывают ему помощь, он чувствует себя виноватым и ни слова не выражает против них.
Все эти чувства остаются внутри, скрытыми даже от читателя. Они варятся как в скороварке, которая только время от времени выпускает пар отчаяния. Но вместо того, чтобы давать этому страданию голос, Мбобо лишь тихо намекает о нём: "Ах, если б вы знали, как я соскучился по своей маме." Даже без восклицательного знака. Это давление продолжает увеличиваться до тех пор, пока уже никак нельзя больше его подавить, и "всё взорвалось [у него] внутри".
Мне кажется, было бы хорошо, если бы русские учителя сняли из учебного плана какой-то второстепенный роман, вроде "Обломова" и поставили на его место "Мбобо". Если в возрасте 16 лет ученики считаются способными понять Толстого, Лермонтова и Пушкина, то они также способны понять роман Исмайлова, который, по-моему, очень важный и нужный в сегодняшней России.
Пусть американские, французские и другие тоже читают Исмайлова в переводе. Ведь "Мбобо" такая книга, которая заставляет тебя выйти из самого себя, и временно погрузиться в другой мир – там, где не будешь чувствовать себя комфортно. Именно поэтому сегодня она нам так нужна. Мы можем, читая эту литературу, посмотреть в лицо нашей действительности, и постараться научиться чему-то важному. Или мы можем игнорировать такие голоса, как Мбобо, и жить как прежде.
Я искреннее надеюсь, что эта книга когда-нибудь появится на полках книжных магазинов в России, и что она не исчезнет, как Мбобо сам, во тьме подземелья.
Не пытайтесь искать эту книгу в Москве – не найдёте. Похоже, что переведённый на английский язык роман Хамида Исмайлова "Мбобо" имеет в США более широкий круг читателей, чем оригинал в России. И ведь речь о книге, написанной на русском, действие в которой происходит в Москве – или, точнее, под Москвой. Побывав в крупных книжных магазинах, я был удивлён, что даже имени автора не оказалось в базе данных. И это вызывает сожаление.
В Узбекистане, на родине писателя, переводчика и журналиста Исмайлова, тоже не найти его книги, ведь они - запрещены (сам автор поживает в Англии). "Мбобо" был опубликован в журнале "Дружба Народов" в 2009 году, и, как ещё один пример плачевного состояния книжного рынка, я не нахожу свидетельств того, что книга когда-либо появлялась на русском языке в печатном издании.
В основе романа - пронзительное повествование об одиночестве и поиске любви. Это история короткой жизни чёрного мальчика в Москве, рождённого от неизвестного африканского отца и сибирской матери по имени "Москва". В ходе повествования наш герой "умер уже больше, чем жил" – точнее, он прожил до двенадцати лет. Детство Мбобо определяется московским метро, которое становится единственным местом в городе, где он чувствует себя комфортно. Форма романа соответствует его содержанию: каждая глава носит название одной из станций метро, которая как-то связана с предстоящими происшествиями.
Мбобо появляется в Москве под конец другого, непрочитанного и недоступного ему романа: во время распада Советского Союза. В этом буйном контексте, он пытается не столько найти собственную историю и идентичность, сколько какую-то нишу, приют, не в отличие от утробы его матери - Москвы (город или женщина). Но всё-таки складывается впечатление, что Мбобо, в отсутствие ясного понятия о собственной идентичности, старается создать себе новую личность посредством литературы. Даже в таком раннем возрасте он начинает думать "по-достоевски" и вставляет в рассказ, без кавычек, целые фразы из русских классиков, жуткое присутствие которых раскрывает новое значение в нашей современности (действительно ли всё смешалось у Облонских?). Но не ясно, цитирует ли он эти книги нарочно, или неосознанно его жизнь переплетается с ними. Он сам, путаясь в своих мыслях, спрашивает – "Из какой книги моих мозгов? Из какой литеры воспоминания?"
Несмотря на то, что с самого раннего детства к Мбобо люди относятся не как к человеку, а, цитируя Пушкина, как к "зверю", это не просто рассказ постороннего человека. Непохожесть у него исходит прежде всего изнутри, и его внешний вид, "черненький, как корочка перекопченного сала", просто обостряет ощущение "другого". Необычные обстоятельства его собственного рождения бесконечно захватывают его мысли; они преследуют его как некая тень, от которой невозможно отдалиться. Сталкиваясь с надписью на мраморной стене метро, он наивно, по-детски, не узнаёт в ней ругательство, а вместо этого, вдруг предстаёт перед ним его собственный, неизвестный отец, насильственный поступок которого дал ему жизнь: " ...шаг и футболка, шаг и надпись – "fucker", ещё один – "Mother", и вот оно – белозубое лицо черного спортсмена, снимающего эту малолетку…". Под конец романа, все его силы концентрируются на том, чтобы уйти из истории, которую он унаследовал. Его собственная жизнь начинает представляться как бесконечный круг, "выбиться из которого – это как ребёнку сорваться с карусельной лошадки".
Внутреннее смятение Мбобо продолжает кипятиться на медленном огне в атмосфере испуга, бедности и расизма, из которых состоит его о��ружающий московский мир. На протяжении его жизни появляется лишь один человек, который не судит его по цвету кожи. Но Мбобо, "не находя других объяснений, подозревал в нём дальтоника". Самое удивительное то, что Мбобо, жертва такой ненависти, ни разу не обвиняет тех, которые ему причиняют вред. Он защищает пьяного отчима, погнавшегося за мамой с ножом в руках. Когда бандиты вторгаются в квартиру и почти убивает одного из тех немногих людей, которые оказывают ему помощь, он чувствует себя виноватым и ни слова не выражает против них.
Все эти чувства остаются внутри, скрытыми даже от читателя. Они варятся как в скороварке, которая только время от времени выпускает пар отчаяния. Но вместо того, чтобы давать этому страданию голос, Мбобо лишь тихо намекает о нём: "Ах, если б вы знали, как я соскучился по своей маме." Даже без восклицательного знака. Это давление продолжает увеличиваться до тех пор, пока уже никак нельзя больше его подавить, и "всё взорвалось [у него] внутри".
Мне кажется, было бы хорошо, если бы русские учителя сняли из учебного плана какой-то второстепенный роман, вроде "Обломова" и поставили на его место "Мбобо". Если в возрасте 16 лет ученики считаются способными понять Толстого, Лермонтова и Пушкина, то они также способны понять роман Исмайлова, который, по-моему, очень важный и нужный в сегодняшней России.
Пусть американские, французские и другие тоже читают Исмайлова в переводе. Ведь "Мбобо" такая книга, которая заставляет тебя выйти из самого себя, и временно погрузиться в другой мир – там, где не будешь чувствовать себя комфортно. Именно поэтому сегодня она нам так нужна. Мы можем, читая эту литературу, посмотреть в лицо нашей действительности, и постараться научиться чему-то важному. Или мы можем игнорировать такие голоса, как Мбобо, и жить как прежде.
Я искреннее надеюсь, что эта книга когда-нибудь появится на полках книжных магазинов в России, и что она не исчезнет, как Мбобо сам, во тьме подземелья.
July 29, 2018
an interesting novel about identity, society, and belonging at a time of transition and upheaval, through descriptions of moscow and russian literature. reads like an elegy, maybe a eulogy, sometimes a memoir of abuse.
January 6, 2021
Am călătorit alături de Mbobo prin subteranul Moscovei.
Vezi călătoria mea aici:
https://thejourneyofabookaholic.wordp...
Vezi călătoria mea aici:
https://thejourneyofabookaholic.wordp...
June 30, 2022
I read the book to the end for a wrong reason: because it was small, and I thought I would finish it really quick. This is not consistent with my decision not to read books I don't enjoy.
Nevertheless, there is something about this book that makes it feel a solid work despite its shortness. It has numerous references to Russian literature classics; tales from around the world are skillfully woven into the fabric of the story; some meaningful details are scattered around the book, e.g. the naming of the characters (two women names "Moskva"), butterflies on Mrat's tie. I think it is a good book for a reader who want to dig into the details, explore the connections and references.
There is a prominent place in the book for the Moscow underground. The chapters are named after metro stations, and many scenes takes place on these stations, with all the vivid descriptions of architecture, statues. I suppose the book is a better read for someone who is familiar with Moscow, and it gives a fresh look to the familiar places. E.g. the main character imagines some statues as mythological characters, or as himself and other characters in the book.
The book is dark. It reminded me Dostoevsky in terms of maximized misery and misfortune of characters. In Dostoevsky's books if there is a dog, it will be ugly and bold, and it will die; if there is an 11-13 year old girl, she will be pimped out and regularly beat; if there is a prostitute, she will rush to her father's deathbed in her scandalizing outfit; someone will be sick, someone will die alone and destitute, someone will be heartbroken. This book will bathe the reader in a dark goo; shows "that the universe contains more darkness than light" (a quote from the book). There is racism, domestic violence, alcohol abuse, multiple deaths. And the main character is so lonely, unloved and vulnerable.
My subjective experience was OK, I did not enjoy it as much as Ismailov's other book, "The Railroad", but the book adds a whole new dimension to Ismailov's work. His other two works I know are full of flavors of Uzbekistan, but this one could be a work of a Russian-speaking writer from any other country.
Nevertheless, there is something about this book that makes it feel a solid work despite its shortness. It has numerous references to Russian literature classics; tales from around the world are skillfully woven into the fabric of the story; some meaningful details are scattered around the book, e.g. the naming of the characters (two women names "Moskva"), butterflies on Mrat's tie. I think it is a good book for a reader who want to dig into the details, explore the connections and references.
There is a prominent place in the book for the Moscow underground. The chapters are named after metro stations, and many scenes takes place on these stations, with all the vivid descriptions of architecture, statues. I suppose the book is a better read for someone who is familiar with Moscow, and it gives a fresh look to the familiar places. E.g. the main character imagines some statues as mythological characters, or as himself and other characters in the book.
The book is dark. It reminded me Dostoevsky in terms of maximized misery and misfortune of characters. In Dostoevsky's books if there is a dog, it will be ugly and bold, and it will die; if there is an 11-13 year old girl, she will be pimped out and regularly beat; if there is a prostitute, she will rush to her father's deathbed in her scandalizing outfit; someone will be sick, someone will die alone and destitute, someone will be heartbroken. This book will bathe the reader in a dark goo; shows "that the universe contains more darkness than light" (a quote from the book). There is racism, domestic violence, alcohol abuse, multiple deaths. And the main character is so lonely, unloved and vulnerable.
My subjective experience was OK, I did not enjoy it as much as Ismailov's other book, "The Railroad", but the book adds a whole new dimension to Ismailov's work. His other two works I know are full of flavors of Uzbekistan, but this one could be a work of a Russian-speaking writer from any other country.
May 15, 2017
This is a very odd book. That is the only way I can think of describing. The story is told by a dead boy who is haunting the Moscow underground, which is what he used to do when he was alive. The story is set at the time of glasnost and perestroika as the Soviet Union was slowly transforming itself back into Russia. And the hero of the story is Kirill, otherwise known as Mbobo, which gives you an idea of the complexity of his ethnic origin.
His father was an African athlete visiting the Soviet Union and has no other role in the story except to be the father of Mbobo. His mother, called Moscow after the city, came from a small Siberian town and her mother was from Khakassia and her father Russian, a supposed descendant of Alexander Nevsky. All this is important for the story because Mbobo’s blackness lies very much at the heart of this story.
What happens is that Mbobo is dead, and he is telling his life story as his body decomposes, and the maggots begin to devour him. This is how we learn of his obsession with the Moscow Metro, and especially with the majestic artistry of the stations. This is the story of a black boy growing up in the Soviet Union at the time of its own decomposition. It is the story of a child from a minority dealing with discrimination at a time when the green light appears to have been given to casual racism. It is a very apposite tale for Great Britain at the moment.
But it is also a tale steeped in Russian literature. Kirill’s nickname is Pushkin because both he and the poet were black. But there are also references to Gorky (how could you talk about the Moscow Metro without some reference to “The Lower Depths”?), Dostoyevsky, Tolstoy and many others of the giants of Russian Literature. Anna Karenina, of course, makes an appearance towards the end of the book.
In the story, we go from station to station meeting the people that are important in Mbobo’s life – his mother, her lovers, Gleb and Nazar and many more – with Gorbachev and Yeltsin hovering in the background as the historical events of the time are played out.
This is a profound book. Its scope is huge. It deals with the momentous through the everyday. It is a book that will make you have to pause and think. It is a book that you should read.
His father was an African athlete visiting the Soviet Union and has no other role in the story except to be the father of Mbobo. His mother, called Moscow after the city, came from a small Siberian town and her mother was from Khakassia and her father Russian, a supposed descendant of Alexander Nevsky. All this is important for the story because Mbobo’s blackness lies very much at the heart of this story.
What happens is that Mbobo is dead, and he is telling his life story as his body decomposes, and the maggots begin to devour him. This is how we learn of his obsession with the Moscow Metro, and especially with the majestic artistry of the stations. This is the story of a black boy growing up in the Soviet Union at the time of its own decomposition. It is the story of a child from a minority dealing with discrimination at a time when the green light appears to have been given to casual racism. It is a very apposite tale for Great Britain at the moment.
But it is also a tale steeped in Russian literature. Kirill’s nickname is Pushkin because both he and the poet were black. But there are also references to Gorky (how could you talk about the Moscow Metro without some reference to “The Lower Depths”?), Dostoyevsky, Tolstoy and many others of the giants of Russian Literature. Anna Karenina, of course, makes an appearance towards the end of the book.
In the story, we go from station to station meeting the people that are important in Mbobo’s life – his mother, her lovers, Gleb and Nazar and many more – with Gorbachev and Yeltsin hovering in the background as the historical events of the time are played out.
This is a profound book. Its scope is huge. It deals with the momentous through the everyday. It is a book that will make you have to pause and think. It is a book that you should read.
November 8, 2024
And now for the second book this week that puzzled me so much that I had to write a post about it. The Underground, by Hamid Ismailov, is a reflective story narrated by a dead child from Moscow. Mbobo, sometimes called Kirill or “Pushkin,” was probably doomed from the start. He’s the son of a Uzbek woman who came to Moscow to work during the 1980 Olympics and an athlete from an unnamed African country. His mother is disowned by her parents and makes a living on the margins of social acceptance. Mbobo’s mother and his various “step-fathers” are alternately abusive and solicitous to him. This didn’t confuse me. What confused me was Mbobo’s narrative style. The boy is a voracious reader. One of his step-fathers is a writer (but mostly a drunk). Mbobo tells his story with plenty of rhetorical and literary flourishes that make things hard to follow, while also raising the specter of an unbelievably precocious and self-aware juvenile narrator...
Read the rest of my review at A Bookish Type. I received a free copy of this ebook from Edelweiss, in exchange for an honest review.
Read the rest of my review at A Bookish Type. I received a free copy of this ebook from Edelweiss, in exchange for an honest review.
October 19, 2019
Traditionally, Russian literature never was the place you went if you wanted cheering up. This one's no exception.
It lay buried on my Kindle for a few years. I don't remember how it got there.
It is the first-person narrative of a boy named Kirill whose parents were a Russian-Siberian woman and a visiting Ethiopian olympic athlete, set in Moscow in the late 1980s during Perestroika. It is a story of the struggle for identity and of loss. And it is unrelentingly sad.
The Moscow underground Metro, with its particular Soviet architecture, forms the structure, main setting and theme. And the story goes even deeper below the surface... The narrator (still young) speaks from the grave... not a rested happy afterlife but a place of decay.
It's a book about interiority and strangeness, about the buried.
It is self-reflexively a work of Russian literature, constantly referencing other authors in the tradition. The main character carries the nickname Pushkin. As if to make the connection to Russian literature explicit and explain the book's depressing tone, at one point the narrator says, 'As the heir of Russian literature, I knew that every gain eventually becomes a loss and this was what all Russian literature was about...' Touche.
I'm no expert, but at least the likes of Tolstoy and Dostoevsky knew how to give a lightening glimmer... Pierre Bezukhov savouring a mouthful of food, and that thing about beauty saving the world.
I suppose in the overall canon of human experience, stories like this should be told. They exist. 'And yet...' (the glimmer sometimes remains and flares - is not extinguished - contra the insistence of this story... 'and yet'... those words that linger when all else is said and done can, in another narrative, be hope rather than the final damning indictment on existence).
The book's read now - for whatever reason I might have read it - put it to rest now buried under other layers of my Kindle.
It lay buried on my Kindle for a few years. I don't remember how it got there.
It is the first-person narrative of a boy named Kirill whose parents were a Russian-Siberian woman and a visiting Ethiopian olympic athlete, set in Moscow in the late 1980s during Perestroika. It is a story of the struggle for identity and of loss. And it is unrelentingly sad.
The Moscow underground Metro, with its particular Soviet architecture, forms the structure, main setting and theme. And the story goes even deeper below the surface... The narrator (still young) speaks from the grave... not a rested happy afterlife but a place of decay.
It's a book about interiority and strangeness, about the buried.
It is self-reflexively a work of Russian literature, constantly referencing other authors in the tradition. The main character carries the nickname Pushkin. As if to make the connection to Russian literature explicit and explain the book's depressing tone, at one point the narrator says, 'As the heir of Russian literature, I knew that every gain eventually becomes a loss and this was what all Russian literature was about...' Touche.
I'm no expert, but at least the likes of Tolstoy and Dostoevsky knew how to give a lightening glimmer... Pierre Bezukhov savouring a mouthful of food, and that thing about beauty saving the world.
I suppose in the overall canon of human experience, stories like this should be told. They exist. 'And yet...' (the glimmer sometimes remains and flares - is not extinguished - contra the insistence of this story... 'and yet'... those words that linger when all else is said and done can, in another narrative, be hope rather than the final damning indictment on existence).
The book's read now - for whatever reason I might have read it - put it to rest now buried under other layers of my Kindle.
November 13, 2021
At first I did not think I would like this, and the translation seemed a bit iffy; there are Russian neologisms which I feel do not translate well literally. There are also Russian words which are kept in which I don't think your average English speaker will know such as "limitchitsa*." I really think that some footnotes would have worked brilliantly in this book. However, I got used to this and started to really enjoy the book. It is a story of Kirril, a young half-African half-Russian boy who lives with his mother in Moscow in the 80s. The key brilliance here is the lively cast of secondary characters which bring such life to the world. There's his mother's boyfriend, Uncle Gleb, who is a pitiful, drunken writer. His friend Zulya, a poor but kindly girl who is treated brutally by her parents. Throughout the story more minor characters crop up who are described beautifully and even as an English person I feel I can relate to the archetypes presented. The prose is good though as previously mentioned it is difficult to get used to. You really feel the isolation and loneliness of Kirril in this world which he can only understand as an extension of the Moscow metro system; as extended metaphors go, I enjoyed seeing the world as a metro system. Overall it is a heartbreakingly honest yet warm book which I would recommend.
October 16, 2021
Global Read 194- Uzbekistan
I didn't enjoy reading this book, but I think a lot of that could be the translation. There was a ton of wordplay and it is very hard to translate that, but it just didn't work. There were a lot of times when I thought that a section would probably be better in Russian. Secondly, although the story was partially about how difficult it was to grow up black in Moscow, the book came off as racist rather than describing racism. I think again it is possible that it was the word choice of the translator. I could have dealt without every chapter describing his decomposing body- that was not the translator's fault.
I didn't enjoy reading this book, but I think a lot of that could be the translation. There was a ton of wordplay and it is very hard to translate that, but it just didn't work. There were a lot of times when I thought that a section would probably be better in Russian. Secondly, although the story was partially about how difficult it was to grow up black in Moscow, the book came off as racist rather than describing racism. I think again it is possible that it was the word choice of the translator. I could have dealt without every chapter describing his decomposing body- that was not the translator's fault.
October 4, 2025
Some lovely moments about childhood and loneliness and the confusion of a confusing time. Really striking allusions and metaphor. I sometimes felt like there was a beauty almost coming through, but not quite - maybe the translation? For a brief moment I wished I'd kept going in russian studies all those years ago. Still a good and worthwhile read, there's something I really love in here. I'll definitely be reading more from this author and paying attention to the translators.
June 3, 2020
I don't like Moscow so much (more a Petersburg fan), but its metro is the most beautiful in the world. This novel is framed around the Moscow metro map, telling the story of an outcast in late-Soviet society, who ends up losing everything. Beautiful language, gripping plot.
September 27, 2022
This was real struggle to get through. Seemingly jumping around with little sense as to why, other than describing events occurring at various metro stations in and around Moscow. Left me wondering as to the point?
August 22, 2017
only 100pages in when i left it on the plane
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