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Голый год
The novel 'The Naked Year' (1921) brought Pilnyak immediate fame. It contains a graphic description of the worst year of the Civil War.
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First published January 1, 1922
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About the author
Boris Pilnyak
90 books27 followersBoris Pilnyak (Russian: Борис Пильняк; October 11, 1894 in Mozhaysk – April 21, 1938 in Moscow) was a Russian author.
He was Born Boris Andreyevich Vogau (Russian: Борис Андреевич Вогау) in Mozhaysk. His father was a doctor of German descent, and his mother came from an old merchant family from Saratov. Boris first became interested in writing at the age of nine. Among his early influences were Andrei Bely, Aleksey Remizov, and Yevgeny Zamyatin.
He was a major supporter of anti-urbanism and a critic of mechanized society. These views often brought him into disfavor with Communist critics. His most famous works are The Naked Year, Mahogany, and The Volga Falls into the Caspian Sea, all novels concerning revolutionary and post-revolutionary Russia. Another of his well-known works is OK, an unflattering travelogue of his 1931 visit to the United States.
In Artists in Uniform, Max Eastman wrote a chapter about him called "The Humiliation of Boris Pilnyak."
On October 28, 1937, he was arrested on charges of counter-revolutionary activities, spying and terrorism. One report alleged that "he held secret meetings with (André) Gide, and supplied him with information about the situation in the USSR. There is no doubt that Gide used this information in this book attacking the USSR." Pilnyak was tried on April 21, 1938. In the proceeding that lasted 15 minutes, he was condemned to death. A small yellow slip of paper attached to his file read: "Sentence carried out."
He was Born Boris Andreyevich Vogau (Russian: Борис Андреевич Вогау) in Mozhaysk. His father was a doctor of German descent, and his mother came from an old merchant family from Saratov. Boris first became interested in writing at the age of nine. Among his early influences were Andrei Bely, Aleksey Remizov, and Yevgeny Zamyatin.
He was a major supporter of anti-urbanism and a critic of mechanized society. These views often brought him into disfavor with Communist critics. His most famous works are The Naked Year, Mahogany, and The Volga Falls into the Caspian Sea, all novels concerning revolutionary and post-revolutionary Russia. Another of his well-known works is OK, an unflattering travelogue of his 1931 visit to the United States.
In Artists in Uniform, Max Eastman wrote a chapter about him called "The Humiliation of Boris Pilnyak."
On October 28, 1937, he was arrested on charges of counter-revolutionary activities, spying and terrorism. One report alleged that "he held secret meetings with (André) Gide, and supplied him with information about the situation in the USSR. There is no doubt that Gide used this information in this book attacking the USSR." Pilnyak was tried on April 21, 1938. In the proceeding that lasted 15 minutes, he was condemned to death. A small yellow slip of paper attached to his file read: "Sentence carried out."
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March 11, 2022
The Naked Year is an expressionistic masterpiece. And Boris Pilnyak builds this stupendous novel on the contrasts. The new and the old collide.
The revolution has won and it was officially declared that God doesn’t exist… But the ancient pagan rites are still performed…
The revolution has won but it brought no enlightenment… And the darkness of ignorance still prevails…
When grey mentality defeats reason the entire world becomes grey.
The revolution has won and it was officially declared that God doesn’t exist… But the ancient pagan rites are still performed…
From the field wafted a dry smell. They stopped to say goodbye–and noticed: – from the gully to the excavations, from the other side, from Nikola, naked women were running, in single file, with broad, unhurried gait, with hair disheveled, with the dark hollows of their pubic regions, with brooms of grass in their hands. The women ran in silence to the excavations, ran around the circular ruin on the high point and turned to the ravine, the gully, raising the wormwood dust.
Baudek began to speak.
“Somewhere there is Europe, Marx, scientific socialism, but here beliefs which are a thousand years old are preserved. The girls run about their land, they cast spells with their bodies and purity. This is the week of Peter sun-gates.”
The revolution has won but it brought no enlightenment… And the darkness of ignorance still prevails…
In the evening the Prince went away. They began to haul, to shift the things, they ripped the veneer off the writing table. They wanted to move the clock into the office, but someone noticed that it only had one hand – nobody knew that the old Kuvaldin clock was only meant to have one hand, showing every five minutes, surely because in the old days they didn’t begrudge the minutes – someone noticed that the clock lifted out of a box, and Ivan Koloturov ordered:
“Take the clock out of the case! Tell the carpenter to attach shelves. It’ll make a cupboard for the office… And your feet, don’t stamp your feet.”
In the evening a peasant woman came. In the village there was an event: a girl was raped – nobody knows who by – whether it was their own people or whether it was the Moscow people who had come for flour. The peasant woman came down on the committee members. The peasant woman stood under the windows and cursed at the top of her voice – Ivan Koloturov chased her away, gave her one on the ear. The peasant woman left with a yelp.
It was already completely dark, in the house silence had frozen hard, outside the cattle girls were bawling songs. He went through to the study, sat a while on the settee, tested its quality and softness, came across a forgotten electric lamp, played a little with it, lit up the walls and caught sight of a watch on the floor in the drawing room, thought for a moment – where was he to put it? – he carried it away and threw it down the toilet.
When grey mentality defeats reason the entire world becomes grey.
February 7, 2018
I russi…
Si dice, a ragione, che quello che la letteratura russa ha prodotto tra Otto e Novecento sia pari a quello che altre culture hanno saputo fare nel corso di tutta la loro storia.
Pil’njak è un simbolista del primo Novecento. uno scrittore della generazione dell’epoca d’argento, uno dei “Compagni di strada” (poputčki), come li definì Trockij e l’anno nudo è un libro indubbiamente importante e originale, che per certi aspetti ricorda Pietroburgo di Belyj.
L’anno nudo di cui si parla è il 1919 e l’opera non è solo la descrizione del terzo anno della guerra civile russa, ma la rappresentazione di un’incredibile serie di conflitti. Sullo sfondo della lotta tra Rossi e Bianchi, si agitano infatti le tensioni tra Occidente e Oriente, tra nobili e contadini, tra vecchio e nuovo. Un miscuglio di interessi divergenti e di visioni antitetiche che solo uno scrittore come Pil’njak, in parte russo asiatico, in parte tedesco, in parte ebreo (e che quindi i contrasti li viveva sulla propria pelle) poteva raccontare.
L’anno nudo è un libro particolare, nel quale la scrittura soverchia la trama, e si tratta di una scrittura ricca, ricchissima (laggiù, a mille verste, a Mosca, l’enorme macina della rivoluzione aveva macinato l’Ilinka e la Cina si metteva in moto strisciando dall'Ilinka, era strisciata... « Sin dove? » « Sino a Taiezhevo! » «Menti! Mee-enti! Meee-eeenti! » Di notte, a Mosca, nella Kitai-Gorod, il tubino faceva il giocoliere, in frac e una borsa sottobraccio, ma di notte prendeva il suo posto la Cina, l’impero celeste, quello che giace al di là della Grande Muraglia, senza tubino, con bottoni al posto degli occhi. E dunque: possibile che adesso la Cina si sostituisca con il tubino, il frac e la borsa sotto il braccio?... Non si presenta forse terzo al turno chi può energicamente funzionare ? Tormenta. Marzo. Ah, quale tormenta quando il vento divora la neve! Scioo-iaia, scio-oiaia, sciooooiaiaaa!... Gviiu, gvaaau, gaaauL. gviiiuu, gviiiiiuuuuL. Gu-vu-zz! Gu-vu-zz! !... Gla-vbum! Gla-vbumm... Scioo-iaa, gvi-iuu-gaau... Gla-vbum! Guguz!... Ah, quale tormenta, che tempo di tormenta!... Quanto è bello!).
Si passa dalle atmosfere decadenti della descrizione del disfacimento di una famiglia aristocratica, alla forza imperiosa, alla violenza con cui viene descritto il mondo nuovo che sta per imporsi. È tutto un alternarsi sincopato di toni, un sovrapporsi di immagini. Colori, soprattutto, che spaziano dai chiaroscuri più cupi ai rossi più sfolgoranti. Atmosfere di calma bellezza (Il cielo torrido riversava un torrido chiarore rossastro, il cielo era venato d’azzurro e d’infinito. Fioriva il giorno, fioriva luglio. Per l’intera giornata sembrava che le vie, le chiese, le case, le strade si fondessero nell’aria e vibrassero appena percettibilmente nell’arroventata aria d’oro. La città dormiva il suo sonno da sveglia, la città d’Ordynin fatta di pietra. I giorni entravano in fioritura, fiorivano, sfiorivano, in fila continua, rifiorivano la domenica. Fioriva il luglio e le notti di luglio si vestivano di velluto. Il luglio aveva sostituito le stelle di platino di giugno con l’argento, la luna nasceva piena, rotonda, umida, avvolgendo il mondo e la città di Ordynin in umidi teli di velluto e di raso. Di notte salivano strisciando grigie nebbie canute. Le giornate assomigliavano a una moglie di soldato di trent'anni che vestisse il sarafàn, una di quelle che vivevano nelle foreste dietro Ordynin verso il lembo settentrionale del cielo: è dolce le notti baciare nel fienile una di queste donne di soldati. Le giornate opprimevano con la calura.), sembrano indirizzare la narrazione in un solco, ma subito dopo ecco subentrare situazioni quasi gotiche, che capovolgono la direzione del racconto (La città moriva senza esser nata. E fu orribile in primavera, quando, come incenso a un funerale, nelle strade si consumavano fuochi fumosi che bruciavano le carogne, che avvolgevano la città in un’afa letale; nelle strade depredate, saccheggiate, insudiciate, con le finestre infrante, con le case sprangate, con i tetti rotti. E gli uomini, che prima andavano al ristorante con le cocottes, che amavano le donne senza bambini, che avevano mani senza calli e verso i quarantanni la tabe, che sognavano Monaco, che avevano gli ideali di Paul de Kock, ed erano stati educati alla tedesca, volevano ancora, ancora rapinare, depredare la città, ormai cadavere, per trasportare quanto avevano rubato in campagna, barattarlo con grano conquistato con i calli, per non morire oggi, per rimandare la morte di un mese, per poter di nuovo scrivere le loro carte, amare (ormai con pieno diritto) senza bambini e attendere bramosamente il putrido passato, non osando capire che per essi era rimasta una cosa sola: emanar fetore di morte, morire, e che il desiato passato non era che la morte, la via alla morte...).
L’anno nudo è un fiume che scorre impetuoso, trascinando a valle tutto quello che incontra sul suo percorso. È un libro sulla Russia, scritto troppo da vicino, troppo dentro al dramma che racconta, per poterlo narrare con distacco. Ma è proprio dal suo essere così dentro che trae la sua forza, la forza di essere un libro, come detto, per immagini, per istanti, privo di una trama coerente, proprio perché è difficile trovare una coerenza negli argomenti di cui tratta.
Si dice, a ragione, che quello che la letteratura russa ha prodotto tra Otto e Novecento sia pari a quello che altre culture hanno saputo fare nel corso di tutta la loro storia.
Pil’njak è un simbolista del primo Novecento. uno scrittore della generazione dell’epoca d’argento, uno dei “Compagni di strada” (poputčki), come li definì Trockij e l’anno nudo è un libro indubbiamente importante e originale, che per certi aspetti ricorda Pietroburgo di Belyj.
L’anno nudo di cui si parla è il 1919 e l’opera non è solo la descrizione del terzo anno della guerra civile russa, ma la rappresentazione di un’incredibile serie di conflitti. Sullo sfondo della lotta tra Rossi e Bianchi, si agitano infatti le tensioni tra Occidente e Oriente, tra nobili e contadini, tra vecchio e nuovo. Un miscuglio di interessi divergenti e di visioni antitetiche che solo uno scrittore come Pil’njak, in parte russo asiatico, in parte tedesco, in parte ebreo (e che quindi i contrasti li viveva sulla propria pelle) poteva raccontare.
L’anno nudo è un libro particolare, nel quale la scrittura soverchia la trama, e si tratta di una scrittura ricca, ricchissima (laggiù, a mille verste, a Mosca, l’enorme macina della rivoluzione aveva macinato l’Ilinka e la Cina si metteva in moto strisciando dall'Ilinka, era strisciata... « Sin dove? » « Sino a Taiezhevo! » «Menti! Mee-enti! Meee-eeenti! » Di notte, a Mosca, nella Kitai-Gorod, il tubino faceva il giocoliere, in frac e una borsa sottobraccio, ma di notte prendeva il suo posto la Cina, l’impero celeste, quello che giace al di là della Grande Muraglia, senza tubino, con bottoni al posto degli occhi. E dunque: possibile che adesso la Cina si sostituisca con il tubino, il frac e la borsa sotto il braccio?... Non si presenta forse terzo al turno chi può energicamente funzionare ? Tormenta. Marzo. Ah, quale tormenta quando il vento divora la neve! Scioo-iaia, scio-oiaia, sciooooiaiaaa!... Gviiu, gvaaau, gaaauL. gviiiuu, gviiiiiuuuuL. Gu-vu-zz! Gu-vu-zz! !... Gla-vbum! Gla-vbumm... Scioo-iaa, gvi-iuu-gaau... Gla-vbum! Guguz!... Ah, quale tormenta, che tempo di tormenta!... Quanto è bello!).
Si passa dalle atmosfere decadenti della descrizione del disfacimento di una famiglia aristocratica, alla forza imperiosa, alla violenza con cui viene descritto il mondo nuovo che sta per imporsi. È tutto un alternarsi sincopato di toni, un sovrapporsi di immagini. Colori, soprattutto, che spaziano dai chiaroscuri più cupi ai rossi più sfolgoranti. Atmosfere di calma bellezza (Il cielo torrido riversava un torrido chiarore rossastro, il cielo era venato d’azzurro e d’infinito. Fioriva il giorno, fioriva luglio. Per l’intera giornata sembrava che le vie, le chiese, le case, le strade si fondessero nell’aria e vibrassero appena percettibilmente nell’arroventata aria d’oro. La città dormiva il suo sonno da sveglia, la città d’Ordynin fatta di pietra. I giorni entravano in fioritura, fiorivano, sfiorivano, in fila continua, rifiorivano la domenica. Fioriva il luglio e le notti di luglio si vestivano di velluto. Il luglio aveva sostituito le stelle di platino di giugno con l’argento, la luna nasceva piena, rotonda, umida, avvolgendo il mondo e la città di Ordynin in umidi teli di velluto e di raso. Di notte salivano strisciando grigie nebbie canute. Le giornate assomigliavano a una moglie di soldato di trent'anni che vestisse il sarafàn, una di quelle che vivevano nelle foreste dietro Ordynin verso il lembo settentrionale del cielo: è dolce le notti baciare nel fienile una di queste donne di soldati. Le giornate opprimevano con la calura.), sembrano indirizzare la narrazione in un solco, ma subito dopo ecco subentrare situazioni quasi gotiche, che capovolgono la direzione del racconto (La città moriva senza esser nata. E fu orribile in primavera, quando, come incenso a un funerale, nelle strade si consumavano fuochi fumosi che bruciavano le carogne, che avvolgevano la città in un’afa letale; nelle strade depredate, saccheggiate, insudiciate, con le finestre infrante, con le case sprangate, con i tetti rotti. E gli uomini, che prima andavano al ristorante con le cocottes, che amavano le donne senza bambini, che avevano mani senza calli e verso i quarantanni la tabe, che sognavano Monaco, che avevano gli ideali di Paul de Kock, ed erano stati educati alla tedesca, volevano ancora, ancora rapinare, depredare la città, ormai cadavere, per trasportare quanto avevano rubato in campagna, barattarlo con grano conquistato con i calli, per non morire oggi, per rimandare la morte di un mese, per poter di nuovo scrivere le loro carte, amare (ormai con pieno diritto) senza bambini e attendere bramosamente il putrido passato, non osando capire che per essi era rimasta una cosa sola: emanar fetore di morte, morire, e che il desiato passato non era che la morte, la via alla morte...).
L’anno nudo è un fiume che scorre impetuoso, trascinando a valle tutto quello che incontra sul suo percorso. È un libro sulla Russia, scritto troppo da vicino, troppo dentro al dramma che racconta, per poterlo narrare con distacco. Ma è proprio dal suo essere così dentro che trae la sua forza, la forza di essere un libro, come detto, per immagini, per istanti, privo di una trama coerente, proprio perché è difficile trovare una coerenza negli argomenti di cui tratta.
August 19, 2018
I learned of Boris Pilnyak from the introduction section of Doctor Zhivago by Boris Pasternak. Both "The Naked Year" & "Doctor Zhivago" are stories of Russian life before & during the Russian Revolution. The Naked Year is only up to 1920 and published in 1922 whereas Zhivago was many years into the communist rule & published in 1957. The two writers knew each other & were familiar with other Russian writers of the time by living in a community of writers per the communist order. From the get go of reading this book I noticed that my mind could not grasp all that was written. Not that I could not read the story but that it seemed illogical at times & not well organized but it was interesting & knowing Doctor Zhivago was a harder read for me I continued on not bored but my brain was working to comprehend it all. I am someone who likes to know everything in a book so I can understand it fully. I do this by looking up unknown words & things but I realized in my course of reading books sometimes this is not possible. I realized soon on, this was a book like that and I just had to do my best with less looking up & understanding the divers of characters. About a third into the book I decided on reading the "Afterword" at the end which made me feel relieved that I was not the only one but it was the author's intention to write in an anti-western fashion & more an eastern type. Not know much about eastern writing but that it is different than western in the fact clearness & basic order are the norm. Being someone who loves western style books but wanting to read this one. I kept this in mind when the characters were not clear cut but placed at different areas of the book & some were there and gone. I decided not to worry about this and just read & not have to know it all. In the end I was able to devour this book this way because it is such an interesting read for history lovers & one who especially likes to read about Russia during this time. I have not yet read a book the depicts the horrors of this time as this book does. I read in Doctor Zhivago about the starving & deaths etc. of the years during & after the Revolution but Zhivago descriptions were kid gloves to this book. The author living through this time & being part of the Revolution gives him something rare that an author writing of the times & not living in those times misses. Reading the Afterword it gives you the idea that Pilnyak wanted the Revolution, hated the Western influence in Russia & was a true communist but had enough of the regime because of his individuality in some thoughts. He was tried in April 21, 1938 which the trial lasted only 15 minutes was condemned to death & shot. I had an open mind when reading his story & I disagree with his claim to be a true communist because reading this novel which entails his ideas I got the idea he was disillusioned. Even though his parents were Bourgeois, he wanted the Revolution & was not a fan of the Western ideas but in his writing you see the disgusts of the aftermath. It seemed the author exaggerated somethings but not being there I leave it at that. Sexual relations were abundant & syphilis to the extreme. Abortions seemed to be common & nonchalant attitude about having one was disturbing. Anyway that religion can be stopped or diminished in people's thought as illogical. Having sex on the alter is one example. One character a Prince that was debased all his life wanting to shut himself in his room with all things religion & pray. In his surrounding himself with all things, he looked to forget & pray ignoring his sick family & their needs. One can not hide from the truth & thinking it is not happening because you block it out with other activities. There is a point the author states in reality he was part of a Revolution takes over of a factory. The White army having destroyed the factory & having experts deem it not functioning. The author was sent there too & was surprised because of the dismal report but he was sent back to rebuild the factory which was not possible. He said the attitude if you want something you needed to work harder but not having knowledge, ability & materials needed makes it impossible. The author complains about the past not being the perfect life for many & the need for a Revolution but yet did it get perfect? No, it was far worse. He also talks Bolsheviks who looked down on the Bourgeois but are trying to be like them through their actions.
December 14, 2017
Met "Het naakte jaar" (1922) werd de nu helaas vergeten Boris Pilnjak binnen en buiten Rusland meteen heel beroemd. En terecht, want het is een fascinerende tour de force, een fraaie staalkaart van experimentele stijl en vorm, die een wel heel origineel nieuw en gefragmenteerd licht werpt op het chaotische eerste jaar van de Russische revolutie. Toch wel heel opmerkelijk dat Pilnjak hiertoe zo snel na dat revolutionaire jaar al in staat was. En toch vreemd en jammer dat dit boek en zijn andere boeken zo snel na zijn dood (in 1938, door executie) zo volkomen in de vergetelheid zijn geraakt. Want gedateerd of verouderd is dit boek ook nu nog totaal niet, juist omdat het zo origineel en vreemd is.
Het boek gaat dus over 1919, en brengt de kolkende chaos van de revolutie in beeld via allerlei gefragmenteerde, hoogst impressionistische en nauwelijks met elkaar samenhangende scenes. In elke scene volgen we weer totaal andere personages, variërend van anarchisten tot vrijmetselaars tot primitieve boeren tot bolsjewieken tot syfilitische adel, zonder hen te leren kennen want geen van hen heeft een herkenbare en uitgediepte psychologie. Temeer niet omdat alles wat ze doen gedreven lijkt door onberedeneerde en onverklaarde impulsen. De personages zijn daardoor efemeer en nietig, worden als het ware overwoekerd en overspoeld door de intense tijden van 1919, vol chaos en verwarring en honger en ontbering en onvoorspelbare omwentelingen. Een van de hoofdstukken bestaat alleen uit de volgende drie woorden: "Rusland. Revolutie. Sneeuwstorm". Geen enkel personage, geen enkele verklaring of ratio, alleen drie woorden. Zo gefragmenteerd en zo intens was 1919, in Pilnjaks beleving. Wat ook voelbaar wordt door de enorme veelheid van taalregisters: in het ene fragment koortsachtige droom gecombineerd met klankimitaties van de gure wind, in het andere fragment dialect, in weer een ander fragment een soort parodie op taal van oude en van geloof in het occulte doordrenkte documenten, enzovoort en zo verder. En veel van die fragmenten zijn op een heel merkwaardige manier vervreemdend en intens. Zie bijvoorbeeld de irrationele intensiteit in de volgende passage: "De hutten waren met de achterkant naar het bos gebouwd, ze keken uit op de rivier, ze keken nors met hun knoestige snuiten vanonder de dennen uit, hun smerige ruitjes - de ogen- loeren als wolven, tranend. Hun grijze balken zijn als rimpels. Het rossige stro - het haar in bloempotmodel- valt tot op de grond. De hutten zien eruit als duizenden jaren geleden". Een passage waarin hutten eruit zien als mensen en als wolven: een passage dus waarin het menselijke en niet-menselijke onderscheidbaar wordt, waarin het heden verglijdt in de oersferen van duizenden jaren geleden, en waarin ook het koortsachtig ritme - let alleen al op al die komma's- bijdraagt aan de sfeer van chaos en onduidbaarheid.
"Het naakte jaar" is helemaal opgetrokken uit dit soort impressionistische vignetten, en heeft daarom geen heldere verhaallijn en geen herkenbare hoofdpersonen. Volgens Arthur Langeveld, die dit boek uitstekend heeft vertaald en geannoteerd, is dat een Russisch en slavofiel verzet tegen de conventies van de westerse roman: zelfs vervreemdende literaire experimenten als "Der Prozess" of "Ulysses" zetten immers nog wel een of twee herkenbare hoofdpersonen op de voorgrond, terwijl hier eigenlijk het jaar 1919 met al zijn dynamiek de voorgrond is. Overigens gebeurt dat ook in het later verschenen "1919" van Dos Passos, dus weet ik niet zeker hoe anti- westers deze vorm is, maar zeldzaam en fascinerend is hij zeker. Als lezer word je in elk geval van veel houvast beroofd, net als de mensen die het Russische rampjaar 1919 van nabij meemaakten. Ook fascinerend is dat er in dit boek twee totaal verschillende Donats voorkomen, en ook twee Natalja's en Andrejs en een hele resem aan Semjons, wat de chaos nog meer vergroot. En nog fascinerender vind ik dat niet het Marxistisch- Leninistisch gedachtegoed voorop staat, ook niet bij de paar met doodvonnissen strooiende Bolsjewieken die in dit boek even plotseling verschijnen als verdwijnen, maar een ongrijpbare sfeer van primitieve oerinstincten. Niet de metropool Moskou wordt beschreven, maar een wijk die door zijn naam op associatieve wijze aan China doet denken, en daarmee - bij Pilnjak althans- aan de barre verlatenheid van Aziatische steppen. Niet een verlangen naar een nieuwe heilstaat staat voorop, maar - bij sommige personages althans- een duistere en nauwelijks articuleerbare hunkering naar de primitieve tijden van voor Peter de Grote. In die zin is het boek dan volgens mij wel weer anti-Westers: het verzet zich duidelijk tegen de Westerse verlichtingsidealen van rationaliteit en charitas, en dompelt zich door zijn gefragmenteerde stijl en vorm nadrukkelijk onder in de irrationele sferen van Slavische oerdrift en Aziatisch oerinstinct. Alsof de Russische revolutie niet zozeer een opening was naar een nieuwe soort van claritas of een nieuwe verlichtende rationaliteit, maar vooral een opening naar nieuwe verhoudingen tot de primitieve irrationele oerinstincten. Wat dan even fascinerend is als beklemmend, en even bevrijdend als naargeestig. En bovendien heel origineel en zeer persoonlijk: dit soort perspectieven op de Russische revolutie vind je volgens mij alleen bij Pilnjak, en bij niemand anders.
De Russische revolutie was een totale omwenteling die doordesemd was van chaos en onvoorspelbare intensiteit. En voor schrijvers als Pilnjak was het ook een dringende uitnodiging om daarop te reageren met een nieuwe vormenwereld en een nieuw palet van experimentele stijlen. Op de zo ongrijpbare nieuwe werkelijkheid van de Russische revolutie reageerde hij dus niet met een geschiedkundige verhandeling of een poging tot analyse en verhelderend begrip, maar met een roman die door zijn zo experimentele stijl en vorm ook zelf een onzekere zoektocht naar nieuwe werkelijkheden is. En als lezer vond ik juist die zoektocht fascinerend om mee te maken.
Het boek gaat dus over 1919, en brengt de kolkende chaos van de revolutie in beeld via allerlei gefragmenteerde, hoogst impressionistische en nauwelijks met elkaar samenhangende scenes. In elke scene volgen we weer totaal andere personages, variërend van anarchisten tot vrijmetselaars tot primitieve boeren tot bolsjewieken tot syfilitische adel, zonder hen te leren kennen want geen van hen heeft een herkenbare en uitgediepte psychologie. Temeer niet omdat alles wat ze doen gedreven lijkt door onberedeneerde en onverklaarde impulsen. De personages zijn daardoor efemeer en nietig, worden als het ware overwoekerd en overspoeld door de intense tijden van 1919, vol chaos en verwarring en honger en ontbering en onvoorspelbare omwentelingen. Een van de hoofdstukken bestaat alleen uit de volgende drie woorden: "Rusland. Revolutie. Sneeuwstorm". Geen enkel personage, geen enkele verklaring of ratio, alleen drie woorden. Zo gefragmenteerd en zo intens was 1919, in Pilnjaks beleving. Wat ook voelbaar wordt door de enorme veelheid van taalregisters: in het ene fragment koortsachtige droom gecombineerd met klankimitaties van de gure wind, in het andere fragment dialect, in weer een ander fragment een soort parodie op taal van oude en van geloof in het occulte doordrenkte documenten, enzovoort en zo verder. En veel van die fragmenten zijn op een heel merkwaardige manier vervreemdend en intens. Zie bijvoorbeeld de irrationele intensiteit in de volgende passage: "De hutten waren met de achterkant naar het bos gebouwd, ze keken uit op de rivier, ze keken nors met hun knoestige snuiten vanonder de dennen uit, hun smerige ruitjes - de ogen- loeren als wolven, tranend. Hun grijze balken zijn als rimpels. Het rossige stro - het haar in bloempotmodel- valt tot op de grond. De hutten zien eruit als duizenden jaren geleden". Een passage waarin hutten eruit zien als mensen en als wolven: een passage dus waarin het menselijke en niet-menselijke onderscheidbaar wordt, waarin het heden verglijdt in de oersferen van duizenden jaren geleden, en waarin ook het koortsachtig ritme - let alleen al op al die komma's- bijdraagt aan de sfeer van chaos en onduidbaarheid.
"Het naakte jaar" is helemaal opgetrokken uit dit soort impressionistische vignetten, en heeft daarom geen heldere verhaallijn en geen herkenbare hoofdpersonen. Volgens Arthur Langeveld, die dit boek uitstekend heeft vertaald en geannoteerd, is dat een Russisch en slavofiel verzet tegen de conventies van de westerse roman: zelfs vervreemdende literaire experimenten als "Der Prozess" of "Ulysses" zetten immers nog wel een of twee herkenbare hoofdpersonen op de voorgrond, terwijl hier eigenlijk het jaar 1919 met al zijn dynamiek de voorgrond is. Overigens gebeurt dat ook in het later verschenen "1919" van Dos Passos, dus weet ik niet zeker hoe anti- westers deze vorm is, maar zeldzaam en fascinerend is hij zeker. Als lezer word je in elk geval van veel houvast beroofd, net als de mensen die het Russische rampjaar 1919 van nabij meemaakten. Ook fascinerend is dat er in dit boek twee totaal verschillende Donats voorkomen, en ook twee Natalja's en Andrejs en een hele resem aan Semjons, wat de chaos nog meer vergroot. En nog fascinerender vind ik dat niet het Marxistisch- Leninistisch gedachtegoed voorop staat, ook niet bij de paar met doodvonnissen strooiende Bolsjewieken die in dit boek even plotseling verschijnen als verdwijnen, maar een ongrijpbare sfeer van primitieve oerinstincten. Niet de metropool Moskou wordt beschreven, maar een wijk die door zijn naam op associatieve wijze aan China doet denken, en daarmee - bij Pilnjak althans- aan de barre verlatenheid van Aziatische steppen. Niet een verlangen naar een nieuwe heilstaat staat voorop, maar - bij sommige personages althans- een duistere en nauwelijks articuleerbare hunkering naar de primitieve tijden van voor Peter de Grote. In die zin is het boek dan volgens mij wel weer anti-Westers: het verzet zich duidelijk tegen de Westerse verlichtingsidealen van rationaliteit en charitas, en dompelt zich door zijn gefragmenteerde stijl en vorm nadrukkelijk onder in de irrationele sferen van Slavische oerdrift en Aziatisch oerinstinct. Alsof de Russische revolutie niet zozeer een opening was naar een nieuwe soort van claritas of een nieuwe verlichtende rationaliteit, maar vooral een opening naar nieuwe verhoudingen tot de primitieve irrationele oerinstincten. Wat dan even fascinerend is als beklemmend, en even bevrijdend als naargeestig. En bovendien heel origineel en zeer persoonlijk: dit soort perspectieven op de Russische revolutie vind je volgens mij alleen bij Pilnjak, en bij niemand anders.
De Russische revolutie was een totale omwenteling die doordesemd was van chaos en onvoorspelbare intensiteit. En voor schrijvers als Pilnjak was het ook een dringende uitnodiging om daarop te reageren met een nieuwe vormenwereld en een nieuw palet van experimentele stijlen. Op de zo ongrijpbare nieuwe werkelijkheid van de Russische revolutie reageerde hij dus niet met een geschiedkundige verhandeling of een poging tot analyse en verhelderend begrip, maar met een roman die door zijn zo experimentele stijl en vorm ook zelf een onzekere zoektocht naar nieuwe werkelijkheden is. En als lezer vond ik juist die zoektocht fascinerend om mee te maken.
January 3, 2025
3,5
“En boven de stad kwam de zon op, altijd prachtig, altijd ongewoon. Boven de aarde, boven de stad verstreken lentes, herfsten en winters, altijd prachtig, altijd ongewoon.”
“En boven de stad kwam de zon op, altijd prachtig, altijd ongewoon. Boven de aarde, boven de stad verstreken lentes, herfsten en winters, altijd prachtig, altijd ongewoon.”
March 20, 2025
February 2024:
A guaranteed perfect novel in the original, you can just tell. As is, sometimes frustrating and obfuscated sometimes beyond thrilling—especially the middle section on the anarchist commune and the summertime promise of freedom before the slamming door of winter bares its consequence. Not quite as good in English as the novel it directly inspired, Conquered City by Victor Serge, but Serge wrote in French and Naked Year is a deliberate anti-western Slavist modernism, so you can see why translation may not be so easy for our comrade in arms A.R. Tulloch.
For you partisans of revolutionary fervor this is essential, as I’m sure you’ve already realized in its ripples of reference everywhere else. Still, could use an intrepid 21st century translation, a fresh burnishing of this hulk of humus bound armor.
———————————
Update March 2025:
Having reread Ivan Moscow for the third time and having read Pilnyak's other great novella Mahogany got me thinking that maybe I knew better HOW to read him now, because there is something going on with his style that shimmers the same even in the hands of different translators. Cracked back into this and it clicked better—the first 2/3 at least. The last 1/3 still a kind of sags comparatively and rife with typos and inconsistencies that speak to I think our intrepid A.R. Tulloch flagging in the home stretch (I mean, the epigraph for the novel is quoted from a source that appears within the novel in possession of a messianic minded cobbler, but the title of the book is translated differently between the front matter of the novel and when we reach this funny pairing in the final chunk—Tulloch was tired!).
I am convinced all the more this one just needs a fresh render, a crisper take to the modernist Russian, and perhaps a dutiful editor.
A guaranteed perfect novel in the original, you can just tell. As is, sometimes frustrating and obfuscated sometimes beyond thrilling—especially the middle section on the anarchist commune and the summertime promise of freedom before the slamming door of winter bares its consequence. Not quite as good in English as the novel it directly inspired, Conquered City by Victor Serge, but Serge wrote in French and Naked Year is a deliberate anti-western Slavist modernism, so you can see why translation may not be so easy for our comrade in arms A.R. Tulloch.
For you partisans of revolutionary fervor this is essential, as I’m sure you’ve already realized in its ripples of reference everywhere else. Still, could use an intrepid 21st century translation, a fresh burnishing of this hulk of humus bound armor.
———————————
Update March 2025:
Having reread Ivan Moscow for the third time and having read Pilnyak's other great novella Mahogany got me thinking that maybe I knew better HOW to read him now, because there is something going on with his style that shimmers the same even in the hands of different translators. Cracked back into this and it clicked better—the first 2/3 at least. The last 1/3 still a kind of sags comparatively and rife with typos and inconsistencies that speak to I think our intrepid A.R. Tulloch flagging in the home stretch (I mean, the epigraph for the novel is quoted from a source that appears within the novel in possession of a messianic minded cobbler, but the title of the book is translated differently between the front matter of the novel and when we reach this funny pairing in the final chunk—Tulloch was tired!).
I am convinced all the more this one just needs a fresh render, a crisper take to the modernist Russian, and perhaps a dutiful editor.
September 19, 2010
This is a challenging piece of modernist Russian literature. The extensive experimentation with style and structure add value to the novel as a literary work, but it tends to detract from my enjoyment. The edition that I read contained a brief but tremendously helpful analytical essay at the end. That went a long way toward salvaging my goodwill. Overall, I would only recommend this for Russian and/or literature geeks.
August 22, 2021
La rivoluzione dei soviet e' ancora in bilico, siamo nel cruciale 1919, e anzi tutto sembra rimettersi in movimento con la reazione dei bianchi e l'intervento delle potenze borghesi. Nella provincia russa troviamo accanto alle feroci pulsioni di rinnovamento e uguaglianza i vecchi retaggi contadini, arcaici e quasi pagani. La societa' non e' ancora cambianata se non in apparenza, sotto sotto scorre impetuoso piu' che mai il fiume della carnalita' umana, immutabile, degli istinti, della natura. La rivoluzione stessa e' un atto di animale volutta' piu' che come razionale impegno. Non viene posta attenzione al processo storico degli eventi (sono presenti diversi anacronismi) ma al loro contesto umano e paesaggistico. Le persone, i luoghi, procedono nella loro inerzia, non basta una rivoluzione a deviarne il corso, a recidere legami ancestrali.
November 6, 2019
Bewildering, stimulating, at times incomprehensible, The Naked Year is an account of the Russian Revolution, circa 1918-19. It's about as far away from the triumphal march the Party would later portray in its propaganda, and it was probably instrumental in getting its author shot during the Terror. A modern translation with some proper contextual notes would greatly aid matters, as in its current English edition, it's a slog.
February 19, 2009
This was one of the early Soviet novels--always takes prose writers longer to catch up to events, poets seem able to feel their way through... Like the stylistic innovations, the description of the natural world, the attempt to gain his feet--how to write a novel after Revolution.
Want to read
September 25, 2024It is amazing what we don't know - Boris Pilnyak was, after MaximGorky, the most read Russian writer at home and abroad (loads of his work was translated into English), yet for many interested in Russian literature and history of the 20th century, like me, I bet he is unknown.
I'd really like to read this novel.
I'd really like to read this novel.
March 16, 2023
teže za čitati, možda bi neke fusnote bile dobre da bolje predoče povijesne događaje. na momente zanimljivo, ali dosta zbunjujuće za pratiti.
July 14, 2015
I have liked a lot of early twentieth century Russian writers -- Bely, Blok and Sologub, and later writers who were captured by the spirit of the revolution, such as Mayakovsky and Zamyatin, so I had seen Pilnyak as a ripe fruit, waiting to be picked and savored. The descriptions of the book called it an anti-novel and praised its innovative narrative structure and insightful view of the revolution. This was a book for me! Unfortunately, it didn't live up to my expectations. The loving portrayal of Russian provincial life and the stories of decadent aristocrats in the early chapters seemed a little too pat to me, missing the lively characterizations of Gogol's Dikanka stories or Turgenev's Huntsman's Sketches. None of the characters In this book really grabbed my attention. Later in the book Pilnyak moves away from the individual stories and into a more chaotic and impersonal tale of the suffering, starvation and killing that descended on the Russian heartland during the Civil War that followed the October Revolution. I get the idea that the chaos of the narrative style is intended as a reflection of the chaos of life in that time and place, but it did not fully work for me. Obviously other people have seen a lot of merit in this book. If I had read it as part of a class under the guidance of a good teacher, or if I had read it in Russian, I might have had a greater appreciation for it, but I didn't and on the whole the book just didn't do it for me.
August 16, 2020
Wie durch ein Kaleidoskop betrachtet Pilnjak in diesem Buch die russische Stadt Ordynin, "tausend Werst von wo auch immer entfernt", an der Grenze zwischen Europa und Asien. Wie in einer fortlaufenden Assoziationskette folgt eine Szene der Nächsten, stellt Pilnjak eine Person nach der anderen vor, bis der Leser es aufgibt einem vermeintlichen Handlungsfaden zu folgen. Und erst dann schält sich ein Bild aus den Kapiteln, ein chaotisches Bild immer noch: das Bild des "nackten" Jahres 1919.
Beeindruckend ist die fast an Musik grenzende Lebendigkeit seiner Beschreibungen. Seien es die Kommunisten in ihren Lederjacken, die degenerierte Adelsfamilie, die Anarchisten in ihrer Kommune, der an seiner "Geschichte der Revolution" schreibende vereinsamte Erzbischof, die Altgläubigen in ihren Siedlungen, der kräuterkundige Jegorka, der ehemalige Weißgardist Anrej (um nur einige zu nennen): sie alle sind mit dem Faktum der Revolution konfrontiert und darum bemüht ihren Platz zu verteidigen - oder einen neuen zu finden. Sie alle sind Triebfedern der Geschichte, sie alle sind Protagonisten.
Beeindruckend ist die fast an Musik grenzende Lebendigkeit seiner Beschreibungen. Seien es die Kommunisten in ihren Lederjacken, die degenerierte Adelsfamilie, die Anarchisten in ihrer Kommune, der an seiner "Geschichte der Revolution" schreibende vereinsamte Erzbischof, die Altgläubigen in ihren Siedlungen, der kräuterkundige Jegorka, der ehemalige Weißgardist Anrej (um nur einige zu nennen): sie alle sind mit dem Faktum der Revolution konfrontiert und darum bemüht ihren Platz zu verteidigen - oder einen neuen zu finden. Sie alle sind Triebfedern der Geschichte, sie alle sind Protagonisten.
September 27, 2018
I wish there was another English translation aside from Tulloch’s.
I read the English translation by Alexander R. Tulloch, published by Ardis. I’ve seen passages from the book in Art as the Cognition of Life, a collection of Aleksandr Voronsky’s critical essays translated by Frederick S. Choate. The renditions of the same passages were very different…
Choate’s felt more natural and could be understood more clearly. Tulloch made reference to “dead water and living water” whilst Choate referred to the “waters of death and life”… I can’t read Russian, but I have a feeling that Tulloch’s leaves a lot to be desired.
I read the English translation by Alexander R. Tulloch, published by Ardis. I’ve seen passages from the book in Art as the Cognition of Life, a collection of Aleksandr Voronsky’s critical essays translated by Frederick S. Choate. The renditions of the same passages were very different…
Choate’s felt more natural and could be understood more clearly. Tulloch made reference to “dead water and living water” whilst Choate referred to the “waters of death and life”… I can’t read Russian, but I have a feeling that Tulloch’s leaves a lot to be desired.
July 29, 2021
3,5 stars, really!
Scritto nel 1920 e pubblicato in URSS tre anni dopo, questo romanzo narra l'avvento della rivoluzione, visto da una cittadina qualunque di provincia. Le forze nuove irrompono prepotentemente e spazzano via le "incrostazioni" del vecchio sistema zarista, con i nobili ormai decaduti che devono far fagotto e allontanarsi più in fretta che possono per evitare il linciaggio, con antichi monasteri che ormai fungon da sedi per sguaiate e chiassose compagnie di bolscevichi e rossi, in manovra nella guerra civile contro i "bianchi".
Solo che Pil'njak non la fa così semplice. Sembra quasi che non vi sia piena partecipazione da parte sua. Gli eventi sono colti dal lato drammatico, scabroso e orrido, perfino. All'autore interessa di più rappresentare l'angoscia di un'imminente apocalisse storica. Indugia con compiacimento sugli aspetti della tradizione e del folklore russi che si mischiano vorticosamente al caos spaventoso della rivoluzione, e non sulla semplicistica esaltazione delle forze nuove e progressive. Con tutta evidenza, si tratta di un lavoro di gran lunga superiore a "Il Volga si getta nel Caspio", ma con quello condivide certa scrittura frastagliata e di non semplice assimilazione. Una lettura che richiede particolare impegno, perchè all'autore piace molto mischiare e spaesare.
Scritto nel 1920 e pubblicato in URSS tre anni dopo, questo romanzo narra l'avvento della rivoluzione, visto da una cittadina qualunque di provincia. Le forze nuove irrompono prepotentemente e spazzano via le "incrostazioni" del vecchio sistema zarista, con i nobili ormai decaduti che devono far fagotto e allontanarsi più in fretta che possono per evitare il linciaggio, con antichi monasteri che ormai fungon da sedi per sguaiate e chiassose compagnie di bolscevichi e rossi, in manovra nella guerra civile contro i "bianchi".
Solo che Pil'njak non la fa così semplice. Sembra quasi che non vi sia piena partecipazione da parte sua. Gli eventi sono colti dal lato drammatico, scabroso e orrido, perfino. All'autore interessa di più rappresentare l'angoscia di un'imminente apocalisse storica. Indugia con compiacimento sugli aspetti della tradizione e del folklore russi che si mischiano vorticosamente al caos spaventoso della rivoluzione, e non sulla semplicistica esaltazione delle forze nuove e progressive. Con tutta evidenza, si tratta di un lavoro di gran lunga superiore a "Il Volga si getta nel Caspio", ma con quello condivide certa scrittura frastagliata e di non semplice assimilazione. Una lettura che richiede particolare impegno, perchè all'autore piace molto mischiare e spaesare.
July 24, 2025
Un libro che non si vuole far capire perché scritto senza linearità e con molte ripetizioni. La scrittura, soprattutto nell'ultimo terzo di libro, è estremamente frammentata e il linguaggio è più da poesia in prosa che da libro. Non è chiaramente il mio stile. I temi trattati sono la vita confusa dei contadini durante una rivoluzione che non capiscono, le città in brandelli e allo sbando anarchico, e la religione e le credenze popolari. Quello che non ho percepito, e che invece mi aspettavo leggendo qua e là, è il contrasto del vecchio (nobiltà ecc) con il nuovo (bolscevichi). Molto deludente
March 25, 2024
I gave it four stars because it is a classic piece of Russian History. Painful to read, though. The writing style is unique and I found myself rereading sections to "follow" the story. It is an important piece of literature of the Soviet Russian era (After all, Stalin had him shot). This is not a read for lit lightweights.
Read
April 8, 2020i red the naked year for the second time.it is outstandin ,realistic and very poetic,i red it in dutch and can easily image that in russian it must be much better ;it wasa real joy to read it 08/04/2020
September 1, 2018
Probably one of the most compelling and complex novel about the Revolution times in Russia
December 21, 2019
Excellent historical account. Gritty and scary setting and time in history.
October 15, 2023
(Kitajgorod?!)
October 19, 2025
5/10
Certain scenes in this book were fairly compelling and painted a surprisingly vivid picture of rural Russia during the Revolution. However, due to what I can only imagine is a poor translation job, the reading experience suffered from disjointed writing, clumsy grammar and in some parts completely nonsensical sentences. This ultimately led to a rather unenjoyable reading experience, which is a shame, because at times I felt that I could break through the translation muck and see the beautifully bleak story Pilnyak was attempting to tell.
Certain scenes in this book were fairly compelling and painted a surprisingly vivid picture of rural Russia during the Revolution. However, due to what I can only imagine is a poor translation job, the reading experience suffered from disjointed writing, clumsy grammar and in some parts completely nonsensical sentences. This ultimately led to a rather unenjoyable reading experience, which is a shame, because at times I felt that I could break through the translation muck and see the beautifully bleak story Pilnyak was attempting to tell.
March 4, 2021
muitos erros de impressão que comprometem a leitura em algumas partes mas fora isso o livro é muito bom
September 19, 2022
An interesting if elliptical literary source on the desolation of the Russian Civil War. Some poetic turns of phrase. Maybe the novel would benefit from a Chandler translation?
November 7, 2023
Somewhat surrealistic. Alexander Tulloch's afterword was nice.
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