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Голубое сало
Клоны великих писателей корчатся в мучительном скрипт-процессе, Большой театр до потолка залит нечистотами, Сталин и Хрущев — любовники, история ХХ века вывернута наизнанку.
В самом провокационном романе Владимира Сорокина, закрепившем за ним титул классика постмодернизма, низвергнуты все кумиры.
Впрочем, одна святыня остается непопранной: разрушая привычные представления о норме и переворачивая все с ног на голову, Сорокин и здесь провозглашает сакральный статус литературы.
В самом провокационном романе Владимира Сорокина, закрепившем за ним титул классика постмодернизма, низвергнуты все кумиры.
Впрочем, одна святыня остается непопранной: разрушая привычные представления о норме и переворачивая все с ног на голову, Сорокин и здесь провозглашает сакральный статус литературы.
512 pages, Hardcover
First published January 1, 1999
145 people are currently reading
4160 people want to read
About the author
Vladimir Sorokin
86 books928 followersVladimir Sorokin (Владимир Сорокин, Vlagyimir Szorokin) was born in a small town outside of Moscow in 1955. He trained as an engineer at the Moscow Institute of Oil and Gas, but turned to art and writing, becoming a major presence in the Moscow underground of the 1980s. His work was banned in the Soviet Union, and his first novel, The Queue, was published by the famed émigré dissident Andrei Sinyavsky in France in 1983. In 1992, Sorokin’s Collected Stories was nominated for the Russian Booker Prize; in 1999, the publication of the controversial novel Blue Lard, which included a sex scene between clones of Stalin and Khrushchev, led to public demonstrations against the book and to demands that Sorokin be prosecuted as a pornographer; in 2001, he received the Andrei Biely Award for outstanding contributions to Russian literature. Sorokin is also the author of the screenplays for the movies Moscow, The Kopeck, and 4, and of the libretto for Leonid Desyatnikov’s Rosenthal’s Children, the first new opera to be commissioned by the Bolshoi Theater since the 1970s. He has written numerous plays and short stories, and his work has been translated throughout the world. Among his most recent books are Sugar Kremlin and Day of the Oprichnik. He lives in Moscow.
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January 26, 2025
‘Tonight I’m going to snort something. And read Romance of the Three Kingdoms. Envy me, rips laowai. Not yours, Boris’
Had to change this from a 4* to a 5* because I can’t envision myself reading anything quite like this (fully feral, deliberately bizarre, yet so brilliant and clever (and well-structured/styled)) elsewhere by anyone else anytime soon, and well I just fucking adore Sorokin’s mad guts and ‘diabolic’ sense of ‘humour’. An entirely compelling, riveting read—and actually, the iconic sodomy (Krushchev x Stalin) was the least ‘interesting’ bit of the book (and even that is ‘funny’ in itself). Perhaps because it’s so ‘anticipated’, expectations ramped up too high. Sorokin knew that he was essentially risking his life writing that, and he was almost ‘executed’ for it (not to romanticise an almost execution, but) does that itself not amplify the glory of his ‘art’ essentially?
‘Ni hao, my dry moth. To put it generally—everything is getting started, rips ni ma de. Your warm little Boris has gotten himself set up pretty well in his concrete zhichang—I’ve met everyone. The geneticists: Bochvar is a ruddy, prolix Russki with about a dozen marmalon plates around his lips, Witte is a gray German, Marta Karpenkoff is a corpulent woman with a history of TEO-Amazonianism who loves: clone-horses, old-hero-techno, aeroslalom, and conversations about M-balance. Fan Fei is a cheerful man from Shanghai of about your age. He speaks impeccably in both Old and New Russian. It’s obvious that this great zhuan men jia is getting along nicely in gen-eng (the L-harmony of his gait is more than 60 units on the Schneider scale). I discussed the dominance of Chinese blockbusters with him. He couldn’t care less about tuding, of course—But you really are a huaidan, ni ma de.’
Unlike Bataille and Sade, or more precisely in comparison to them, Sorokin doesn’t seem to be using ‘disgust’ for ‘shock’ or to be provocative. He doesn’t even want his translator (or at least he had stopped him from doing so) to read some of the (more provocative/infamous) lines from his book out in public because he doesn’t feel like that would serve any ‘purpose’ (Lawton mentioned this in an interview). While it’s quite easy to imagine Bataille and Sade feeling quite content with themselves — indulging in some form of ‘pleasure’ through successfully ‘shocking’ their readers/audience, I don’t think the case is the same for Sorokin. He is more anal and ‘political’ in this/that sense. No pun intended. And because of this, he seems to be a writer who has more artistic control over his work; no matter how bizarre his lines are, one can feel the full deliberation of it all and (why not) the vibration of its (under and over) tones.
“There it is. On the bookshelf. Between Babel and Borges. I already let you lick it, you bastard. Did you forget? No, you pig. One doesn’t forget such things—”
“Then let’s begin, rips ni ma-de-fuck-er! You’ll be the first to shake—”
“Shit, connard de merde . . .” with a sigh, he fell back onto the pillow smeared with his lipstick and mascara. “If there’s shit in the morning, then there’ll also be shit in the afternoon. Total shit.”
“Makeup,” Stalin ordered in English. A very plump woman in the uniform of an MGB major carrying a small case appeared in the room, sat down next to Stalin, and began to put his face back in order.
Might not be as ‘entertaining’ for the mono-lingual, but being familiar with the French and Chinese language makes the experience all the more ‘mad’, or rather, maddening, but ‘rewarding’ and oddly satisfying. There are some German and Russian in there as well, but since I’m not familiar with those languages, they sort of just went over my head, but I’m ‘okay’ with that. I like how Lawton doesn’t feel the need/desire to essentially ‘translate’ every single non-English word in the text. The Chinese words are kind of weirdly translated (but not in a disagreeable way, in my opinion), but it doesn’t discount one’s experience of the text. But also the fact that Sorokin deliberately went for more ‘archaic’ (and sometimes even ‘childlike’/straight up nonsensical) Chinese diction/insults (blended in with some translingual ‘jokes’ as well) is just pure literary madness, and I’m so down, knee-caps-obliterated for this. This is such an explosive, thrilling, and/but obviously fucked-up read. Just don’t go and ruin it by taking it too seriously, alright?
‘Hello, mon petit—my tender bastard, my divine and vile top-direct. Remembering you—such infernal business, rips laowai—is heavy—This is my curdy, ephemeral brain-yueshi, plus your festering minus-posit. It’s old blood that’s splashing around inside me. My turbid Heilong Jiang on the oozing banks of which you piss and shit—your FRIEND is having a hard time without you. Without your elbows, your gaovan, your rings. Without your final yelp—squeak: wo ai ni! Rips! I wanna drain you off. Sometime soon? OK.’
Sorokin x Lawton reminds me of Bora Chung x Anton Hur (in a way that I absolutely ‘love’). Pretty sure Lawton reached out to Sorokin and then just somehow became the primary translator of his work, which is sort of the same with Chung x Hur. Their collaborations just makes me (as a reader) so excited about the future of (translated) literature, and I’m sure other readers who have strong enough (literary/biblio) stomach linings to appreciate their work will feel similarly as well. Sorokin is one of those writers whose work — the more it is ‘hated’ by other readers, the more I’m bound to love it (more and more; but also not to disregard how understandable it is for one to feel repulsed by Sorokin's work). Afterall, ‘hate’ is not the opposite of ‘love’, and sometimes it’s even a more interesting feeling than ‘love’ itself. ‘Indifference’ however would tell a different story (or more precisely, none at all), needless to say.
‘An M-balance of 28. Unsettled behaviour, automatism, PSY-GRO, yang-dianfeng. Frequently emits guttural noises, sniffs at her right shoulder and other objects. In the cell: a bench of vulcanised rubber (South Africa, 1900) and a glowing orb that floats freely around the room. Her erregen-object is bones from a male Neanderthal coated in liquid glass. Is this description too dry, my golden-eared hangkong mujian? Keep reading. After all, you’re a HERO-KÜNSTLER, rips choude xiaozhu. Nabokov-7.’
‘Remember: “An excess of sweetness generates mucus, obesity, dampens heat, the body fattens, the appearance of diabetes, goiter, and rmen-bu.” Don’t give in to soft sugar, I’m seriously warning you. I’m sending you the text produced by Akhmatova-2. During the script process, the object didn’t become at all deformed. Just heavy bleeding: vaginal and nasal. The object eventually proceeded into a state of accumulative anabiosis. If this creature survives for four months and accumulates two kilograms of blue lard, it will be our top-direct and the triumph of GENRUSSMOB.’
‘When I get back (forgive the hushuo badao), I’ll ask you more tenderly: “What is it that’s so M-unpleasant in Chekhov-3’s text, my little xiaotou?” And you, rips shagua, will answer my question with a question, as usual: “What is it that’s so L-pleasant in it?” And I, Boris, shall not give you an answer.’
This is not me trying to not-give-too-much away about the book, but as Lawton has written in the ‘Extraduction’, (to horribly paraphrase) you just have to let loose and experience Sorokin without thinking too much of it (there is no better way to go about it). I would say though that I particularly love how he ‘satirises’ famous Russian writers (hardcore fans of those writers would not appreciate this, but I adore and devoured every bit of this/it). Dustin Illingworth (New York Times) calls Sorokin’s novel, ‘a neologistic fever dream—baffling, debauched and perfectly human’ — which really sums it up almost too well; I vibe, and I adore.
‘In its place is a new vocabulary, a free-floating grammar of debasement and ecstasy. But one need not stumble into the trap of nihilism. Even Sorokin’s most debauched episodes can be understood as camouflaged bids for transcendence. Each is a challenge, an incitement to change. He reminds us of our scandalous freedom.’ — Dustin Illingworth (New York Times)
Bit mad (at least to me) that ‘Blue Lard’ was written/first published in the 90s? At least to me/for me, it felt so much like something that was written ‘today’. I suppose it only goes to show that whatever Sorokin is exploring/exposing/satirising in the book is still ever so relevant (for better/worse; the latter, surely). Can’t wait for Lawton to translate Sorokin’s entire body of work into English.
“Please don’t use Russcenities like that in my presence,” I said as I scanned him.
“You’re a danhuang?” he asked.
“I’m a danhuang,” I replied.
“Jiu jing nin shenme shi hou neng zhun bei hao ni?” Bochvar bared his nacreous teeth.
“Tchu nian xing tchi ri xia yu shi,” I lit up.”
Admittedly I don't read enough Russian literature (at least the ones by writers who are still living and breathing/etc.), so this probably won't mean a lot, but in any case I truly think Sorokin might be my favourite living Russian writer.
‘Labelling his stories “binary bombs” due to their bipartite structure, Sorokin began them with a straight-faced mimicry of dry, middlebrow Soviet prose. Then, midway through, he “detonated” this discourse, the depictions of Soviet banalities splintering into scenes of phantasmagoric violence, overflowing with libidinal energy and the convulsions of living language. Sorokin’s attempts to unearth the obscene substrate of Soviet “metaphysics” from beneath the dreary surface of its “physics”— reading the “winds of time” and sculpting speculative visions of the future. These temporal “optics” are the keys to understanding Sorokin’s work, for they lie at the heart of his understanding of the metaphysics of his native land. As he has stated: Russia is the ideal place for alternative histories. This is because no one in our country, from the president down to the lowest bum, has any idea what awaits us. Without a doubt, this is El Dorado for any writer. This is Russian metaphysics. I’ve said it many times: our lives oscillate between the past and the future. We do not feel the present. Either we reflect on how wonderful things used to be, perhaps how awful, or we attempt to guess at the future by divining the messages hidden in our coffee grounds.’ — (Ben Hooyman, LARB)
Blue Lard’ might not be the ‘easiest’ starting point for someone who is not familiar with Sorokin’s writing. I, confessedly, did (albeit accidentally/serendipitously) lubricate my Sorokin-journey with his short story, ‘Horse Soup’ (also translated by Lawton). And then made a big mistake of diving too fast into Their Four Hearts, only to realise that I didn’t have a strong enough biblio-stomach to finish that one. ‘Blue Lard’ had me converted, I look forward to reading more Sorokin (but I probably won’t try (re)reading TFH anytime soon, it even comes with fucking illustrations (pretty sure those were done by Sorokin as well since he was a mechanical engineer turned illustrator and then writer, for fuck’s sake)) — in particular Red Pyramid: Selected Stories.
‘There shall come a time when no moshujia shall be able to save you from losses and disappointments. Remember what it says in the Tao-te Ching: “By moderation one can be generous.” I’m sure that the great Lao was writing about love, rips laowai. In our doubtful age, it’s very easy to paint the rhinoceros. It is much more complicated to sculpt a little soldier out of prostate pus while still being an ethically conscientious being. I wish you bright dreams, my babe of rare tenderness. And quiet thoughts concerning my prostate.’
‘Now to be VERY serious: I love you unconditionally, just as I love my own spleen, but if you don’t take care of these scribblings, I will turn you inside out and, on each and every one of your internal organs, will write its Chinese name in Russian with black Japanese ink.
Think about that, rips hushuo badao. Boris’
July 8, 2020
"Bad writing" at its best.
May 6, 2024
Writing only for shock value is not without merit in my opinion depending on who one is trying to shock. I’m not sure Sorokin had a list of people drawn up who he was intending on pissing off, but there is no doubt he may have had an inkling exactly who might have been a bit perturbed by this book. And to have the balls to still write it is in itself worth something.
However, Blue Lard is not purely written to shock: at least not to me. I can’t claim to understand every allusion, satirical nuance, and meaning behind all the events that take place, nor can the author by the way, but I have read the majority of the authors’ whose works were “parodied,” and reading a glitched out short story in the style of Dostoevsky was very entertaining to me.
But this wasn’t just weirdness and deplorable violence for no reason; there is meaning here. There’s the irony of course of having the access to reproduce clones of the world’s greatest artists (not even to mention the moral ambiguity the idea of this raises) and not giving the slightest shit about the “art” produced, but only the material substance derived from it that can be used in some way (no one seems to know exactly how) for personal gain.
And then there is the messing with something we don’t fully understand that we humans are so fond of. And there’s a lot of other stuff too. I’d recommend this to fans of postmodern and transgressive fiction who are not easily offended. Even then I can’t guarantee you’ll like it, as this is one of the most divisive books I’ve seen on Goodreads. More like a 3.5 rounded up than a 4.
However, Blue Lard is not purely written to shock: at least not to me. I can’t claim to understand every allusion, satirical nuance, and meaning behind all the events that take place, nor can the author by the way, but I have read the majority of the authors’ whose works were “parodied,” and reading a glitched out short story in the style of Dostoevsky was very entertaining to me.
But this wasn’t just weirdness and deplorable violence for no reason; there is meaning here. There’s the irony of course of having the access to reproduce clones of the world’s greatest artists (not even to mention the moral ambiguity the idea of this raises) and not giving the slightest shit about the “art” produced, but only the material substance derived from it that can be used in some way (no one seems to know exactly how) for personal gain.
And then there is the messing with something we don’t fully understand that we humans are so fond of. And there’s a lot of other stuff too. I’d recommend this to fans of postmodern and transgressive fiction who are not easily offended. Even then I can’t guarantee you’ll like it, as this is one of the most divisive books I’ve seen on Goodreads. More like a 3.5 rounded up than a 4.
January 6, 2012
I’ve been meaning to read one of Sorokin’s books for a long time, to understand what’s the big fuss. In a week I’m having a literature exam (Modern Russian Literature), so I had a chance to finally read the Goluboje Salo (Blue Lard).
This book is a great example of total chaos, lack of structure and senselessness.
It’s about the blue lard - a matter produced by great writers. The lard is very rare and expensive and the Community of Earthfuckers (pardon me, I didn’t invent that)) - Общество Землеё*ов) sends it from the future to Stalin in the past.
The author is probably thrilled by readers like me, who hate his books and are alarmed by his rudeness and vulgarity (there was even a Stalin/Khrushev sex scene! :D). But using BBC’s Sherlock Holmes’ words: Sex doesn’t alarm me.
Senselessness does. Apart from dirty scenes (and when I say dirty, I mean dirty as in text full of shi*t, f*cking, urine etc.) there was nothing at all.
There was nothing in this book that I would find even remotely interesting. Sorokin’s imitation of the writing of the great russian writers (such as Nabokov, Akhmatova, Pasternak, Tolstoy, Chekhov etc.) did amuse me for a minute or so, until he spoiled it with more of his vulgarity (btw he got Nabokov’s writing all wrong).
All in all, this book is not worth reading. It’s standard talentless writing.
I didn't want to rate this book at all, cause it's worse than "not worth reading". I'm giving it one star, but compared to this one, Stephenie Meyer’s “Host” is a total “five”.
P.P.S. I will finish this post with a quote from this book:
- Есть интересные писатели?
- Есть. Но нет интересных книг.
- В каком смысле?
- Понимаешь… что-то происходит с русской литературой. А что - я пока не могу понять.
- Она гниет?
- Наверно.
This book is a great example of total chaos, lack of structure and senselessness.
It’s about the blue lard - a matter produced by great writers. The lard is very rare and expensive and the Community of Earthfuckers (pardon me, I didn’t invent that)) - Общество Землеё*ов) sends it from the future to Stalin in the past.
The author is probably thrilled by readers like me, who hate his books and are alarmed by his rudeness and vulgarity (there was even a Stalin/Khrushev sex scene! :D). But using BBC’s Sherlock Holmes’ words: Sex doesn’t alarm me.
Senselessness does. Apart from dirty scenes (and when I say dirty, I mean dirty as in text full of shi*t, f*cking, urine etc.) there was nothing at all.
There was nothing in this book that I would find even remotely interesting. Sorokin’s imitation of the writing of the great russian writers (such as Nabokov, Akhmatova, Pasternak, Tolstoy, Chekhov etc.) did amuse me for a minute or so, until he spoiled it with more of his vulgarity (btw he got Nabokov’s writing all wrong).
All in all, this book is not worth reading. It’s standard talentless writing.
I didn't want to rate this book at all, cause it's worse than "not worth reading". I'm giving it one star, but compared to this one, Stephenie Meyer’s “Host” is a total “five”.
P.P.S. I will finish this post with a quote from this book:
- Есть интересные писатели?
- Есть. Но нет интересных книг.
- В каком смысле?
- Понимаешь… что-то происходит с русской литературой. А что - я пока не могу понять.
- Она гниет?
- Наверно.
June 18, 2024
finnegan’s wake with time travel and stalin
February 24, 2025
"A genny és a méz - ikertestvérek ebben az országban."
Lányomból érdeklődést váltott ki e könyv borítója (generációja vonzódik a trash-hez, és ez a borító közel áll ahhoz), úgyhogy feltett két kérdést. Először azt, hogy „Miről szól?” Aztán kisvártatva: „De akkor miért olvasod?”
Az első kérdésre nehezebb volt válaszolni. Az ember elmondhatja egy Szorokin-könyv szkriptjét, és akkor bizonyos értelemben sokat mondott, bizonyos értelemben pedig nem mondott semmit. Ez a regény mindenesetre 2068-ban kezdődik a kínaiak által uralt Szibériában, ahol egy mindentől elzárt betonbunkerben a tudósok a kékháj előállításán ügyködnek. A kékhájat úgy kell előállítani, hogy híres írók torz klónjait írásra ösztönözzük, és akkor kékháj képződik rajtuk. A kékháj pedig igen fontos anyag, mert… hát, a fene tudja, miért. Mindenesetre senkinek sincs kétsége afelől, hogy jelentőségében túlszárnyalja a hidrogénbombát, sőt még a kormányzati árstopot is. Nem csoda, hogy jön a Földbaszók szektája (ne akarjátok tudni), és némi adekvát mészárlás után elrabolja, hogy aztán káprázatosan túlbonyolított módon eljuttassa egy túlfejlett genitáliájú gyermekhez, aki aztán visszamegy 1954-be, és odaadja Sztálinnak. Igen, Sztálinnak, aki az alternatív 1954-ben még sajnos él – de higgyétek el, messze nem ez a legaggasztóbb ebben a fiktív múltban. És ha mindez bonyolultnak tűnik – hát higgyétek el, én aztán a végletekig lebutítottam.
És hogy miért olvasom. Hát azért, mert meg tud lepni. Szorokin az a fajta író, aki a dekonstrukcióban utazik – de közben pontosan tudja, hogy a dekonstrukció fityfenét sem ér konstrukció nélkül. Ha itt találunk egy jelenetet, amiben Hruscsov megdugja Sztálint (és nyugodjunk meg: találunk), akkor biztosak lehetünk benne, hogy 1.) az a jelenet olyan pontosan, olyan naturálisan van megírva, hogy püff 2.) de nem (csak?) azért van ám ott, hogy minden szlavofilban felhorgadjon a könyvégető indulat (bár ne legyenek kétségeink: felhorgad). Hanem mert ez az egész Szorokin-i dekonstrukció lényege. Ezek a nagy műgonddal megkomponált szürreális, abszurd, hol véres, hol trágár szegmensek mind annak a felbontását célozzák, amit mi regényként ismerünk fel. Fogják a próza közmegegyezéses határait és felszámolják – rituálisan megsemmisítik nemcsak speciálisan az orosz irodalmat, de úgy a történetmesélés hagyományos gesztusait általában. Na persze a prózát bárki fel tudja számolni, mondhatnánk – rossz írók százai teszik meg nap mint nap, és nem is tudnak róla. De az van, hogy Szorokin minden mondatából lejön, hogy ő aztán olyan mértékben birtokolja az irodalommal kapcsolatos tudnivalókat a műveltségtől kezdve az írástechnikai finomságokig, hogy nála inkább kevesen. Tudna tehát normális regényt írni, de ő inkább szétszedi azt – ha fel is épít egy normálisnak ható jelenetet, csak azért, hogy aztán felrobbantsa. Az olvasó meg grasszál a romok között, és látá, hogy ez érdekes. Mi több: jó. Nem az, hogy jobb, mint ami felrobbant – hanem máshogy jó. Mert nagyon unalmas ám mindig ugyanúgy jó dolgokat olvasni.
Lányomból érdeklődést váltott ki e könyv borítója (generációja vonzódik a trash-hez, és ez a borító közel áll ahhoz), úgyhogy feltett két kérdést. Először azt, hogy „Miről szól?” Aztán kisvártatva: „De akkor miért olvasod?”
Az első kérdésre nehezebb volt válaszolni. Az ember elmondhatja egy Szorokin-könyv szkriptjét, és akkor bizonyos értelemben sokat mondott, bizonyos értelemben pedig nem mondott semmit. Ez a regény mindenesetre 2068-ban kezdődik a kínaiak által uralt Szibériában, ahol egy mindentől elzárt betonbunkerben a tudósok a kékháj előállításán ügyködnek. A kékhájat úgy kell előállítani, hogy híres írók torz klónjait írásra ösztönözzük, és akkor kékháj képződik rajtuk. A kékháj pedig igen fontos anyag, mert… hát, a fene tudja, miért. Mindenesetre senkinek sincs kétsége afelől, hogy jelentőségében túlszárnyalja a hidrogénbombát, sőt még a kormányzati árstopot is. Nem csoda, hogy jön a Földbaszók szektája (ne akarjátok tudni), és némi adekvát mészárlás után elrabolja, hogy aztán káprázatosan túlbonyolított módon eljuttassa egy túlfejlett genitáliájú gyermekhez, aki aztán visszamegy 1954-be, és odaadja Sztálinnak. Igen, Sztálinnak, aki az alternatív 1954-ben még sajnos él – de higgyétek el, messze nem ez a legaggasztóbb ebben a fiktív múltban. És ha mindez bonyolultnak tűnik – hát higgyétek el, én aztán a végletekig lebutítottam.
És hogy miért olvasom. Hát azért, mert meg tud lepni. Szorokin az a fajta író, aki a dekonstrukcióban utazik – de közben pontosan tudja, hogy a dekonstrukció fityfenét sem ér konstrukció nélkül. Ha itt találunk egy jelenetet, amiben Hruscsov megdugja Sztálint (és nyugodjunk meg: találunk), akkor biztosak lehetünk benne, hogy 1.) az a jelenet olyan pontosan, olyan naturálisan van megírva, hogy püff 2.) de nem (csak?) azért van ám ott, hogy minden szlavofilban felhorgadjon a könyvégető indulat (bár ne legyenek kétségeink: felhorgad). Hanem mert ez az egész Szorokin-i dekonstrukció lényege. Ezek a nagy műgonddal megkomponált szürreális, abszurd, hol véres, hol trágár szegmensek mind annak a felbontását célozzák, amit mi regényként ismerünk fel. Fogják a próza közmegegyezéses határait és felszámolják – rituálisan megsemmisítik nemcsak speciálisan az orosz irodalmat, de úgy a történetmesélés hagyományos gesztusait általában. Na persze a prózát bárki fel tudja számolni, mondhatnánk – rossz írók százai teszik meg nap mint nap, és nem is tudnak róla. De az van, hogy Szorokin minden mondatából lejön, hogy ő aztán olyan mértékben birtokolja az irodalommal kapcsolatos tudnivalókat a műveltségtől kezdve az írástechnikai finomságokig, hogy nála inkább kevesen. Tudna tehát normális regényt írni, de ő inkább szétszedi azt – ha fel is épít egy normálisnak ható jelenetet, csak azért, hogy aztán felrobbantsa. Az olvasó meg grasszál a romok között, és látá, hogy ez érdekes. Mi több: jó. Nem az, hogy jobb, mint ami felrobbant – hanem máshogy jó. Mert nagyon unalmas ám mindig ugyanúgy jó dolgokat olvasni.
January 9, 2025
Blue Lard by Vladimir Sorokin by way of Max Lawton is quite an unusual novel. What begins as an epistolary historia told in an estilo evocative of Anthony' Burgess' infamous A Clockwork Orange in how it melds different idiomas to create an unusual reading experience. A combination of estrana science fiction mezclado with a parody and love letter to luminary Russian writers and it eventually develops into something that is much grander than what was initially prometido early on. No voy a discutir more plot wise. First, it's nonsensical, and pointless to ascribe any kind of meaning to all the estrana symbols and incidents that transpire within beyond the effect they create. To me the effect takes center stage over subtext, the feel of reading this takes precedence over any hidden meaning, the equivalent of a Rorschach test, it's a fool's errand to ascribe meaning to the meaningless. Not to say that there isn't a point. Much like their Four Hearts, though not to this extent, Sorokin seems to be stretching some soviet artistic sensibilities to the breaking point, whether it's for hatred of the government, or a celebration of the longevity of long time established Russian art a la Dostoevsky and Tolstoy, or a bit of ambos. Either way, this is a highly entertaining novel that I recommend wholeheartedly if you are up for some strange strange imagery. I won't say it isn't for the faint of heart, but it has a few uncomfortable moments. smooth prose in the English translation too, you never feel like you are fighting the novel to understand what is being depicted, which makes for a nice delivery vehicle to comprehend the strange nature. In the afterword, Max Lawton wrote that his method was to make Sorokin's nonsensical narrative come across as smooth as jazz, does he succeed? I think so. A Lynchian narrative full of symbols told in a manner fit for corazón pounding thriller. It's very absorbing. In short, a dreamlike / nightmarish novel that melds strange sci fi with Russian history and literature into one highly unusual novel full of logic that makes minimal sense in describing, but it makes sense while reading it, because to me the logic only exists in the effect the illogical narrative creates and nothing much beyond that. Surrealism is the name of the game. Soy yes, worth reading. Absolutely
March 23, 2024
I mean this in a good way if you can imagine it: What in the fresh fuck was that?!
Blue Lard was utterly incomprehensible, vulgar, and fascinating. I won't even begin to interpret this text, because there very likely is no interpretation. It is simply meant to be a dreamlike, and at times nightmarish, experience. And goddammit does it succeed. It reads unlike anything else I've ever read, up to this point, and I wish I knew a way to classify it so that I could find more books like it. I was completely absorbed by the weirdness of it all.
It feels like there's meaning there just out of reach on every page, yet no way of truly figuring it out. Which leaves me with what I can only describe as a sense of mysterious hallucinatory wonder. You should not go into this book expecting coherence or consistency it has neither, instead you should simply bare witness to Sorokin's fever dream.
It's fuckin weird as shit, seriously dark and fucked up, completely lacking in any moral, political, or ethical leanings, nonsensical and devoid of interpretation. I absolutely understand why people would hate it for what it is, but it's for those same exact reasons that I loved it.
Blue Lard was utterly incomprehensible, vulgar, and fascinating. I won't even begin to interpret this text, because there very likely is no interpretation. It is simply meant to be a dreamlike, and at times nightmarish, experience. And goddammit does it succeed. It reads unlike anything else I've ever read, up to this point, and I wish I knew a way to classify it so that I could find more books like it. I was completely absorbed by the weirdness of it all.
It feels like there's meaning there just out of reach on every page, yet no way of truly figuring it out. Which leaves me with what I can only describe as a sense of mysterious hallucinatory wonder. You should not go into this book expecting coherence or consistency it has neither, instead you should simply bare witness to Sorokin's fever dream.
It's fuckin weird as shit, seriously dark and fucked up, completely lacking in any moral, political, or ethical leanings, nonsensical and devoid of interpretation. I absolutely understand why people would hate it for what it is, but it's for those same exact reasons that I loved it.
February 26, 2024
this book is top-direct! tho not always ameliorative of M-balance, it has a certain L-harmony that palpates the brain.
May 24, 2024
Video review https://youtu.be/Hzu93GcDO2w
March 8, 2025
Blue Lard is one of the most unique, ambitious, and insane pieces of media I've ever consumed.
It's an incredibly vast ocean of surrealism, vile debauchery, unfiltered brilliance, and unrestrained artistic freedom. The capricious and shocking nature of events had my eyes glued open and my hands seemingly unable to close or put down the book. It encompasses and masterfully blends elements of science fiction, fantasy, political intrigue, alternative realities, and intensely graphic eroticism in ways that I never thought possible, weaving itself into a beautiful tapestry from threads so seemingly foreign that it defies comprehension, forming a true masterpiece of magnificent absurdity.
I'm in awe of Mr. Sorokin's originality and fearless creativity, this is an experience I'll never forget.
Authentic, unapologetic, maniacal, and brilliant.
"As a translator, my primary goal has not been linguistic particularism but a rhythm and tempo that gives a sense of Sorokin's weirdness and mastery in equal measure" - Max Lawton
It's an incredibly vast ocean of surrealism, vile debauchery, unfiltered brilliance, and unrestrained artistic freedom. The capricious and shocking nature of events had my eyes glued open and my hands seemingly unable to close or put down the book. It encompasses and masterfully blends elements of science fiction, fantasy, political intrigue, alternative realities, and intensely graphic eroticism in ways that I never thought possible, weaving itself into a beautiful tapestry from threads so seemingly foreign that it defies comprehension, forming a true masterpiece of magnificent absurdity.
I'm in awe of Mr. Sorokin's originality and fearless creativity, this is an experience I'll never forget.
Authentic, unapologetic, maniacal, and brilliant.
"As a translator, my primary goal has not been linguistic particularism but a rhythm and tempo that gives a sense of Sorokin's weirdness and mastery in equal measure" - Max Lawton
March 27, 2017
Fraktura
Zagreb, 2004.
Ovo štivo će kod čitatelja izazvati razvoj plavog sala. Ja to garantiram.
U ovoj knjizi se jebu Staljin i Hruščov, dakle, bit će i erekcija.
Ova knjiga je u ravnini s "Pantagruelom" i "Gargantuom", vjerojatno će postati klasik poput "Quijota" ili "Biblije".
Jebačka knjiga.
Nije za liberale, ni kršćane.
Ako uspijem u svojoj namjeri, uspostavi vlastite neograničene diktature, ova knjiga će biti tiskana u tolikoj mjeri da će na jednog čovjeka ići tri primjerka "Plavog sala".
Samo štivo započinje citatima, jedan citat je uzet iz Rabelaisova "Pantagruela", drugi citat je uzet iz Nietzscheova "Sumraka idola", citati nisu iznevjerili izvore.
Roman nije podijeljen na poglavlja, niti se dijelovi teksta grafijski razdvajaju na neki vizualni način.
Jezik je tako živopisan, polimorfan, maniristički da je to neopisivo. Jezik je kokainski. Aktualizacija je temeljna odrednica jezika, od neologizama do metaforičnosti. Čak je i razvijen pidžin ruskog i kineskog jezika. Jezično stanje se mijenja zavisno od promjene narativne paradigme te je time jezično stanje raznovrsno i šarenoliko.
Bacit ću samo sljedeće, u vezi jezika; "rips"-psovka, "obojiti nosoroga"- fraza koja znači propasti.
Konstrukcija djela je kolažna, djelo čini više svjetova koji su odvojeni različitim vremenskim periodima, na početku romana česti su ironizirani umetci poznatih ruskih književnika.
Sve započinje jednim dnevnikom. Dnevnik piše Boris, iz 2068. u hiperborejskom azijskom dijelu Sibira, svom ljubavniku. Boris je znanstvenik koji pokušava, kroz klonove ruskih pisaca, zajedno sa svojim timom znanstvenika, proizvesti što veće količine plavog sala. Plavo salo nastaje pisanjem književnih tekstova te je ono doslovce nešto fizičko, svojevrsna izraslina na tijelu. U ovom početnom dijelu podastiru se umetci ironiziranja stilova pisanja velikana ruske književnosti, na način da Boris inkorporira u svoj dnevnik kratke priče ili fragmente dulje proze koje su napisali klonovi ruskih pisaca.
Borisovim ubojstvom naraciju počinje izlagati sveznajući pripovjedač te dnevnička forma nestaje. Središnji lik postaje Vil, član Reda Ruskih Zemljojeba, koji uzima plavo salo te ga nosi svojim vlastodršcima.
Red Ruskih Zemljojeba je nastao 2012. na području Istočnog Sibira. Na tom prostoru Red Ruskih Zemljojeba iskorištava znanja do kojeg je došla jedna druga skupina ljudi, sibirski zoroastrijanci.
Red Ruskih Zemljojeba doslovce jebe zemlju. No rade i mnogo toga još. Od ruskih zoroastrijanaca su preuzeli vremeplov. No neću više o radnji.
Putanja naracije, nakon prestanka dnevničke forme, podsjeća na klasike gotskog žanra; Potockijev "Rukopis pronađen u Zaragozi" te Beckfordov "Vathek", u smislu toga da se stalno izmijenjaju okolnosti radnje na izrazito dinamički način. Atmosfera podzemlja, tajnih prolaza, nenadanih barijera također, na tematski način, čini paralelu s gotskim žanrom.
Kada radnja dolazi do 1954., alternativna povijest, do Staljina i Hruščova, sama atmosfera podsjeća na Rabelaisa. Opisi jedenja, lučenja izlučevina, govora o hrani tako su jebeno pantagruelovski da je to prekul. U ovom dijelu romana javljaju se umetci pjesma te jedne drame.
U toj alternativnoj povijesti, valja ovdje istaći da je početak romana, u društvenom smislu, distopijski, Hitler je zajedno sa Staljinom pobijedio u Drugom svjetskom ratu. Staljin je umro 1953., u pravoj povijesti. Staljinovi sinovi su transvestiti, opće s vlastitom majkom, Staljin i Hruščov se guze međusobno.
Pročitajte! Pročitajte! Pročitajte!
Sorokin je postmodernist na najpostmodernističkiji način koji je uopće moguć, na maniristički način.
Živio manirizam!
Živio Cervantes! Živio Rabelais! Živio Sorokin!
Zagreb, 2004.
Ovo štivo će kod čitatelja izazvati razvoj plavog sala. Ja to garantiram.
U ovoj knjizi se jebu Staljin i Hruščov, dakle, bit će i erekcija.
Ova knjiga je u ravnini s "Pantagruelom" i "Gargantuom", vjerojatno će postati klasik poput "Quijota" ili "Biblije".
Jebačka knjiga.
Nije za liberale, ni kršćane.
Ako uspijem u svojoj namjeri, uspostavi vlastite neograničene diktature, ova knjiga će biti tiskana u tolikoj mjeri da će na jednog čovjeka ići tri primjerka "Plavog sala".
Samo štivo započinje citatima, jedan citat je uzet iz Rabelaisova "Pantagruela", drugi citat je uzet iz Nietzscheova "Sumraka idola", citati nisu iznevjerili izvore.
Roman nije podijeljen na poglavlja, niti se dijelovi teksta grafijski razdvajaju na neki vizualni način.
Jezik je tako živopisan, polimorfan, maniristički da je to neopisivo. Jezik je kokainski. Aktualizacija je temeljna odrednica jezika, od neologizama do metaforičnosti. Čak je i razvijen pidžin ruskog i kineskog jezika. Jezično stanje se mijenja zavisno od promjene narativne paradigme te je time jezično stanje raznovrsno i šarenoliko.
Bacit ću samo sljedeće, u vezi jezika; "rips"-psovka, "obojiti nosoroga"- fraza koja znači propasti.
Konstrukcija djela je kolažna, djelo čini više svjetova koji su odvojeni različitim vremenskim periodima, na početku romana česti su ironizirani umetci poznatih ruskih književnika.
Sve započinje jednim dnevnikom. Dnevnik piše Boris, iz 2068. u hiperborejskom azijskom dijelu Sibira, svom ljubavniku. Boris je znanstvenik koji pokušava, kroz klonove ruskih pisaca, zajedno sa svojim timom znanstvenika, proizvesti što veće količine plavog sala. Plavo salo nastaje pisanjem književnih tekstova te je ono doslovce nešto fizičko, svojevrsna izraslina na tijelu. U ovom početnom dijelu podastiru se umetci ironiziranja stilova pisanja velikana ruske književnosti, na način da Boris inkorporira u svoj dnevnik kratke priče ili fragmente dulje proze koje su napisali klonovi ruskih pisaca.
Borisovim ubojstvom naraciju počinje izlagati sveznajući pripovjedač te dnevnička forma nestaje. Središnji lik postaje Vil, član Reda Ruskih Zemljojeba, koji uzima plavo salo te ga nosi svojim vlastodršcima.
Red Ruskih Zemljojeba je nastao 2012. na području Istočnog Sibira. Na tom prostoru Red Ruskih Zemljojeba iskorištava znanja do kojeg je došla jedna druga skupina ljudi, sibirski zoroastrijanci.
Red Ruskih Zemljojeba doslovce jebe zemlju. No rade i mnogo toga još. Od ruskih zoroastrijanaca su preuzeli vremeplov. No neću više o radnji.
Putanja naracije, nakon prestanka dnevničke forme, podsjeća na klasike gotskog žanra; Potockijev "Rukopis pronađen u Zaragozi" te Beckfordov "Vathek", u smislu toga da se stalno izmijenjaju okolnosti radnje na izrazito dinamički način. Atmosfera podzemlja, tajnih prolaza, nenadanih barijera također, na tematski način, čini paralelu s gotskim žanrom.
Kada radnja dolazi do 1954., alternativna povijest, do Staljina i Hruščova, sama atmosfera podsjeća na Rabelaisa. Opisi jedenja, lučenja izlučevina, govora o hrani tako su jebeno pantagruelovski da je to prekul. U ovom dijelu romana javljaju se umetci pjesma te jedne drame.
U toj alternativnoj povijesti, valja ovdje istaći da je početak romana, u društvenom smislu, distopijski, Hitler je zajedno sa Staljinom pobijedio u Drugom svjetskom ratu. Staljin je umro 1953., u pravoj povijesti. Staljinovi sinovi su transvestiti, opće s vlastitom majkom, Staljin i Hruščov se guze međusobno.
Pročitajte! Pročitajte! Pročitajte!
Sorokin je postmodernist na najpostmodernističkiji način koji je uopće moguć, na maniristički način.
Živio manirizam!
Živio Cervantes! Živio Rabelais! Živio Sorokin!
March 20, 2024
One of the most insane works of fiction I have ever born witness to. Truly a dream within a dream.
June 9, 2024
The most Sorokin of the Sorokin novels I have read. If you like his style then this is entertaining stuff.
June 22, 2024
This book is obviously not for everyone. You should have at least 46 pairs of chromosomes, you should have been carried for about forty months, and all this with an immaculate conception, well, it would be nice to be a reincarnation of Lao Tzu. There is nothing to say about the meaning of the book: there is as much meaning in it as in this review. This is pure postmodernism. Not literally, pure, because the book reflects very immoral aspects of life, but pure is that it should be perceived as postmodernism. Sorokin’s book is intertextual, and the author himself shows us the aesthetics of the ugly. If you didn’t like this book, then postmodernism is just not yours. Sorokin himself considers all the violence present in the book as a set of letters. You don’t have to take everything that happens literally, it’s just a text
January 5, 2025
What an insane ride this was. Surreal, absurd, transgressive, Sorokin blended so many things that somehow worked. You don't even know when you get from one point to another, but the journey will be worth it. All you have to do is go with the flow and enjoy the ride.
April 10, 2024
“‘Blue Lard’ is an act of desecration. ‘Blue Lard’ is what’s left after the towering masterpieces of Russian literature have been blown to smithereens, the most graphic, shocking, controversial, and celebrated book to be published in Russia since the end of communism” – The New York Review of Books
First published in Russia in 1999, Max Lawton’s excellent translation is the first into English, recently published by NYRB. The quote above is from the book’s back cover blurb, I certainly couldn’t have written a better description. The book is a juggernaut, a hellish nightmare tour de force that is not to be underestimated.
With cult status already long achieved in Russia, Max Lawton’s excellent translation is now gathering momentum with English language readers, and with good cause. It’s an important piece of postmodern literature that will appeal to a wide demographic of readers from fans of Pynchon, Gass, Borroughs, to extremists such as Sade, Bataille, Genet and Céline, even I think to perhaps readers of sci-fi/horror.
The plot is easy enough to find out, so I’ll leave that to you. I want to talk a bit about the book’s much talked about impenetrability. Initially whilst reading, my mind wanted to make comparisons with ‘Gravity’s Rainbow’, and I still hold with that (a bit). The first section of the book uses a baffling (for English-only readers) mixture of Chinese terms/slang, German, French and most importantly invented ‘future speak’. Not even Sorokin himself understands all of it - to quote Lawson, “The book is built around incomprehension to such an extent that not even Vladimir knows what the ample neologisms that pepper the epistolary section mean”.
But there is help, if you want it. After reading a 100 pages or so, it was pointed out to me by a very reliable source, that Lawton has included an extremely helpful Afterword, in which he explains that it was a deliberate decision not to include an introduction as Sorokin wants readers to go in blind; to be confused, to not entirely comprehend what they’re reading.
“Blue Lard isn’t here to be read so much as borne witness to.” – Max Lawton
Basically, you can relax, it’s ok not to understand.
However if you’d prefer to have background knowledge to help, then I’d recommend reading the Afterword first. If you don’t want that, i.e. the full experience that Sorokin intended, then I advise against it.
Personally, reading Lawton’s explanatory material gave me the licence to sit back, relax into it, and not be concerned with comprehending every detail, rather to let that build up to enriching the whole brutal, extremist experience.
First published in Russia in 1999, Max Lawton’s excellent translation is the first into English, recently published by NYRB. The quote above is from the book’s back cover blurb, I certainly couldn’t have written a better description. The book is a juggernaut, a hellish nightmare tour de force that is not to be underestimated.
With cult status already long achieved in Russia, Max Lawton’s excellent translation is now gathering momentum with English language readers, and with good cause. It’s an important piece of postmodern literature that will appeal to a wide demographic of readers from fans of Pynchon, Gass, Borroughs, to extremists such as Sade, Bataille, Genet and Céline, even I think to perhaps readers of sci-fi/horror.
The plot is easy enough to find out, so I’ll leave that to you. I want to talk a bit about the book’s much talked about impenetrability. Initially whilst reading, my mind wanted to make comparisons with ‘Gravity’s Rainbow’, and I still hold with that (a bit). The first section of the book uses a baffling (for English-only readers) mixture of Chinese terms/slang, German, French and most importantly invented ‘future speak’. Not even Sorokin himself understands all of it - to quote Lawson, “The book is built around incomprehension to such an extent that not even Vladimir knows what the ample neologisms that pepper the epistolary section mean”.
But there is help, if you want it. After reading a 100 pages or so, it was pointed out to me by a very reliable source, that Lawton has included an extremely helpful Afterword, in which he explains that it was a deliberate decision not to include an introduction as Sorokin wants readers to go in blind; to be confused, to not entirely comprehend what they’re reading.
“Blue Lard isn’t here to be read so much as borne witness to.” – Max Lawton
Basically, you can relax, it’s ok not to understand.
However if you’d prefer to have background knowledge to help, then I’d recommend reading the Afterword first. If you don’t want that, i.e. the full experience that Sorokin intended, then I advise against it.
Personally, reading Lawton’s explanatory material gave me the licence to sit back, relax into it, and not be concerned with comprehending every detail, rather to let that build up to enriching the whole brutal, extremist experience.
November 6, 2019
Впервые добрался до этого автора- очень впечатлило. Даже если убрать за скобки Всю сюжетную фантасмагорию и «новояз» будущего, от которых я и так получил огромное удовольствие, то подражание/ пародия на язык Набокова, Достоевского, Толстого и пр. - это высший пилотаж.
June 21, 2021
местами тошнит, но талантливо
October 3, 2024
3 October.
Hello, mon petit. My heavy little boy, my tender bastard.
I am sending this through a clone-pigeon and hoping it makes it way to you, somewhere on the internet.
Rips laowai! I’ve just completed “Blue Lard.” That’s one way to lose my L-Harmony, and just when I thought the curdling in my brain had stopped after reading “Gravity’s Rainbow,” blistered as that was in blithering blather-blubber. Listen, ni ma de, I can read, at least this script-processing material from some Sorokin motherfucker, it’s not rocket science, it’s not science at all, it’s iconoclasm.
Oh don’t be so offended, this juicy weapon is a poetics born from Russian sewers, where operatics turd-gurgle in shit water. It’s a heap of obscenity. So what if Stalin gets it in the ass from Khrushchev? It’s cute. It’s pornographic. Now it’s public. Fiction can make anything public. Authority hates being seen, that’s why it hates fiction. That’s why it bans it. Hitler prefers being a rapist behind closed doors, behind camp gates. So what if a cult of Earth-Fucking nationalist babies with giant phalluses use a time funnel to gift Stalin immortality? It’s funny.
Oh you want provocation? You huaidan. I need another kvass. It’s getting colder here in Scotland, and it does no comfort to me to read postmodern, surrealist books about a frozen-over dystopian Siberia. At least it’s funny! Although, with my fractured ribs, laughing is no L-Harmony. Rips!
In the words of the Grand Magister of the Earth Fuckers: “partial knowledge is more important than total.” In fact, you—my Xiaozhu—might feel like Akhmatova’s fleas, “leaping around on the surface of the earth without knowing what stars are.” Although of course it’s a text here we’re leaping across, not a planet, and these lighted stars are more like the withering dances of flames held over a stream at night, spelling words incomplete and only partially incandescent. I admit, it’s dangerous for the protoplasm, but it is what it is. Glory to the Cosmos.
Hello, mon petit. My heavy little boy, my tender bastard.
I am sending this through a clone-pigeon and hoping it makes it way to you, somewhere on the internet.
Rips laowai! I’ve just completed “Blue Lard.” That’s one way to lose my L-Harmony, and just when I thought the curdling in my brain had stopped after reading “Gravity’s Rainbow,” blistered as that was in blithering blather-blubber. Listen, ni ma de, I can read, at least this script-processing material from some Sorokin motherfucker, it’s not rocket science, it’s not science at all, it’s iconoclasm.
Oh don’t be so offended, this juicy weapon is a poetics born from Russian sewers, where operatics turd-gurgle in shit water. It’s a heap of obscenity. So what if Stalin gets it in the ass from Khrushchev? It’s cute. It’s pornographic. Now it’s public. Fiction can make anything public. Authority hates being seen, that’s why it hates fiction. That’s why it bans it. Hitler prefers being a rapist behind closed doors, behind camp gates. So what if a cult of Earth-Fucking nationalist babies with giant phalluses use a time funnel to gift Stalin immortality? It’s funny.
Oh you want provocation? You huaidan. I need another kvass. It’s getting colder here in Scotland, and it does no comfort to me to read postmodern, surrealist books about a frozen-over dystopian Siberia. At least it’s funny! Although, with my fractured ribs, laughing is no L-Harmony. Rips!
In the words of the Grand Magister of the Earth Fuckers: “partial knowledge is more important than total.” In fact, you—my Xiaozhu—might feel like Akhmatova’s fleas, “leaping around on the surface of the earth without knowing what stars are.” Although of course it’s a text here we’re leaping across, not a planet, and these lighted stars are more like the withering dances of flames held over a stream at night, spelling words incomplete and only partially incandescent. I admit, it’s dangerous for the protoplasm, but it is what it is. Glory to the Cosmos.
September 22, 2024
This may well be the strangest novel that I have read during my 63 years of life on earth so far. It is not for the faint of heart. If trigger warnings are something that you are concerned about, then you should not pick up this book.
So, what to say about this. Hm. It was originally published in Russian in 1999, so at the time I am reading it in its English translation, it is already a quarter of a century old. At first, I thought my failure to comprehend might be due to my lack of knowledge of Russian history or my lack of knowledge of Russian literature, but wait, there’s more. It involves both an alternate history and a sci-fi future. And it is told in part through correspondence, and in part through dream/fugue states, and in part through languages that do not exist and through blending of languages that do exist, and in part through bastardized possible writings of known authors and playwrites and poets. So, hm, perhaps my lack of comprehension is more understandable.
All I can really say for sure is that I was totally drawn in by this novel, and I don’t regret any of the moments that I spent with it, and it will stay on my mind for a long time to come. But boy, howdy, this one was a doozy.
So, what to say about this. Hm. It was originally published in Russian in 1999, so at the time I am reading it in its English translation, it is already a quarter of a century old. At first, I thought my failure to comprehend might be due to my lack of knowledge of Russian history or my lack of knowledge of Russian literature, but wait, there’s more. It involves both an alternate history and a sci-fi future. And it is told in part through correspondence, and in part through dream/fugue states, and in part through languages that do not exist and through blending of languages that do exist, and in part through bastardized possible writings of known authors and playwrites and poets. So, hm, perhaps my lack of comprehension is more understandable.
All I can really say for sure is that I was totally drawn in by this novel, and I don’t regret any of the moments that I spent with it, and it will stay on my mind for a long time to come. But boy, howdy, this one was a doozy.
December 25, 2025
An inspiring example of the author fully committing to the weirdness
February 26, 2024
Of course, critics can explain very little.
Vladimir Sorokin, interviewed at Columbia University, 10/4/22
Available now for the first time in English from NYRB Classics, dutifully translated by Max Lawton, Vladimir Sorokin’s Blue Lard is a book that refuses to be summarized or explained. Unfortunately for me, the conventions of book reviewing demand an attempt, and so I reluctantly oblige:
When the novel begins, a scientist named Boris is writing from Siberia to a distant lover about his work. The letters are written in NovoRuss, a Russian dialect which has incorporated many neologisms and Chinese blasphemes.
This is my curdy, ephemeral brain-yueshi, plus your festering minus-posit.
Boris and his partners are working to produce the titular blue lard, special for its ability to maintain a constant state of entropy no matter the amount of energy applied to it. Boris and his colleagues aim to incubate the substance within the bodies of deformed clones, botched copies of Russian Greats.
Blue lard forms inside these clones as a byproduct of the script process, or more simply: writing. Boris includes the artifacts of this process in his letters, which abruptly cease when the lab is stormed by a time-traveling cult known as the Earth-Fuckers. The Earth-Fuckers abscond with the lard to their subterranean lair, then transport it into an alternate past in which Stalin and Hitler have defeated the Allies. Throughout all of this, characters are constantly engaged in discussion of or engagement in graphic displays of lust, often violent and occasionally incestuous.
At no point are we given a full picture of what exactly blue lard does, or what anyone wants with it.
The book was first published in Russia in 1999, and in 2002 its obscenity was the target of a protest during which a pro-Putin youth organization threw copies into a giant papier-mâché toilet. While its postmodern appropriation of sacred cows and historical villains have and will continue to offend many, those readers who are already acclimatized to transgressive fiction may find themselves more interested in Sorokin’s reasons for provocation than in the provocation itself.
Though Sorokin would certainly bristle at the idea of Blue Lard being a comment on anything too specific, I think we can interpret it partly as an illustration of the ugliness and violence of which humanity is capable, at grand scales over ideology, resources, and/or glory, but also over petty concerns and urges. Its irreverence points to the absurdity of our idol worship, and by placing famous artists beside infamous dictators, the satire stands out more starkly.
That’s as far as I feel justified proceeding in my analysis, because according to Lawton in his “extroduction”:
You don’t need to understand Blue Lard. In fact, trying too hard to theorize Sorokin’s work or to pin him to any particular ideology risks sinking his whole enterprise. The ideal mode in which to read it is one of wonder, contemplation, and amusement. Let the images and words flow past - do not seek to add unnecessary meaning to them. The quiddity of the work is its own reward.
While this can be a perfectly acceptable approach for a reader or a writer, taking this attitude towards Blue Lard has diminished my ability to appreciate it. If I read something that I don’t particularly like, especially if I aim to review it, I feel duty-bound to make a good-faith effort to understand it. Being actively discouraged from doing so doesn’t leave me with much to say, or a reason to return for a second read. I did not find the book’s quiddity rewarding for the same reason I haven’t enjoyed Eminem since middle school. For me, and I suspect for many people like me, explicit sexuality and explicit violence are not shocking, and obviously emphasizing shock over other ends comes off as merely juvenile. Lawton claims that we are likely to be either enraged or enthralled by Blue Lard. I was bored.
Read the full review at Blathering Struldbrugs
Vladimir Sorokin, interviewed at Columbia University, 10/4/22
Available now for the first time in English from NYRB Classics, dutifully translated by Max Lawton, Vladimir Sorokin’s Blue Lard is a book that refuses to be summarized or explained. Unfortunately for me, the conventions of book reviewing demand an attempt, and so I reluctantly oblige:
When the novel begins, a scientist named Boris is writing from Siberia to a distant lover about his work. The letters are written in NovoRuss, a Russian dialect which has incorporated many neologisms and Chinese blasphemes.
This is my curdy, ephemeral brain-yueshi, plus your festering minus-posit.
Boris and his partners are working to produce the titular blue lard, special for its ability to maintain a constant state of entropy no matter the amount of energy applied to it. Boris and his colleagues aim to incubate the substance within the bodies of deformed clones, botched copies of Russian Greats.
Blue lard forms inside these clones as a byproduct of the script process, or more simply: writing. Boris includes the artifacts of this process in his letters, which abruptly cease when the lab is stormed by a time-traveling cult known as the Earth-Fuckers. The Earth-Fuckers abscond with the lard to their subterranean lair, then transport it into an alternate past in which Stalin and Hitler have defeated the Allies. Throughout all of this, characters are constantly engaged in discussion of or engagement in graphic displays of lust, often violent and occasionally incestuous.
At no point are we given a full picture of what exactly blue lard does, or what anyone wants with it.
The book was first published in Russia in 1999, and in 2002 its obscenity was the target of a protest during which a pro-Putin youth organization threw copies into a giant papier-mâché toilet. While its postmodern appropriation of sacred cows and historical villains have and will continue to offend many, those readers who are already acclimatized to transgressive fiction may find themselves more interested in Sorokin’s reasons for provocation than in the provocation itself.
Though Sorokin would certainly bristle at the idea of Blue Lard being a comment on anything too specific, I think we can interpret it partly as an illustration of the ugliness and violence of which humanity is capable, at grand scales over ideology, resources, and/or glory, but also over petty concerns and urges. Its irreverence points to the absurdity of our idol worship, and by placing famous artists beside infamous dictators, the satire stands out more starkly.
That’s as far as I feel justified proceeding in my analysis, because according to Lawton in his “extroduction”:
You don’t need to understand Blue Lard. In fact, trying too hard to theorize Sorokin’s work or to pin him to any particular ideology risks sinking his whole enterprise. The ideal mode in which to read it is one of wonder, contemplation, and amusement. Let the images and words flow past - do not seek to add unnecessary meaning to them. The quiddity of the work is its own reward.
While this can be a perfectly acceptable approach for a reader or a writer, taking this attitude towards Blue Lard has diminished my ability to appreciate it. If I read something that I don’t particularly like, especially if I aim to review it, I feel duty-bound to make a good-faith effort to understand it. Being actively discouraged from doing so doesn’t leave me with much to say, or a reason to return for a second read. I did not find the book’s quiddity rewarding for the same reason I haven’t enjoyed Eminem since middle school. For me, and I suspect for many people like me, explicit sexuality and explicit violence are not shocking, and obviously emphasizing shock over other ends comes off as merely juvenile. Lawton claims that we are likely to be either enraged or enthralled by Blue Lard. I was bored.
Read the full review at Blathering Struldbrugs
May 2, 2021
Много книг читал, и всякое дерьмо попадалось, но эта заслуживает звания отстойнейшей из всех. Поздравляю! Жаль нельзя поставить отрицательный рейтинг.
June 12, 2024
the first third of this book is one of the most mindmelting exercises in linguistic insanity i've ever come across. i realized after reading that there is a glossary in the back, but as translator Max Lawton says in his afterword, it doesn't look terribly useful. i couldn't put this part down. there are several set pieces, pastiches/parodies of great russian authors, and they're both hilarious and technically perfect.
the second phase drastically changes the focus, and calms the wordhorde to a degree. the change is quite sudden, and the characters/themes introduced to this point are completely cast aside. this middle section explores a bizarre culture/religion, and is pretty fascinating.
the third and longest section is basically naked lunch featuring stalin, kruschev, a gelatinous Cartmanesque egg-shitting poetess by the name of AAA (pretty clearly a reference to Anna Akhmatova), beria, stalin's wife and daughter, and finally hitler and bormann. this gets kinda tiresome by its end, much like the Anubis section of gravity's rainbow. by now the writing has completely cooled down. by this time the kind of hallucinogenic fever dream perfected in Naked Lunch is, relative to the first hundred pages, completely sane.
vladimir sorokin is like no other russian author i know, and we are in debt to mr. lawton--an interesting guy in his own right--for his fantastic translation (and general popularizing of sorokin). turbonormies need not apply, but those with a tooth for the transgressive and bizarre will enjoy Blue Lard.
the second phase drastically changes the focus, and calms the wordhorde to a degree. the change is quite sudden, and the characters/themes introduced to this point are completely cast aside. this middle section explores a bizarre culture/religion, and is pretty fascinating.
the third and longest section is basically naked lunch featuring stalin, kruschev, a gelatinous Cartmanesque egg-shitting poetess by the name of AAA (pretty clearly a reference to Anna Akhmatova), beria, stalin's wife and daughter, and finally hitler and bormann. this gets kinda tiresome by its end, much like the Anubis section of gravity's rainbow. by now the writing has completely cooled down. by this time the kind of hallucinogenic fever dream perfected in Naked Lunch is, relative to the first hundred pages, completely sane.
vladimir sorokin is like no other russian author i know, and we are in debt to mr. lawton--an interesting guy in his own right--for his fantastic translation (and general popularizing of sorokin). turbonormies need not apply, but those with a tooth for the transgressive and bizarre will enjoy Blue Lard.
December 7, 2024
Whaaaaaaat a book. Oh Vlad, you so bad.
Blue Lard by Vladimir Sorokin, translated by Max Lawton. I hesitate to say I loved it because it feels like saying I love murder scenes staged by the criminally insane into red art installations. But I kinda do love those. So I think I loved this. Yeah. I loved it. Is it too cutesy to call it a murder scene staged by the criminally insane into a read art installation?
ITo steal the blurb, it’s “an act of desecration. Blue Lard is what’s left after the towering masterpieces of Russian literature have been blown to smithereens, the most graphic, shocking, controversial, and celebrated book to be published in Russia since the end of Communism.”
That’s a hefty description but it’s probably accurate. This book is an unhinged fever dream. Per Max’s “extroduction,” Sorokin himself can’t explain it all. Going in, I only knew what the blurb said: there’s a futuristic lab where clones of famous Russian authors write under duress and secrete “blue lard,” a scientifically unique substance harvested to power reactors on the moon. The blue lard is stolen by a figuratively and literally underground cult who sends it back in time to an alternate reality where Stalin and Hitler are best buds and Hitler shoots electricity out of his hands.
Despite this, uh, memorable synopsis I’d gotten so distracted by the obscenities and beauty of the first 50 pages (“as he was a coffee table, so has he remained.”) that I forgot all about the plot until I stumbled onto it mid-page. And then I lost the plot again in the caves, disoriented by the layers and distracted by some truly crystalline writing. Because that’s how this book operates. Oh and it can be funny as hell. AAA, I’m looking at you.
Maybe not worth saying it this late in the post but I would 100% not recommend this book to many people. It’s hard to read for 100 reasons. But if you’re into the grotesque and surreal and witty, you’d be into this. #2024books
Blue Lard by Vladimir Sorokin, translated by Max Lawton. I hesitate to say I loved it because it feels like saying I love murder scenes staged by the criminally insane into red art installations. But I kinda do love those. So I think I loved this. Yeah. I loved it. Is it too cutesy to call it a murder scene staged by the criminally insane into a read art installation?
ITo steal the blurb, it’s “an act of desecration. Blue Lard is what’s left after the towering masterpieces of Russian literature have been blown to smithereens, the most graphic, shocking, controversial, and celebrated book to be published in Russia since the end of Communism.”
That’s a hefty description but it’s probably accurate. This book is an unhinged fever dream. Per Max’s “extroduction,” Sorokin himself can’t explain it all. Going in, I only knew what the blurb said: there’s a futuristic lab where clones of famous Russian authors write under duress and secrete “blue lard,” a scientifically unique substance harvested to power reactors on the moon. The blue lard is stolen by a figuratively and literally underground cult who sends it back in time to an alternate reality where Stalin and Hitler are best buds and Hitler shoots electricity out of his hands.
Despite this, uh, memorable synopsis I’d gotten so distracted by the obscenities and beauty of the first 50 pages (“as he was a coffee table, so has he remained.”) that I forgot all about the plot until I stumbled onto it mid-page. And then I lost the plot again in the caves, disoriented by the layers and distracted by some truly crystalline writing. Because that’s how this book operates. Oh and it can be funny as hell. AAA, I’m looking at you.
Maybe not worth saying it this late in the post but I would 100% not recommend this book to many people. It’s hard to read for 100 reasons. But if you’re into the grotesque and surreal and witty, you’d be into this. #2024books
January 6, 2025
This was a unique literary experiment.
I enjoyed some sections, was grossed out by some and amused by others. I found the speculative aspects and alternate history interesting. There was a section invoking some classic Russian authors and some scenes with key 20th century historical figures which were quite innovative. Some of the over the top aspects didn't work that well for me.
A good one-time read.
I enjoyed some sections, was grossed out by some and amused by others. I found the speculative aspects and alternate history interesting. There was a section invoking some classic Russian authors and some scenes with key 20th century historical figures which were quite innovative. Some of the over the top aspects didn't work that well for me.
A good one-time read.
January 26, 2025
It's hard to rate this book because it is such an odd book. I'm not sure a rating does it justice because I'm glad I read it, but it wasn't an easy read - at least, not the first third.
February 24, 2025
et jævla virvar helvetes terrorkaos av en bok. det er noe helt enorm samfunnskritisk kontekst her som er ganske fet, men jeg har ikke nok hodepinetabletter til å fullføre. leste halve greia. bare å låne
October 23, 2025
Where to begin. Imagine Bosch, Dali and Buñuel ingesting psilocybin and trying to out-shock each other with surrealist nightmares. Then you will have some idea of what this book contains. I loved it. It’s grotesque, beautiful, obscene, remarkable. It’s a journey through the Inferno, but Virgil is curled up in a corner foaming at the mouth. You, dear reader are on your own!
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