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Ostap Bender #2
Золотой теленок
Содержание АудиоКниги «Золотой теленок»:
Если умерший воскресает, значит он будет жить вечно!
Тем более, если смерть его была обусловлена всего лишь случайным жребием, а многочисленные поклонники усопшего требовали продолжения его жизни. Так в провинциальном городке Арбатове воскрес величайший авантюрист НЭПа, непревзойденный сын лейтенанта Шмидта Остап Бендер, и первыми его словами были острые «Храм спаса на картошке» и трагично-грустные «Нет, это не Рио-де-Жанейро, это гораздо хуже»,..
Воскресший в «Золотом теленке» Бендер не переменился, не стал честным мещанином, каким рисовали его Ильф и Петров в «Двенадцати стульях». Его душа до сих пор стремится в Рио, а значит, ему все так же нужны деньги, и немаленькие - пятьсот тысяч «по возможности сразу, а не частями». Достать их не проблема, ведь Бендеру знакомо множество способов «сравнительно честного отъема денег у граждан». Но где найти в советском государстве человека, обладающего заветным полумиллионом? В соседнем Черноморске, где проживает подпольный миллионер Корейко!
Великий Комбинатор набирает команду единомышленников в лице еще двух «сыновей лейтенанта Шмидта» - Шуры Балаганова и Паниковского, шофера-авантюриста Адама Козлевича, и на зеленом лорен-дитрихе отправляется в путь за заветным богатством. Конечно же, соблазн попутно обмануть как можно большее число людей, чтобы справиться с финансовыми и прочими трудностями на пути к цели, Бендера не минул... Так так наши герои становятся «участниками автопробега по бездорожью и разгильдяйству», но уже на перекрашенном желтом автомобиле, получившем гордое имя «Антилопа Гну»; скрываются от преследователей, добираются до Черноморска, где в попытках обнаружить богатство Корейко даже распиливают его гири... И это далеко не все детективные приключения великого Остапа и его шайки.
Слушайте «Золотого теленка» с прекрасной начиткой от «АудиоПланеты» и Вы получите полную картину политической жизни страны, быта ее граждан, насладитесь неповторимой манерой письма и изысканным юмором, и убедитесь в невозможности «кризиса жанра» романа «Золотой теленок».
Как сказал один из героев романа «Пилите, Шура, пилите -они золотые!»
Если умерший воскресает, значит он будет жить вечно!
Тем более, если смерть его была обусловлена всего лишь случайным жребием, а многочисленные поклонники усопшего требовали продолжения его жизни. Так в провинциальном городке Арбатове воскрес величайший авантюрист НЭПа, непревзойденный сын лейтенанта Шмидта Остап Бендер, и первыми его словами были острые «Храм спаса на картошке» и трагично-грустные «Нет, это не Рио-де-Жанейро, это гораздо хуже»,..
Воскресший в «Золотом теленке» Бендер не переменился, не стал честным мещанином, каким рисовали его Ильф и Петров в «Двенадцати стульях». Его душа до сих пор стремится в Рио, а значит, ему все так же нужны деньги, и немаленькие - пятьсот тысяч «по возможности сразу, а не частями». Достать их не проблема, ведь Бендеру знакомо множество способов «сравнительно честного отъема денег у граждан». Но где найти в советском государстве человека, обладающего заветным полумиллионом? В соседнем Черноморске, где проживает подпольный миллионер Корейко!
Великий Комбинатор набирает команду единомышленников в лице еще двух «сыновей лейтенанта Шмидта» - Шуры Балаганова и Паниковского, шофера-авантюриста Адама Козлевича, и на зеленом лорен-дитрихе отправляется в путь за заветным богатством. Конечно же, соблазн попутно обмануть как можно большее число людей, чтобы справиться с финансовыми и прочими трудностями на пути к цели, Бендера не минул... Так так наши герои становятся «участниками автопробега по бездорожью и разгильдяйству», но уже на перекрашенном желтом автомобиле, получившем гордое имя «Антилопа Гну»; скрываются от преследователей, добираются до Черноморска, где в попытках обнаружить богатство Корейко даже распиливают его гири... И это далеко не все детективные приключения великого Остапа и его шайки.
Слушайте «Золотого теленка» с прекрасной начиткой от «АудиоПланеты» и Вы получите полную картину политической жизни страны, быта ее граждан, насладитесь неповторимой манерой письма и изысканным юмором, и убедитесь в невозможности «кризиса жанра» романа «Золотой теленок».
Как сказал один из героев романа «Пилите, Шура, пилите -они золотые!»
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About the author
Ilya Ilf
124 books204 followersIlya Ilf (Russian: Илья Ильф, pseudonym of Iehiel-Leyb (Ilya) Arnoldovich Faynzilberg was a popular Soviet journalist and writer of Jewish origin who usually worked in collaboration with Yevgeni Petrov during the 1920s and 1930s. Their duo was known simply as Ilf and Petrov. Together they published two popular comedy novels The Twelve Chairs (1928) and The Little Golden Calf (1931), as well as a satirical book One-storied America (often translated as Little Golden America) that documented their journey through the United States between 1935 and 1936.
Ilf and Petrov became extremely popular for their two satirical novels: The Twelve Chairs and its sequel, The Little Golden Calf. The two texts are connected by their main character, Ostap Bender, a con man in pursuit of elusive riches. Both books follow exploits of Bender and his associates looking for treasure amidst the contemporary Soviet reality. They were written and are set in the relatively liberal era in Soviet history, the New Economic Policy of the 1920s. The main characters generally avoid contact with the apparently lax law enforcement. Their position outside the organized, goal-driven, productive Soviet society is emphasized. It also gives the authors a convenient platform from which to look at this society and to make fun of its less attractive and less Socialist aspects. These are among the most widely read and quoted books in Russian culture. The Twelve Chairs was adapted for ca. twenty movies, in the USSR (by Leonid Gaidai and by Mark Zakharov), in the US (in particular by Mel Brooks), and in other countries.
The two writers also traveled across the Great Depression-era United States. Ilf took many pictures throughout the journey, and the authors produced a photo essay entitled "American Photographs", published in Ogonyok magazine. Shortly after that they published the book Одноэтажная Америка (literally: "One-storied America"), translated as Little Golden America (an allusion to The Little Golden Calf). The first edition of the book did not include Ilf's photographs. Both the photo essay and the book document their adventures with their characteristic humor and playfulness. Notably, Ilf and Petrov were not afraid to praise many aspects of the American lifestyle in these works.
Ilf and Petrov became extremely popular for their two satirical novels: The Twelve Chairs and its sequel, The Little Golden Calf. The two texts are connected by their main character, Ostap Bender, a con man in pursuit of elusive riches. Both books follow exploits of Bender and his associates looking for treasure amidst the contemporary Soviet reality. They were written and are set in the relatively liberal era in Soviet history, the New Economic Policy of the 1920s. The main characters generally avoid contact with the apparently lax law enforcement. Their position outside the organized, goal-driven, productive Soviet society is emphasized. It also gives the authors a convenient platform from which to look at this society and to make fun of its less attractive and less Socialist aspects. These are among the most widely read and quoted books in Russian culture. The Twelve Chairs was adapted for ca. twenty movies, in the USSR (by Leonid Gaidai and by Mark Zakharov), in the US (in particular by Mel Brooks), and in other countries.
The two writers also traveled across the Great Depression-era United States. Ilf took many pictures throughout the journey, and the authors produced a photo essay entitled "American Photographs", published in Ogonyok magazine. Shortly after that they published the book Одноэтажная Америка (literally: "One-storied America"), translated as Little Golden America (an allusion to The Little Golden Calf). The first edition of the book did not include Ilf's photographs. Both the photo essay and the book document their adventures with their characteristic humor and playfulness. Notably, Ilf and Petrov were not afraid to praise many aspects of the American lifestyle in these works.
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November 10, 2018
Представям си аз Остап Бендер, великия комбинатор, да цъка с език и да мърмори:
„Тоест как така комбинатор и какво впрочем искате да кажете с тази рецензия? Вие, гълъбче, не сте нищо повече от едно презряно драскаче!“
Остап Бендер е особен вид приспособенец. Той само привидно се нагодява към ситуациите, в които попада, а всъщност прекрасно умее да приспособява всички останали към собствените си желания. Неизчерпаемият му запас от изобретателност е съвсем по мярка на свръхнаивизма на средностатистическия съветски гражданин. Бендер с устрем на „специален“ влак пори азиатската степ, сменя самоличности като вчерашно бельо, основава дружества за продажба на рога и копита…
„Това е вече свинщина“ , с почти добронамерена усмивка възкликва Остап. „А Рио де Жанейро къде оставихте?“
А, да… Има там една „кристална мечта от детството“, едни бели панталони и един мираж за някакъв друг, по-добър (да се разбира по-мързелив и охолен) живот. И тъй, тича Остап подир опашката на златния телец и когато неговите 400 сравнително честни начина за измъкване на пари не вършат работа, той измисля дори още. Като необикновен змиеукротител свири Бендер на някаква странна флейта и притегля различни персонажи към кроежите си. Те са като измъкнали се кончѐта от предълга шевица и полекичка се вплитат на мястото си със своите истории. Остава само възелчета да им се направят и изобщо да не могат да се изплъзнат повече.
„Честна дума, така не може да се работи! Нещо хубаво за мен поне няма ли да кажете?!“
Остап Бендер си има бяла капитанска шапка и меден език. Умна глава е. Така бива ли?
„Дайте да видим как ще продължи заседанието нататък.“
Макар да не съм имала съмнителната чест да живея по време на социализма, разпознавам някои белези, за които съм чувала – като небезизвестното „петилетката за четири години“, увитите във вестник провизии и голямото зло бюрократическо чудовище, което и днес си ни стои като мила, но ненужна останка от ония години. За трудовака ударник, който преизпълнява плана, за да спечели любовта на комсомолката, даже няма да споменавам. Чухте ли ме да го казвам? Не, ето на. Иля Илф и Евгений Петров много симпатично и елегантно са успели да се надсмеят над някои безумни елементи на съветския режим, въпреки че са били негови съвременници и не съм убедена как се е гледало на тази дързост по онова време. Персонажът на Бендер е харизматичен, може би родоначалник на някаква зараждаща се предприемчива прослойка, но се оказва, че необятната руска шир е тясна за тоя дух, който се прекланя пред палмите и белите панталони. Понякога едни пари да имаш, пък да няма как да ги изхарчиш и то не е лесна работа…
„Ледът се пука! – ужасен закрещя великият комбинатор. – Ледът се пука, господа съдебни заседатели!“
Внимавайте да не потънете в непознати води тогава, другарю Бендер!
Остап Бендер е особен вид приспособенец. Той само привидно се нагодява към ситуациите, в които попада, а всъщност прекрасно умее да приспособява всички останали към собствените си желания. Неизчерпаемият му запас от изобретателност е съвсем по мярка на свръхнаивизма на средностатистическия съветски гражданин. Бендер с устрем на „специален“ влак пори азиатската степ, сменя самоличности като вчерашно бельо, основава дружества за продажба на рога и копита…
„Това е вече свинщина“ , с почти добронамерена усмивка възкликва Остап. „А Рио де Жанейро къде оставихте?“
А, да… Има там една „кристална мечта от детството“, едни бели панталони и един мираж за някакъв друг, по-добър (да се разбира по-мързелив и охолен) живот. И тъй, тича Остап подир опашката на златния телец и когато неговите 400 сравнително честни начина за измъкване на пари не вършат работа, той измисля дори още. Като необикновен змиеукротител свири Бендер на някаква странна флейта и притегля различни персонажи към кроежите си. Те са като измъкнали се кончѐта от предълга шевица и полекичка се вплитат на мястото си със своите истории. Остава само възелчета да им се направят и изобщо да не могат да се изплъзнат повече.
„Честна дума, така не може да се работи! Нещо хубаво за мен поне няма ли да кажете?!“
Остап Бендер си има бяла капитанска шапка и меден език. Умна глава е. Така бива ли?
„Дайте да видим как ще продължи заседанието нататък.“
Макар да не съм имала съмнителната чест да живея по време на социализма, разпознавам някои белези, за които съм чувала – като небезизвестното „петилетката за четири години“, увитите във вестник провизии и голямото зло бюрократическо чудовище, което и днес си ни стои като мила, но ненужна останка от ония години. За трудовака ударник, който преизпълнява плана, за да спечели любовта на комсомолката, даже няма да споменавам. Чухте ли ме да го казвам? Не, ето на. Иля Илф и Евгений Петров много симпатично и елегантно са успели да се надсмеят над някои безумни елементи на съветския режим, въпреки че са били негови съвременници и не съм убедена как се е гледало на тази дързост по онова време. Персонажът на Бендер е харизматичен, може би родоначалник на някаква зараждаща се предприемчива прослойка, но се оказва, че необятната руска шир е тясна за тоя дух, който се прекланя пред палмите и белите панталони. Понякога едни пари да имаш, пък да няма как да ги изхарчиш и то не е лесна работа…
„Ледът се пука! – ужасен закрещя великият комбинатор. – Ледът се пука, господа съдебни заседатели!“
Внимавайте да не потънете в непознати води тогава, другарю Бендер!
October 12, 2009
It's hard sometimes for a book or a movie to make me genuinely lol. I was giggling so hard while reading Zolotoi Telenok, it deserves four, if not five stars just for that.
Ilf and Petrov are a very witty couple, and even though the narration and the language of their books seem light-hearted, a lot of work has gone into making every little detail right. And this book is full of quirky colorful little details of life and mores in 1920s' Russia. I guess I'm also really loving Russian authors for their amazing dialog, there's no natural, real dialog like those in the Russian books I've read so far.
Excellent read, if a little weird towards the end, and a bit repetitive (least for me) at the start. Once you go two or three chapters into the book, it gets very satisfying and entertaining.
Ilf and Petrov are a very witty couple, and even though the narration and the language of their books seem light-hearted, a lot of work has gone into making every little detail right. And this book is full of quirky colorful little details of life and mores in 1920s' Russia. I guess I'm also really loving Russian authors for their amazing dialog, there's no natural, real dialog like those in the Russian books I've read so far.
Excellent read, if a little weird towards the end, and a bit repetitive (least for me) at the start. Once you go two or three chapters into the book, it gets very satisfying and entertaining.
March 2, 2025
„Occidentul mi-a fost mereu străin, dar mă atrage Orientul… mai ales cel mijlociu.”
Ilf și Petrov sunt maeștri ai ironiei, ridiculizând birocrația sovietică, corupția și absurditățile societății .
"Vițelul de aur" este continuarea aventurilor lui Ostap Bender, carismaticul escroc din "Douăsprezece scaune". De această dată, Bender își propune să dea lovitura finală și să devină milionar. Ținta sa este Alexandr Koreiko, un funcționar sovietic aparent modest, dar care a strâns ilegal o avere impresionantă. Însoțit de o trupă pestriță de complici—Șura Balaganov, Panikovski și Adam Kozlevici—Ostap Bender încearcă să-l șantajeze pe Koreiko pentru a obține o parte din bogăția sa.
🚩Deși finalul poate părea nu ceea ce te așteptai, mesajul cărții este perfect spus că, în societatea sovietică, nici măcar un escroc genial nu poate scăpa de sistem....nu-i loc pentru escrocherii sau goana după îmbogățire.
💫Ilf și Petrov nu sunt frați, așa cum ar putea părea, ci doi autori care au colaborat intens .Amândoi au lucrat ca jurnaliști și scriitori umoriști, satirizând birocrația sovietică, corupția și absurditățile sistemului .Ilf a murit în 1937 de tuberculoză, la doar 39 de ani. Petrov a murit în 1942, într-un accident de avion în timpul celui de-Al Doilea Război Mondial.
Ilf și Petrov sunt maeștri ai ironiei, ridiculizând birocrația sovietică, corupția și absurditățile societății .
"Vițelul de aur" este continuarea aventurilor lui Ostap Bender, carismaticul escroc din "Douăsprezece scaune". De această dată, Bender își propune să dea lovitura finală și să devină milionar. Ținta sa este Alexandr Koreiko, un funcționar sovietic aparent modest, dar care a strâns ilegal o avere impresionantă. Însoțit de o trupă pestriță de complici—Șura Balaganov, Panikovski și Adam Kozlevici—Ostap Bender încearcă să-l șantajeze pe Koreiko pentru a obține o parte din bogăția sa.
🚩Deși finalul poate părea nu ceea ce te așteptai, mesajul cărții este perfect spus că, în societatea sovietică, nici măcar un escroc genial nu poate scăpa de sistem....nu-i loc pentru escrocherii sau goana după îmbogățire.
💫Ilf și Petrov nu sunt frați, așa cum ar putea părea, ci doi autori care au colaborat intens .Amândoi au lucrat ca jurnaliști și scriitori umoriști, satirizând birocrația sovietică, corupția și absurditățile sistemului .Ilf a murit în 1937 de tuberculoză, la doar 39 de ani. Petrov a murit în 1942, într-un accident de avion în timpul celui de-Al Doilea Război Mondial.
This entire review has been hidden because of spoilers.
June 2, 2022
Another fantastic satire by Ilya Ilf and Evgeny Petrov.
Ilf's and Petrov's The Twelve Chairs is one of my favourite books, and The Golden Calf is its more than worthy sequel, but you don't have to read the former to enjoy the latter, as they share only their main character, the charismatic con man Ostap Bender.
Resurrected by the authors, Bender tries once again to live off schemes and to get the money he needs to flee to Rio de Janeiro from Koreiko - another con man - during the "promising" New Economic Policy period in the Soviet Union. The book abounds in hilarious characters and funny social criticism with a special focus on Soviet corruption and political chaos.
Though written in a period of some freedom as compared to what was to come, it's still quite a miracle that the censorship didn't burn this book. The Golden Calf is a treat from beginning to end, but a couple of sequences, like that of Kozlevich driving a taxi in Arbatov while reciting from the civil code or the one in which Bender chases the staff of the film company are alone worth the price of admission. And let's not forget that there are characters named Panikovsky, Sardinevich, and the like: how can someone possibly not want to read this book?
(By the way, nowadays' cancel culture is eerily similar to the early Soviet policies of demotions and purges...)
This novel was beautifully translated into English by Helen Anderson and Konstantin Gurevich.
Ilf's and Petrov's The Twelve Chairs is one of my favourite books, and The Golden Calf is its more than worthy sequel, but you don't have to read the former to enjoy the latter, as they share only their main character, the charismatic con man Ostap Bender.
Resurrected by the authors, Bender tries once again to live off schemes and to get the money he needs to flee to Rio de Janeiro from Koreiko - another con man - during the "promising" New Economic Policy period in the Soviet Union. The book abounds in hilarious characters and funny social criticism with a special focus on Soviet corruption and political chaos.
Though written in a period of some freedom as compared to what was to come, it's still quite a miracle that the censorship didn't burn this book. The Golden Calf is a treat from beginning to end, but a couple of sequences, like that of Kozlevich driving a taxi in Arbatov while reciting from the civil code or the one in which Bender chases the staff of the film company are alone worth the price of admission. And let's not forget that there are characters named Panikovsky, Sardinevich, and the like: how can someone possibly not want to read this book?
(By the way, nowadays' cancel culture is eerily similar to the early Soviet policies of demotions and purges...)
This novel was beautifully translated into English by Helen Anderson and Konstantin Gurevich.
February 27, 2011
Part political satire, part madcap adventure, part giant pun fest, The Golden Calf had me laughing out loud by the end of the first page and hooked until the end of the last.
Gurevich and Anderson offer a complete translation of the novel (unlike earlier editions that left out entire chapters) as a labor of love--they are not full-time translators--and their long hours and sometimes days spent researching and deliberating over single words or phrases certainly paid off, as they have accomplished a rare feat: that of successfully translating humor from one language and culture into another.
Consider the "typewriter with a German accent," missing the S key zo that everything haz to be written with a Z inztead . . . or poor Lokhankin, who is so distraught about his wife's leaving him that he goes on a hunger strike and can speak (or whine pathetically, really) only in iambic pentameter . . . just two examples of the brilliance we can credit not only to Ilf and Petrov but certainly to Gurevich and Anderson as well.
Highly recommended. Do not pass go, do not collect 200 golden rubles, put this on your to-read list now!
Gurevich and Anderson offer a complete translation of the novel (unlike earlier editions that left out entire chapters) as a labor of love--they are not full-time translators--and their long hours and sometimes days spent researching and deliberating over single words or phrases certainly paid off, as they have accomplished a rare feat: that of successfully translating humor from one language and culture into another.
Consider the "typewriter with a German accent," missing the S key zo that everything haz to be written with a Z inztead . . . or poor Lokhankin, who is so distraught about his wife's leaving him that he goes on a hunger strike and can speak (or whine pathetically, really) only in iambic pentameter . . . just two examples of the brilliance we can credit not only to Ilf and Petrov but certainly to Gurevich and Anderson as well.
Highly recommended. Do not pass go, do not collect 200 golden rubles, put this on your to-read list now!
September 2, 2020
Democrit si Heraclit erau doi filozofi. Heraclit, trist fata de conditia umana, iesea intotdeauna in lume plangand. Democrit, amuzat si scarbit de ea, iesea intotdeauna in lume razand. Dintre acestia, mai acuzator era Democrit.
Vitelul de aur, al lui Ilf si Petrov, sunt din lunga traditie a lui Democrit, de a isi rade de rautate si nimicnicia oamenilor, si sistemelor. Exista un anumit nivel de mojicnicie si rautate despre care nu se poate scrie decat ironic. La un moment dat, in anumite sisteme, fiinta umana devine atat de impietrita incat nu mai simte nimic. Cartea asta mi-a fost propusa de Bookster, si nu aveam nici cea mai vaga idee despre ea. Am fost placut surprins insa! Cat de rar este sa gasesti ceva care este distractiv si in acelasi timp educational.
M-a surprins ca matrapazlacurile facute de oameni dupa revolutia din Rusia din 1918 nu se deosebesc nimic cu matrapazlacurile facute de mioriticii nostri dupa revolutia din 1989. Natura umana ramane aceeasi pana la urma.
Nu prea stiu cum sa o descriu prea bine. Este o carte inovativa, in mod cert. La fiecare moment te surprinde si te face sa razi. Mai mult decat atat, parca optimismul personajului principal e recomfortant.
Era exact cartea de care aveam nevoie pentru a ma relaxa.
Vitelul de aur, al lui Ilf si Petrov, sunt din lunga traditie a lui Democrit, de a isi rade de rautate si nimicnicia oamenilor, si sistemelor. Exista un anumit nivel de mojicnicie si rautate despre care nu se poate scrie decat ironic. La un moment dat, in anumite sisteme, fiinta umana devine atat de impietrita incat nu mai simte nimic. Cartea asta mi-a fost propusa de Bookster, si nu aveam nici cea mai vaga idee despre ea. Am fost placut surprins insa! Cat de rar este sa gasesti ceva care este distractiv si in acelasi timp educational.
M-a surprins ca matrapazlacurile facute de oameni dupa revolutia din Rusia din 1918 nu se deosebesc nimic cu matrapazlacurile facute de mioriticii nostri dupa revolutia din 1989. Natura umana ramane aceeasi pana la urma.
Nu prea stiu cum sa o descriu prea bine. Este o carte inovativa, in mod cert. La fiecare moment te surprinde si te face sa razi. Mai mult decat atat, parca optimismul personajului principal e recomfortant.
Era exact cartea de care aveam nevoie pentru a ma relaxa.
October 21, 2014
Šī grāmata man pusaudžu gados kotējās tikpat augstu kā „Divpadsmit krēsli”. Iespējams, pie vainas bija tas, ka padomjlaiku izdevumā abas šīs grāmatas bija atrodamas kopā, iespējams, ka manī mājoja privātīpašnieciskums. Esmu ļoti iepriecināts, ka izdevniecība „Zvaigzne ABC” turpina izdot šo padomjlaiku romānu necenzētās versijas. Man ļoti gribējās uzzināt, kas tad padomju varai ir licies ārā izmešanas vērts.
Kurš gan no mums negribētu, lai Ostapa Bendera vārdiem runājot, piepildītos scenārijs: “... atnesīs naudu uz šķīvja ar zilu maliņu”. Es noteikti neatteiktos, no miljona nepavisam ne. Šī grāmata nav tikai par blēdi Benderu, kurš no otra tāda plaša blēža izspiež miljonu. Šī grāmata ir par Krieviju Nepa laikos ar visām tā laika aktualitātēm. Tā stāsta par to īso laika sprīdi, kad kolektivizācija vēl nav beigusies, pastāv privātā tirdzniecība, valsts vēl nav nostiprinājusi savu varu. Par to, kā šos juku laikus izmanto cilvēki, lai iedzīvotos uz valsts rēķina. Kā dibinot viltus kooperatīvus dabūt valsts naudu un pašiem pazust zilajās tālēs. Neuztraucaties, Benders ar ekonomiskajiem noziegumiem neaizraujas, viņš krāpniecībā ir īsts virtuozs. Par to kā darba kolektīvos tiek meklēti buržuji ar aizdomīgu pagātni un tiek veikta tīrīšana. Šādi atrastiem vecā režīma atliekām viegla dzīve nav sagaidāma.
Ostaps Benders pieder pie izzūdošas kategorijas, viņš pielūdz Zelta teļu. Ostapam par dzīvi viss ir skaidrs, ja būs nauda, tad būs arī Riodežaneiro. Tieši nauda ir tā lieta, kas viņam dzīvē visvairāk pietrūkst, ne jau nieka desmit rubļu, bet vismaz miljons. Un miljona iegūšana ir viņa dzīves mērķis. Savam plānam viņš piesaista Ādamu Kozļeviču, poļu izcelsmes kolorītu šoferi, mehāniķi, kura auto nosaukta par “Antilopi Gnu” kalpo par transporta līdzekli. Balaganovu, kas ir uzņēmīgs zaglēns un leitnanta “Šmita” dēls. Paņikovski, nožēlojamu sīku ļautiņu (kā viņš mīl teikt par citiem), kurš niecīga labuma gūšanai neievēros nekādus noteikumus. Viņš arī nepavisam neciena kriminālkodeksu. Šī raibā komanda dodas uz Černomorsku, lai atrastu tur savu miljonu.
Autori smejas un ironizē par visu. Par birokrātiju, par triecienceltnēm, par žurnālistiem un literātiem. Bet tā tiešām ir ironija, nevis klaja apņirgšana, arī jokiem šeit bieži vien ir vairāki slāņi no acīmredzamā līdz slēptām atsaucēm. Katram grāmatas varonim ir kāda dzīves gudrība, ko pavēstīt lasītājam. Un pats smalkākais joks, manuprāt, ir tas, ka pat iegūstot miljonu, kolektivizācijas apstākļos nemaz nebūtu, kur to iztērēt. Privātīpašnieks kā suga Padomju Savienībā ir iznīcināts, kā privātpersona tu neko nevari neko - kapitālu nedz nopirkt, nedz uzbūvēt. Tev pat alu ēdnīcā nepārdos, ja nebūsi kooperatīva biedrs. Taču līdz Benderam šī atklāsme vēl nav atnākusi, un viņš ir spiest pieredzi iegūt pats uz savas ādas.
Grāmatas galvenais pluss ir asprātīgais vēstures šķērsgriezums, kuru mums sniedz autori. Arī tik kolorītus varoņus reti kad var sastapt vienā grāmatā. Benders, nenoliedzami, ir visa pasākuma dzinējspēks, un lasot grāmatu, tu sāc just viņam līdzi neskatoties uz faktu, ka patiesībā viņš ir blēdis. Harizma, kuru autori piedēvē viņam grāmatā, spēj izlauzties arī cauri lapaspusēm. Šīs grāmatas pirmās divas nodaļas iespējams ir vislabākais grāmatas sākums, kuru man gadījies lasīt. Te parādās slavenie leitnanta Šmita dēli, kas sadalījuši visu padomju Krieviju savā starpā, lai stieptu ķepu pēc izpildkomitejas plānā rubļa. Te koncesionāri atrod viens otru un izkristalizējas iespējamais miljonārs.
Grāmatai lieku 10 no 10 ballēm. Šī noteikti ir no tām grāmatām, kuru vēl bieži pārlasīšu. Ja vēl nav nācies lasīt šo grāmatu, obligāti to izdariet! Nav jābūt nekādam padomju vēstures speciālistam, lai saprastu grāmatā notiekošo. Un joki ir pietiekami asprātīgi, lai tos lasītājs uztvertu arī bez visa vēsturiskā konteksta pārzināšanas. Šī izdevuma galvenais pluss ir alternatīvais grāmatas nobeigums, no kura autori atteicās. Beigās ir atrodams arī neliels pielikums, kas mūsdienu lasītājam ļauj labāk saprast tā laika notikumus.
P.S. Un te mani mīļākie citāti no grāmatas:
“Benzīns jūsu, idejas mūsu”
“Reiz jūs dzīvojat Padomju zemē, tad arī sapņiem jābūt padomiskiem.”
“Parādi komandēšu es!”
"-Par arodu nejautāju, - Benders pieklājīgi sacīja, - bet varu iedomāties. Droši vien kaut kas intelektuāls? Cik reižu šogad esat sodīts?""
„- Riodežaneiro – tas ir kristāltīrs manas bērnības sapnis, ..., nepieskarieties tam ar savām ķetnām!”
Kurš gan no mums negribētu, lai Ostapa Bendera vārdiem runājot, piepildītos scenārijs: “... atnesīs naudu uz šķīvja ar zilu maliņu”. Es noteikti neatteiktos, no miljona nepavisam ne. Šī grāmata nav tikai par blēdi Benderu, kurš no otra tāda plaša blēža izspiež miljonu. Šī grāmata ir par Krieviju Nepa laikos ar visām tā laika aktualitātēm. Tā stāsta par to īso laika sprīdi, kad kolektivizācija vēl nav beigusies, pastāv privātā tirdzniecība, valsts vēl nav nostiprinājusi savu varu. Par to, kā šos juku laikus izmanto cilvēki, lai iedzīvotos uz valsts rēķina. Kā dibinot viltus kooperatīvus dabūt valsts naudu un pašiem pazust zilajās tālēs. Neuztraucaties, Benders ar ekonomiskajiem noziegumiem neaizraujas, viņš krāpniecībā ir īsts virtuozs. Par to kā darba kolektīvos tiek meklēti buržuji ar aizdomīgu pagātni un tiek veikta tīrīšana. Šādi atrastiem vecā režīma atliekām viegla dzīve nav sagaidāma.
Ostaps Benders pieder pie izzūdošas kategorijas, viņš pielūdz Zelta teļu. Ostapam par dzīvi viss ir skaidrs, ja būs nauda, tad būs arī Riodežaneiro. Tieši nauda ir tā lieta, kas viņam dzīvē visvairāk pietrūkst, ne jau nieka desmit rubļu, bet vismaz miljons. Un miljona iegūšana ir viņa dzīves mērķis. Savam plānam viņš piesaista Ādamu Kozļeviču, poļu izcelsmes kolorītu šoferi, mehāniķi, kura auto nosaukta par “Antilopi Gnu” kalpo par transporta līdzekli. Balaganovu, kas ir uzņēmīgs zaglēns un leitnanta “Šmita” dēls. Paņikovski, nožēlojamu sīku ļautiņu (kā viņš mīl teikt par citiem), kurš niecīga labuma gūšanai neievēros nekādus noteikumus. Viņš arī nepavisam neciena kriminālkodeksu. Šī raibā komanda dodas uz Černomorsku, lai atrastu tur savu miljonu.
Autori smejas un ironizē par visu. Par birokrātiju, par triecienceltnēm, par žurnālistiem un literātiem. Bet tā tiešām ir ironija, nevis klaja apņirgšana, arī jokiem šeit bieži vien ir vairāki slāņi no acīmredzamā līdz slēptām atsaucēm. Katram grāmatas varonim ir kāda dzīves gudrība, ko pavēstīt lasītājam. Un pats smalkākais joks, manuprāt, ir tas, ka pat iegūstot miljonu, kolektivizācijas apstākļos nemaz nebūtu, kur to iztērēt. Privātīpašnieks kā suga Padomju Savienībā ir iznīcināts, kā privātpersona tu neko nevari neko - kapitālu nedz nopirkt, nedz uzbūvēt. Tev pat alu ēdnīcā nepārdos, ja nebūsi kooperatīva biedrs. Taču līdz Benderam šī atklāsme vēl nav atnākusi, un viņš ir spiest pieredzi iegūt pats uz savas ādas.
Grāmatas galvenais pluss ir asprātīgais vēstures šķērsgriezums, kuru mums sniedz autori. Arī tik kolorītus varoņus reti kad var sastapt vienā grāmatā. Benders, nenoliedzami, ir visa pasākuma dzinējspēks, un lasot grāmatu, tu sāc just viņam līdzi neskatoties uz faktu, ka patiesībā viņš ir blēdis. Harizma, kuru autori piedēvē viņam grāmatā, spēj izlauzties arī cauri lapaspusēm. Šīs grāmatas pirmās divas nodaļas iespējams ir vislabākais grāmatas sākums, kuru man gadījies lasīt. Te parādās slavenie leitnanta Šmita dēli, kas sadalījuši visu padomju Krieviju savā starpā, lai stieptu ķepu pēc izpildkomitejas plānā rubļa. Te koncesionāri atrod viens otru un izkristalizējas iespējamais miljonārs.
Grāmatai lieku 10 no 10 ballēm. Šī noteikti ir no tām grāmatām, kuru vēl bieži pārlasīšu. Ja vēl nav nācies lasīt šo grāmatu, obligāti to izdariet! Nav jābūt nekādam padomju vēstures speciālistam, lai saprastu grāmatā notiekošo. Un joki ir pietiekami asprātīgi, lai tos lasītājs uztvertu arī bez visa vēsturiskā konteksta pārzināšanas. Šī izdevuma galvenais pluss ir alternatīvais grāmatas nobeigums, no kura autori atteicās. Beigās ir atrodams arī neliels pielikums, kas mūsdienu lasītājam ļauj labāk saprast tā laika notikumus.
P.S. Un te mani mīļākie citāti no grāmatas:
“Benzīns jūsu, idejas mūsu”
“Reiz jūs dzīvojat Padomju zemē, tad arī sapņiem jābūt padomiskiem.”
“Parādi komandēšu es!”
"-Par arodu nejautāju, - Benders pieklājīgi sacīja, - bet varu iedomāties. Droši vien kaut kas intelektuāls? Cik reižu šogad esat sodīts?""
„- Riodežaneiro – tas ir kristāltīrs manas bērnības sapnis, ..., nepieskarieties tam ar savām ķetnām!”
January 15, 2016
Just like the first one in this"series", the book was absolutely awesome. In spite of the fact that it made me chuckle and even laugh out loud a few times, it is a very deep book that says a lot about human nature, the clash between collectivism and individualism, the evolution of the Soviet society, material wealth and so on. The characters are great, especially as none of them can escape their nature, the story is very interesting and well constructed, I just wish there were more books like this.
June 1, 2024
2,5/3.
belki de bu kitabı okumak için doğru zaman değildi ya da beklentilerim fazla yüksekti, bilemiyorum. galiba ilk kitaptan başlamadığım için konudan ve karakterlerden çoğu zaman uzaklaştım 😪
belki de bu kitabı okumak için doğru zaman değildi ya da beklentilerim fazla yüksekti, bilemiyorum. galiba ilk kitaptan başlamadığım için konudan ve karakterlerden çoğu zaman uzaklaştım 😪
February 9, 2012
"Золотой теленок" - это продолжение приключений Остапа Бендера. Этот выдающийся авантюрист все никак не успокоится и мечтает заполучить миллион (желательно, особо не напрягаясь и уважая Уголовный кодекс). И вот у него появляеся шанс...
Ильф и Петров снова блеснули. Столько разных героев, характеров! И все такие живые, яркие! Советская бюрократия, подпольные миллионеры, мучимые кошмарами по ночам почитатели монархии... Да кого только не встретит на своем пути неутомимый Остап!
Правда, конец меня немного разочаровал. Я так хотела, чтобы товарищ Бендер насладился-таки мулатками в Рио-де-Жанейро! :)
Я определенно буду еще читать Ильфа и Петрова.
Ильф и Петров снова блеснули. Столько разных героев, характеров! И все такие живые, яркие! Советская бюрократия, подпольные миллионеры, мучимые кошмарами по ночам почитатели монархии... Да кого только не встретит на своем пути неутомимый Остап!
Правда, конец меня немного разочаровал. Я так хотела, чтобы товарищ Бендер насладился-таки мулатками в Рио-де-Жанейро! :)
Я определенно буду еще читать Ильфа и Петрова.
February 7, 2010
A comic Russian novel? It’s possible. The Golden Calf by Ilya Ilf and Evgeny Petrov is described as hilarious and raucous—and I admit, I was skeptical. The book was published in the early 1930s in the Soviet Union, first serialized over several years in a popular magazine. Funny? Maybe. But I doubted that the humor would translate over eight decades to an English-reader in the United States.
But it did. This is a book that can be best described as a caper, featuring Ostap Bender, a larger than life con man who brings together a team of earnest but simple bandits to pull off his biggest haul yet. In search of a secret millionaire—secret because nobody could be publicly rich in this time and place—they find Alexander Koreiko. Koreiko lives as a humble, poor clerk in a corporation, but he has millions stashed away that he made through his own scheme: a business fraud that took advantage of the Soviet Union’s earliest and most chaotic years. Koreiko plans to bide his time until socialism fails, capitalism returns, and he can enjoy his riches in peace. That is, if Ostap Bender and his strategy of principled swindling doesn’t take it from him first.
It’s a fun plot, but what really takes the novel to the next level is the sharp satiric eye that the authors cast on every level of society. Ilf and Petrov are not quite subversive, but they have an edge. Nobody is immune to their withering wordplay—from secret capitalists hiding out in an insane asylum to the mournful man of the intelligentsia who fakes a hunger strike, from the nonsensical bureaucrats to the Chicago men who, during the Prohibition years, are in search for a recipe for moonshine. There is also my favorite side character, the old man who makes puzzles for the newspapers, now struggling to craft riddles that are socialist enough to be published. He’s left to desperately put together number games that, through complex multiplication and division, prove the superiority of the Soviet system over all other systems.
The eclectic cast of characters stands in relief against the novel’s vivid landscape. Take the description of the men in Chernomorsk—the fictional city where the majority of the story takes place, and based on the city of Odessa. It reads:
“Nobody wore a hat. One could occasionally spot a cap, but a mane of wild black hair standing on end was much more common, and a bald sun-tanned pate, glimmering like a melon lying in the field and tempting you to write something on it with an indelible pencil, was more common still.”
The light touch is carried into the significant first meeting between Ostap Bender, and Koreiko. Bender is primed to lure Koreiko into blackmail, and but slowly begins to realize that this secret millionaire has a few tricks of his own. Before speaking, the men can’t stop falsely smiling at each other. It reads:
“This escalation of smiles and emotions was reminiscent of a manuscript by Franz Liszt where a note on the first page said to play fast, on the second page – very fast, on the third—much faster, on the fourth—as fast as possible—still faster. Seeing that Koreiko was already on page five, and that any further competition was simply impossible, Ostap got down to business.”
After this encounter, which of course doesn’t go as planned, Bender is left to a conclusion that pokes fun at reigning Soviet philosophy. He says, “Investigating Koreiko’s case might take a long time. God only knows how long. And since there is no God, nobody knows.”
What works about this novel is that it’s not afraid of toying with the absurd, and at the same time, its got enough intelligence and insight to underscore the hilarity with substance. At times, it is apparent that the novel was initially serialized—the text wanders somewhat, the extraordinary number of secondary characters is a bit dizzying, and at times, the novel seems to lack a complete vision. But it’s written well enough to still be fun to move through.
Konstantin Gurevich and Helen Anderson are the team behind this first complete edition of The Golden Calf to be translated into English. They include an introduction and very sparse notes at the end of the book, as well as an appendix that offers an alternative ending. While I appreciate that the translators didn’t clutter the text with unnecessary and tangential notes, the fact that there were so few of them, and that they were unmarked in the text, had me continually forgetting that they were there. The notes that are there are helpful and interesting to understand this tumultuous time in the Soviet Union; I wish the text had pointed me to them more clearly.
I also would’ve appreciated a translator’s reflection on how the handled all the wordplay in the novel. A lot of the humor of the book hinges on naming and turns of phrase, and I laughed out loud often. But I did wonder how that syntax made the journey from Russian to English.
Overall, though, I’m grateful to Gurvich and Anderson for bringing forth an unusual and absolutely delightful novel, communicating the satire across generations and continents. It is an impressive feat, and a lot of fun.
But it did. This is a book that can be best described as a caper, featuring Ostap Bender, a larger than life con man who brings together a team of earnest but simple bandits to pull off his biggest haul yet. In search of a secret millionaire—secret because nobody could be publicly rich in this time and place—they find Alexander Koreiko. Koreiko lives as a humble, poor clerk in a corporation, but he has millions stashed away that he made through his own scheme: a business fraud that took advantage of the Soviet Union’s earliest and most chaotic years. Koreiko plans to bide his time until socialism fails, capitalism returns, and he can enjoy his riches in peace. That is, if Ostap Bender and his strategy of principled swindling doesn’t take it from him first.
It’s a fun plot, but what really takes the novel to the next level is the sharp satiric eye that the authors cast on every level of society. Ilf and Petrov are not quite subversive, but they have an edge. Nobody is immune to their withering wordplay—from secret capitalists hiding out in an insane asylum to the mournful man of the intelligentsia who fakes a hunger strike, from the nonsensical bureaucrats to the Chicago men who, during the Prohibition years, are in search for a recipe for moonshine. There is also my favorite side character, the old man who makes puzzles for the newspapers, now struggling to craft riddles that are socialist enough to be published. He’s left to desperately put together number games that, through complex multiplication and division, prove the superiority of the Soviet system over all other systems.
The eclectic cast of characters stands in relief against the novel’s vivid landscape. Take the description of the men in Chernomorsk—the fictional city where the majority of the story takes place, and based on the city of Odessa. It reads:
“Nobody wore a hat. One could occasionally spot a cap, but a mane of wild black hair standing on end was much more common, and a bald sun-tanned pate, glimmering like a melon lying in the field and tempting you to write something on it with an indelible pencil, was more common still.”
The light touch is carried into the significant first meeting between Ostap Bender, and Koreiko. Bender is primed to lure Koreiko into blackmail, and but slowly begins to realize that this secret millionaire has a few tricks of his own. Before speaking, the men can’t stop falsely smiling at each other. It reads:
“This escalation of smiles and emotions was reminiscent of a manuscript by Franz Liszt where a note on the first page said to play fast, on the second page – very fast, on the third—much faster, on the fourth—as fast as possible—still faster. Seeing that Koreiko was already on page five, and that any further competition was simply impossible, Ostap got down to business.”
After this encounter, which of course doesn’t go as planned, Bender is left to a conclusion that pokes fun at reigning Soviet philosophy. He says, “Investigating Koreiko’s case might take a long time. God only knows how long. And since there is no God, nobody knows.”
What works about this novel is that it’s not afraid of toying with the absurd, and at the same time, its got enough intelligence and insight to underscore the hilarity with substance. At times, it is apparent that the novel was initially serialized—the text wanders somewhat, the extraordinary number of secondary characters is a bit dizzying, and at times, the novel seems to lack a complete vision. But it’s written well enough to still be fun to move through.
Konstantin Gurevich and Helen Anderson are the team behind this first complete edition of The Golden Calf to be translated into English. They include an introduction and very sparse notes at the end of the book, as well as an appendix that offers an alternative ending. While I appreciate that the translators didn’t clutter the text with unnecessary and tangential notes, the fact that there were so few of them, and that they were unmarked in the text, had me continually forgetting that they were there. The notes that are there are helpful and interesting to understand this tumultuous time in the Soviet Union; I wish the text had pointed me to them more clearly.
I also would’ve appreciated a translator’s reflection on how the handled all the wordplay in the novel. A lot of the humor of the book hinges on naming and turns of phrase, and I laughed out loud often. But I did wonder how that syntax made the journey from Russian to English.
Overall, though, I’m grateful to Gurvich and Anderson for bringing forth an unusual and absolutely delightful novel, communicating the satire across generations and continents. It is an impressive feat, and a lot of fun.
January 2, 2019
Meraviglioso, ma anche triste: un umorismo che sul finale vira tremendamente al Pirandelliano.
Ritroviamo qui Ostap Bender, già protagonista de Le dodici sedie, che tenta di sbarcare il lunario con ogni attività possibile, purché elegantemente fuori dalla legalità. La creatività di Ostap sembra infinita e la sua sicumera attira altri compagni di viaggio, improbabili quanto il nostro commodoro.
Il vitello d'oro è un libro on the road che ci fa attraversare l'Unione Sovietica da nord a sud e contemporaneamente ci racconta il cambiamento della società, che da borghese diventa proletaria. Bender sa districarsi nella burocrazia e ha una finissima conoscenza dell'animo umano, che lo porta al successo grazie all'imitazione delle persone con cui interagisce. Inoltre ha una sicurezza e una determinazione incredibili, che lo sostengono anche nel non desiderato finale. Viene da chiedersi cosa avrebbe potuto ottenere se avesse scelto di impegare la propria intelligenza in un'attività legale.
Si ride molto nella prima metà del libro. Si ride meno nella seconda, dove le avversità costringono Bender a fare un bilancio della propria vita non proprio positivo. Il grande impresario è cresciuto, dalle dodici sedie, e forse maturato un po' suo malgrado. L'obiettivo di realizzare un sogno di ragazzo viene poi assurdamente posticipato in favore di necessità più quotidiane, più familiari, ma qui comincia una sequenza di no che stringe il cuore. Forse Ostap ha aspettato un po' troppo, e usato un po' troppo le persone, per cercare ora una vita casalinga.
Ritroviamo qui Ostap Bender, già protagonista de Le dodici sedie, che tenta di sbarcare il lunario con ogni attività possibile, purché elegantemente fuori dalla legalità. La creatività di Ostap sembra infinita e la sua sicumera attira altri compagni di viaggio, improbabili quanto il nostro commodoro.
Il vitello d'oro è un libro on the road che ci fa attraversare l'Unione Sovietica da nord a sud e contemporaneamente ci racconta il cambiamento della società, che da borghese diventa proletaria. Bender sa districarsi nella burocrazia e ha una finissima conoscenza dell'animo umano, che lo porta al successo grazie all'imitazione delle persone con cui interagisce. Inoltre ha una sicurezza e una determinazione incredibili, che lo sostengono anche nel non desiderato finale. Viene da chiedersi cosa avrebbe potuto ottenere se avesse scelto di impegare la propria intelligenza in un'attività legale.
Si ride molto nella prima metà del libro. Si ride meno nella seconda, dove le avversità costringono Bender a fare un bilancio della propria vita non proprio positivo. Il grande impresario è cresciuto, dalle dodici sedie, e forse maturato un po' suo malgrado. L'obiettivo di realizzare un sogno di ragazzo viene poi assurdamente posticipato in favore di necessità più quotidiane, più familiari, ma qui comincia una sequenza di no che stringe il cuore. Forse Ostap ha aspettato un po' troppo, e usato un po' troppo le persone, per cercare ora una vita casalinga.
November 7, 2019
O kiek jums reikia pinigų iki pilnos laimės? Ar tiek užtektų, ar būtų per daug? Knyga, kurios puslapiuose susitinka humoras ir klasika. Tikėjaus daugiau, bet galutinis rezultatas nenuvylė.
August 18, 2020
La satira ai tempi di Stalin, oltre la vulgata corrente
Andare alla ricerca oggi di un libro di Il’ja Il’f ed Evgenij Petrov in Italia è impresa difficile. La coppia di scrittori satirici sovietici scrisse infatti pochi romanzi - essendo entrambi i suoi componenti morti giovani - e di questi solo tre sono stati pubblicati nel nostro paese. Il più famoso è senza dubbio Le dodici sedie, del 1927, da cui sono stati tratti numerosi film, tra i quali uno di Mel Brooks (1970) e uno di Carlo Mazzacurati (il suo ultimo lavoro, 2013). Cercando in rete, ho trovato di questo romanzo solo una edizione di Lucarini del 1988, dispersa, e una Rizzoli (1993 - 2005), oggi disponibile solo in e-book. Ancora più arduo, anche nei canali dell’usato, reperire Il vitello d’oro, del 1931, edito originariamente nel nostro paese dagli editori Riuniti nel 1962 e quindi da Studio Tesi nel 1992, e il meno noto Il paese di Dio (1936), dato alle stampe da Einaudi nel lontano 1947.
Similmente ad altre opere della letteratura sovietica incontrate sul mio cammino di lettore, che non fossero della dissidenza o di denuncia esplicita del potere, anche queste sembrano essere state semplicemente rimosse dall’editoria nostrana, forse perché non aderiscono perfettamente alla vulgata della monoliticità e del controllo asfissiante di tale potere sui prodotti culturali.
Per comprendere meglio l’epoca in cui i due romanzi più noti di Il’f e Petrov videro la luce è necessario fare attenzione alle loro date d’uscita. Mentre Le dodici sedie viene pubblicato durante gli ultimi anni della NEP, Il vitello d’oro è edito in un anno nel quale la politica economica dell’URSS ha subito un profondo cambiamento: Stalin, consolidato il suo potere, ha di fatto già liquidato la Nuova Politica Economica di Lenin (morto ormai da alcuni anni) e di Bucharin, ed è in pieno sviluppo il primo piano quinquennale, che punta sull’infrastrutturazione del Paese, sull’industrializzazione pesante e sulla collettivizzazione delle campagne. Anche se le purghe sono ancora lontane è indubbio che ormai l’ala staliniana del partito ha il pieno controllo dell’apparato: nella percezione oggi comune, anche da parte di chi non è anticomunista, questo periodo è sentito come quello della brusca normalizzazione, della fine degli entusiasmi e della vivacità culturale che avevano caratterizzato i primi anni dopo la Rivoluzione d’Ottobre, sostituiti da un potere che si stava sempre più burocratizzando. Uno spartiacque fortemente simbolico in questo senso può essere fissato nel giorno del suicidio di Vladimir Majakovskij, il 14 aprile 1930.
L’attività letteraria di Il’f e Petrov, insieme a quella di molti altri autori, pare invece dimostrare che neppure in quel periodo, almeno al suo inizio, calò sulla cultura sovietica una cappa di piombo impenetrabile, ma che alcuni spazi di critica e di satira erano rimasti aperti.
Il’ja Il’f e Evgenij Petrov non erano infatti due dissidenti emarginati. Giornalisti, specializzati in pezzi satirici, il primo scrisse anche per giornali ufficiali come la Pravda e la Literaturnaya Gazeta, morendo - non in un gulag ma di tubercolosi – nel 1937; Petrov divenne più tardi corrispondente di guerra e perì nel 1942 per l’abbattimento da parte dei tedeschi dell’aeroplano con il quale stava rientrando dal fronte di Sebastopoli.
Il vitello d’oro è fortemente collegato a Le dodici sedie, di cui costituisce una sorta di continuazione, avendo come protagonista la figura di Ostap Bender, il grande impresario (traduzione forse non troppo precisa dell’originario velikij kombinator) che viene resuscitato (probabilmente a furor di popolo, come già accaduto a Sherlock Holmes) dopo essere morto alla fine del primo romanzo.
Ed è proprio la figura di questa simpatica canaglia, di questo truffatore colto e sagace, a suo modo onesto anche se cinico, che costituisce uno dei tratti di spicco di questo romanzo. Come fa notare Caterina Graziadei nella sua imperdibile introduzione, la figura di Ostap Bender affonda le sue radici nella commedia dell’arte, richiamando il servo furbo, e nel romanzo picaresco (Graziadei individua come prototipo di Bender Lazzarillo de Tormes), in quest’ultimo caso soprattutto per l’importanza che nei romanzi che lo vedono protagonista assume il motivo del viaggio, visto che la narrazione non avviene in prima persona come nel romanzo picaresco classico.
Ma Bender è anche il prodotto di due altri importanti fattori: la grande letteratura russa - in particolare evidenti sono le ascendenze Gogoliane - e l’ottobre, la grandissima vivacità culturale scatenata dalla rivoluzione che, come detto, non era affatto morta una dozzina d’anni dopo.
Uno degli elementi che infatti a mio avviso più sorprende il lettore che legge Il vitello d’oro è l’atmosfera dell’URSS a cavallo tra gli anni ‘20 e ‘30 del novecento. Emerge infatti dalle pagine del romanzo una società in tumultuosa evoluzione, nella quale gli anni della NEP hanno portato i primi segni della diffusione del benessere materiale per larghi strati della popolazione ma anche innestato fenomeni di corruzione e arrivismo sociale che hanno assunto aspetti quasi antropologici; a questa fase sta seguendo come detto quella della ricostruzione socialista, che vedrà il recupero dell’economia collettivizzata e centralizzata e la chiusura degli spazi di iniziativa privata propri del periodo precedente, con tutto ciò che ne seguirà anche in materia di sovrastruttura ideologica e culturale. È su questa società, sui tipi umani che ha generato e sta generando, sulla retorica del regime e la sua onnipresenza che si concentra la satira di Il’f e Petrov, con risultati molto divertenti che fanno de Il vitello d’oro un piccolo capolavoro.
Come detto, il romanzo è scandito dalle tappe di un lunghissimo viaggio, che dalla Russia centrale porta il protagonista e i suoi compagni di avventure sulle rive del Mar Nero e quindi, attraverso le steppe ed i deserti delle repubbliche sovietiche meridionali, in piena Asia, dove si sta costruendo la grande arteria dell’Est, la ferrovia prima grande realizzazione del piano quinquennale.
Ostap Bender compie questo viaggio con il preciso scopo di estorcere con il ricatto ad Aleksandr Ivanovič Korejko un milione di rubli. Korejko, modesto impiegato all’Hercules, impresa statale che si occupa di commercio di legname nella città costiera di Černomorsk, è in realtà un truffatore, che negli anni della NEP ha accumulato un cospicuo patrimonio accaparrandosi derrate alimentari destinate ad aree afflitte dalla carestia e risorse destinate alla costruzione di una centrale elettrica, e che anche nell’attuale posto di lavoro si appropria, in combutta con altri funzionari corrotti, delle risorse aziendali. Custodisce il suo tesoro in una valigia che metodicamente sposta da un deposito bagagli all’altro.
Bender, venuto per caso a conoscenza di alcuni degli affari di Korejko, decide di dedicarsi al grande colpo che gli può assicurare la agognata ricchezza, da lui identificata con lo stabilirsi a Rio de Janeiro, mitica città sognata fin dall’infanzia, dove tutti sono ricchi e vestono pantaloni bianchi.
Parte quindi per Černomorsk sull’Antilope-Gnu, nome da lui dato all’automobile verde lucertola, spacciata per una Loren-Dietrich (sic; in realtà la casa automobilistica franco-tedesca attiva sino agli anni ‘30 era denominata Lorraine-Dietrich) di un piccolo malfattore fattosi tassista di poche fortune, accompagnato anche da due rubagalline incontrati per lavoro ad Arbatov - città nella quale il romanzo si apre - che diventano suoi dipendenti.
A Černomorsk stringerà d’assedio Korejko, ma quando sembra averlo in pugno questi fa perdere le sue tracce; Bender lo rintraccerà comunque nei deserti dell’Asia sovietica.
Lungo il romanzo Bender avrà modo di dispiegare tutte le sue doti di velikij kombinator, di truffatore in grande stile dotato di inventiva, creatività, capace di trarre profitto da ogni circostanza, ma anche di una sua precisa etica e di una umanità limitata solo dal suo cinismo.
Letteralmente scoppiettante, ed emblematico a mio avviso della libertà satirica che si concedevano gli autori, è il primo tratto del viaggio, che porta i quattro, a bordo della fosforescente Antilope-gnu, (si ricordi che l’automobile è stato uno dei simboli della rivoluzione d’ottobre) verso Černomorsk. Quando entrano nel primo villaggio, l’automobile viene inaspettatamente accolta festosamente dalla popolazione e dalle autorità. Bender intuisce presto che sono stati scambiati per l’avanguardia di un raid automobilistico, evento straordinario per quei piccoli villaggi e che le autorità locali omaggiano come prova dell’inarrestabile progresso del socialismo. Coglie al volo l’occasione, e tra folle plaudenti e discorsi celebrativi gonfi di retorica si fa consegnare in ogni villaggio che attraversa cibo e benzina, finché – grazie alla velocità del telegrafo – la truffa non viene scoperta e l’Antilope deve cavalcare per strade secondarie, inseguita dai truffati.
Subito dopo è narrato un episodio a mio avviso ancora più significativo per la sua corrosività. In una città in cui giungono al fine di ridipingere di giallo l’Antilope, i nostri si imbattono in un quartetto di pittori alla disperata ricerca di un uomo, il compagno Plotskij-Potseluev, per poterlo ritrarre. Per inciso, una nota al testo informa il lettore che Plotskij-Potseluev può tradursi in Bacio carnale, a testimonianza di alcuni elementi di comicità del romanzo che vanno inevitabilmente persi nella traduzione, ma di cui comunque si viene edotti nella bella introduzione di Graziadei.
I quattro pittori ”...avevano fondato il gruppo ’I lavoratori del cavalletto dialettico’. Dipingevano ritratti di operai responsabili e li appioppavano al locale museo delle belle arti. Col passare del tempo, il numero degli operai responsabili non ancora ritratti era fortemente diminuito, e conseguentemente s’era abbassato in misura notevole il guadagno dei quattro lavoratori del cavalletto dialettico.” Le cose per i quattro erano ulteriormente peggiorate quando in città era apparso Feofan Muchin, un artista che al posto delle tecniche pittoriche classiche componeva i suoi quadri con l’avena e altri semi, suscitando l’ammirazione generale e sostituendo i quattro dialettici nelle vendite al museo.
Lampante e forte è qui la satira sia all’asservimento dell’arte ai dettami ufficiali (quel dialettico va al cuore del marxismo-leninismo), ed in particolare al nascente socrealizm, codificato pochi anni dopo, sia agli eccessi delle avanguardie, sempre in cerca di novità a volte fini a sé stesse, come sintetizza mirabilmente il fatto che, durante il trasporto in carrozza di una delle opere in avena di Feofan Muchin ”...il cavallo, inquieto, roteava gli occhi e nitriva”.
Oltre che una miriade di personaggi minori e storie nella storia, altri due sono i punti focali sui quali si addensano gli strali satirici di Il’f e Petrov: gli uffici del complesso statale Hercules di Černomorsk e la retorica che accompagna la realizzazione delle grandi opere del piano quinquennale, simboleggiate dall’Arteria dell’Est.
Per il mondo dell’Hercules gli autori non provano alcuna pietà. Gli uffici brulicano di impiegati corrotti o stupidi, e gli stessi funzionari e dirigenti sono parte di un sistema che favorisce le loro mire di arricchimento o le loro smanie di potere. Spicca in questo contesto tipicamente piccolo-borghese, oltre al già citato Korejko, la figura del Direttore Polychaev, che spende le sue energie non per la gestione del commercio di legname ma in una disputa burocratica con l’amministrazione comunale; egli inoltre ha preparato una serie di timbri, via via più complessi, con i quali impartisce le disposizioni ai sottoposti e risponde in modo standardizzato alle richieste, evitandosi così lo sforzo di pensare (spontaneo a questo proposito l’accostamento con i nostri tempi di e-mail, social media e frasi suggerite dai vari assistenti vocali).
La satira nei confronti dell’Hercules e dei suoi lavoratori si traduce così in una critica feroce alla incipiente burocratizzazione della società, tratto che avrebbe contraddistinto il lungo periodo staliniano, e in una denuncia della corruzione, ereditata dal precedente periodo della NEP.
Più articolato è il giudizio dei due autori rispetto al piano quinquennale e alle sue prime realizzazioni. Se da un lato si ritrova, nelle cerimonie che accompagnano l’inaugurazione della ferrovia, la critica alla retorica e alla pompa dei riti del potere, traspare però l’ammirazione per lo sforzo che il Paese sta facendo per dotarsi di industrie e infrastrutture, sforzo collettivo di edificazione nel quale indubbiamente la classe operaia assume per la prima volta nella Storia un ruolo centrale.
Il lungo viaggio in treno di Ostap Bender verso l’Asia è anche occasione per gli autori per rivolgere la loro attenzione verso i giornalisti sovietici, ormai divenuti semplici esegeti del potere: la composizione da parte di Bender dell’Enciclopedico celebrativo – Metodo insostituibile per la composizione di articoli per ricorrenze solenni, di elzeviri per festività, nonché di poesie, odi e inni per cerimonie ufficiali, venduto ad uno dei giornalisti sul treno speciale che porta la stampa sovietica ed estera alla inaugurazione della grande opera è a mio avviso una perla assoluta, che testimonia in modo esemplare la coscienza degli autori (che erano innanzitutto giornalisti) di dove stessero andando a parare gli organi di informazione. Né miglior figura fanno i reporter stranieri, pieni come sono di pregiudizi verso l’URSS o direttamente asserviti agli interessi del capitale internazionale.
Resta ancora da dire come la estrema piacevolezza e la sostanza delle situazioni e dei ritratti umani e sociali che Il vitello d’oro propone al lettore siano supportate da uno stile di scrittura che fa tesoro dell’amore dei due autori (e della letteratura sovietica dell’epoca in genere) per il cinema. Come nota Caterina Graziadei, il romanzo è scritto con grande sapienza espressiva, con campi lunghi e panoramiche che si alterano a rapidi zoom e primi piani, e questo contribuisce non poco alla sua freschezza.
Il vitello d’oro può sorprendere il lettore che ritenesse l’URSS essere sempre stata quel contesto politico e culturale oppressivo e monolitico suggeritoci dalla propaganda post ‘89. È un romanzo nel quale una satira di stampo gogoliano viene applicata alla costruzione del socialismo, mettendone in luce vizi e debolezze, ma non mancando di sottolinearne la straordinarietà. Speriamo che presto ci sia consentito di nuovo di leggerlo.
Andare alla ricerca oggi di un libro di Il’ja Il’f ed Evgenij Petrov in Italia è impresa difficile. La coppia di scrittori satirici sovietici scrisse infatti pochi romanzi - essendo entrambi i suoi componenti morti giovani - e di questi solo tre sono stati pubblicati nel nostro paese. Il più famoso è senza dubbio Le dodici sedie, del 1927, da cui sono stati tratti numerosi film, tra i quali uno di Mel Brooks (1970) e uno di Carlo Mazzacurati (il suo ultimo lavoro, 2013). Cercando in rete, ho trovato di questo romanzo solo una edizione di Lucarini del 1988, dispersa, e una Rizzoli (1993 - 2005), oggi disponibile solo in e-book. Ancora più arduo, anche nei canali dell’usato, reperire Il vitello d’oro, del 1931, edito originariamente nel nostro paese dagli editori Riuniti nel 1962 e quindi da Studio Tesi nel 1992, e il meno noto Il paese di Dio (1936), dato alle stampe da Einaudi nel lontano 1947.
Similmente ad altre opere della letteratura sovietica incontrate sul mio cammino di lettore, che non fossero della dissidenza o di denuncia esplicita del potere, anche queste sembrano essere state semplicemente rimosse dall’editoria nostrana, forse perché non aderiscono perfettamente alla vulgata della monoliticità e del controllo asfissiante di tale potere sui prodotti culturali.
Per comprendere meglio l’epoca in cui i due romanzi più noti di Il’f e Petrov videro la luce è necessario fare attenzione alle loro date d’uscita. Mentre Le dodici sedie viene pubblicato durante gli ultimi anni della NEP, Il vitello d’oro è edito in un anno nel quale la politica economica dell’URSS ha subito un profondo cambiamento: Stalin, consolidato il suo potere, ha di fatto già liquidato la Nuova Politica Economica di Lenin (morto ormai da alcuni anni) e di Bucharin, ed è in pieno sviluppo il primo piano quinquennale, che punta sull’infrastrutturazione del Paese, sull’industrializzazione pesante e sulla collettivizzazione delle campagne. Anche se le purghe sono ancora lontane è indubbio che ormai l’ala staliniana del partito ha il pieno controllo dell’apparato: nella percezione oggi comune, anche da parte di chi non è anticomunista, questo periodo è sentito come quello della brusca normalizzazione, della fine degli entusiasmi e della vivacità culturale che avevano caratterizzato i primi anni dopo la Rivoluzione d’Ottobre, sostituiti da un potere che si stava sempre più burocratizzando. Uno spartiacque fortemente simbolico in questo senso può essere fissato nel giorno del suicidio di Vladimir Majakovskij, il 14 aprile 1930.
L’attività letteraria di Il’f e Petrov, insieme a quella di molti altri autori, pare invece dimostrare che neppure in quel periodo, almeno al suo inizio, calò sulla cultura sovietica una cappa di piombo impenetrabile, ma che alcuni spazi di critica e di satira erano rimasti aperti.
Il’ja Il’f e Evgenij Petrov non erano infatti due dissidenti emarginati. Giornalisti, specializzati in pezzi satirici, il primo scrisse anche per giornali ufficiali come la Pravda e la Literaturnaya Gazeta, morendo - non in un gulag ma di tubercolosi – nel 1937; Petrov divenne più tardi corrispondente di guerra e perì nel 1942 per l’abbattimento da parte dei tedeschi dell’aeroplano con il quale stava rientrando dal fronte di Sebastopoli.
Il vitello d’oro è fortemente collegato a Le dodici sedie, di cui costituisce una sorta di continuazione, avendo come protagonista la figura di Ostap Bender, il grande impresario (traduzione forse non troppo precisa dell’originario velikij kombinator) che viene resuscitato (probabilmente a furor di popolo, come già accaduto a Sherlock Holmes) dopo essere morto alla fine del primo romanzo.
Ed è proprio la figura di questa simpatica canaglia, di questo truffatore colto e sagace, a suo modo onesto anche se cinico, che costituisce uno dei tratti di spicco di questo romanzo. Come fa notare Caterina Graziadei nella sua imperdibile introduzione, la figura di Ostap Bender affonda le sue radici nella commedia dell’arte, richiamando il servo furbo, e nel romanzo picaresco (Graziadei individua come prototipo di Bender Lazzarillo de Tormes), in quest’ultimo caso soprattutto per l’importanza che nei romanzi che lo vedono protagonista assume il motivo del viaggio, visto che la narrazione non avviene in prima persona come nel romanzo picaresco classico.
Ma Bender è anche il prodotto di due altri importanti fattori: la grande letteratura russa - in particolare evidenti sono le ascendenze Gogoliane - e l’ottobre, la grandissima vivacità culturale scatenata dalla rivoluzione che, come detto, non era affatto morta una dozzina d’anni dopo.
Uno degli elementi che infatti a mio avviso più sorprende il lettore che legge Il vitello d’oro è l’atmosfera dell’URSS a cavallo tra gli anni ‘20 e ‘30 del novecento. Emerge infatti dalle pagine del romanzo una società in tumultuosa evoluzione, nella quale gli anni della NEP hanno portato i primi segni della diffusione del benessere materiale per larghi strati della popolazione ma anche innestato fenomeni di corruzione e arrivismo sociale che hanno assunto aspetti quasi antropologici; a questa fase sta seguendo come detto quella della ricostruzione socialista, che vedrà il recupero dell’economia collettivizzata e centralizzata e la chiusura degli spazi di iniziativa privata propri del periodo precedente, con tutto ciò che ne seguirà anche in materia di sovrastruttura ideologica e culturale. È su questa società, sui tipi umani che ha generato e sta generando, sulla retorica del regime e la sua onnipresenza che si concentra la satira di Il’f e Petrov, con risultati molto divertenti che fanno de Il vitello d’oro un piccolo capolavoro.
Come detto, il romanzo è scandito dalle tappe di un lunghissimo viaggio, che dalla Russia centrale porta il protagonista e i suoi compagni di avventure sulle rive del Mar Nero e quindi, attraverso le steppe ed i deserti delle repubbliche sovietiche meridionali, in piena Asia, dove si sta costruendo la grande arteria dell’Est, la ferrovia prima grande realizzazione del piano quinquennale.
Ostap Bender compie questo viaggio con il preciso scopo di estorcere con il ricatto ad Aleksandr Ivanovič Korejko un milione di rubli. Korejko, modesto impiegato all’Hercules, impresa statale che si occupa di commercio di legname nella città costiera di Černomorsk, è in realtà un truffatore, che negli anni della NEP ha accumulato un cospicuo patrimonio accaparrandosi derrate alimentari destinate ad aree afflitte dalla carestia e risorse destinate alla costruzione di una centrale elettrica, e che anche nell’attuale posto di lavoro si appropria, in combutta con altri funzionari corrotti, delle risorse aziendali. Custodisce il suo tesoro in una valigia che metodicamente sposta da un deposito bagagli all’altro.
Bender, venuto per caso a conoscenza di alcuni degli affari di Korejko, decide di dedicarsi al grande colpo che gli può assicurare la agognata ricchezza, da lui identificata con lo stabilirsi a Rio de Janeiro, mitica città sognata fin dall’infanzia, dove tutti sono ricchi e vestono pantaloni bianchi.
Parte quindi per Černomorsk sull’Antilope-Gnu, nome da lui dato all’automobile verde lucertola, spacciata per una Loren-Dietrich (sic; in realtà la casa automobilistica franco-tedesca attiva sino agli anni ‘30 era denominata Lorraine-Dietrich) di un piccolo malfattore fattosi tassista di poche fortune, accompagnato anche da due rubagalline incontrati per lavoro ad Arbatov - città nella quale il romanzo si apre - che diventano suoi dipendenti.
A Černomorsk stringerà d’assedio Korejko, ma quando sembra averlo in pugno questi fa perdere le sue tracce; Bender lo rintraccerà comunque nei deserti dell’Asia sovietica.
Lungo il romanzo Bender avrà modo di dispiegare tutte le sue doti di velikij kombinator, di truffatore in grande stile dotato di inventiva, creatività, capace di trarre profitto da ogni circostanza, ma anche di una sua precisa etica e di una umanità limitata solo dal suo cinismo.
Letteralmente scoppiettante, ed emblematico a mio avviso della libertà satirica che si concedevano gli autori, è il primo tratto del viaggio, che porta i quattro, a bordo della fosforescente Antilope-gnu, (si ricordi che l’automobile è stato uno dei simboli della rivoluzione d’ottobre) verso Černomorsk. Quando entrano nel primo villaggio, l’automobile viene inaspettatamente accolta festosamente dalla popolazione e dalle autorità. Bender intuisce presto che sono stati scambiati per l’avanguardia di un raid automobilistico, evento straordinario per quei piccoli villaggi e che le autorità locali omaggiano come prova dell’inarrestabile progresso del socialismo. Coglie al volo l’occasione, e tra folle plaudenti e discorsi celebrativi gonfi di retorica si fa consegnare in ogni villaggio che attraversa cibo e benzina, finché – grazie alla velocità del telegrafo – la truffa non viene scoperta e l’Antilope deve cavalcare per strade secondarie, inseguita dai truffati.
Subito dopo è narrato un episodio a mio avviso ancora più significativo per la sua corrosività. In una città in cui giungono al fine di ridipingere di giallo l’Antilope, i nostri si imbattono in un quartetto di pittori alla disperata ricerca di un uomo, il compagno Plotskij-Potseluev, per poterlo ritrarre. Per inciso, una nota al testo informa il lettore che Plotskij-Potseluev può tradursi in Bacio carnale, a testimonianza di alcuni elementi di comicità del romanzo che vanno inevitabilmente persi nella traduzione, ma di cui comunque si viene edotti nella bella introduzione di Graziadei.
I quattro pittori ”...avevano fondato il gruppo ’I lavoratori del cavalletto dialettico’. Dipingevano ritratti di operai responsabili e li appioppavano al locale museo delle belle arti. Col passare del tempo, il numero degli operai responsabili non ancora ritratti era fortemente diminuito, e conseguentemente s’era abbassato in misura notevole il guadagno dei quattro lavoratori del cavalletto dialettico.” Le cose per i quattro erano ulteriormente peggiorate quando in città era apparso Feofan Muchin, un artista che al posto delle tecniche pittoriche classiche componeva i suoi quadri con l’avena e altri semi, suscitando l’ammirazione generale e sostituendo i quattro dialettici nelle vendite al museo.
Lampante e forte è qui la satira sia all’asservimento dell’arte ai dettami ufficiali (quel dialettico va al cuore del marxismo-leninismo), ed in particolare al nascente socrealizm, codificato pochi anni dopo, sia agli eccessi delle avanguardie, sempre in cerca di novità a volte fini a sé stesse, come sintetizza mirabilmente il fatto che, durante il trasporto in carrozza di una delle opere in avena di Feofan Muchin ”...il cavallo, inquieto, roteava gli occhi e nitriva”.
Oltre che una miriade di personaggi minori e storie nella storia, altri due sono i punti focali sui quali si addensano gli strali satirici di Il’f e Petrov: gli uffici del complesso statale Hercules di Černomorsk e la retorica che accompagna la realizzazione delle grandi opere del piano quinquennale, simboleggiate dall’Arteria dell’Est.
Per il mondo dell’Hercules gli autori non provano alcuna pietà. Gli uffici brulicano di impiegati corrotti o stupidi, e gli stessi funzionari e dirigenti sono parte di un sistema che favorisce le loro mire di arricchimento o le loro smanie di potere. Spicca in questo contesto tipicamente piccolo-borghese, oltre al già citato Korejko, la figura del Direttore Polychaev, che spende le sue energie non per la gestione del commercio di legname ma in una disputa burocratica con l’amministrazione comunale; egli inoltre ha preparato una serie di timbri, via via più complessi, con i quali impartisce le disposizioni ai sottoposti e risponde in modo standardizzato alle richieste, evitandosi così lo sforzo di pensare (spontaneo a questo proposito l’accostamento con i nostri tempi di e-mail, social media e frasi suggerite dai vari assistenti vocali).
La satira nei confronti dell’Hercules e dei suoi lavoratori si traduce così in una critica feroce alla incipiente burocratizzazione della società, tratto che avrebbe contraddistinto il lungo periodo staliniano, e in una denuncia della corruzione, ereditata dal precedente periodo della NEP.
Più articolato è il giudizio dei due autori rispetto al piano quinquennale e alle sue prime realizzazioni. Se da un lato si ritrova, nelle cerimonie che accompagnano l’inaugurazione della ferrovia, la critica alla retorica e alla pompa dei riti del potere, traspare però l’ammirazione per lo sforzo che il Paese sta facendo per dotarsi di industrie e infrastrutture, sforzo collettivo di edificazione nel quale indubbiamente la classe operaia assume per la prima volta nella Storia un ruolo centrale.
Il lungo viaggio in treno di Ostap Bender verso l’Asia è anche occasione per gli autori per rivolgere la loro attenzione verso i giornalisti sovietici, ormai divenuti semplici esegeti del potere: la composizione da parte di Bender dell’Enciclopedico celebrativo – Metodo insostituibile per la composizione di articoli per ricorrenze solenni, di elzeviri per festività, nonché di poesie, odi e inni per cerimonie ufficiali, venduto ad uno dei giornalisti sul treno speciale che porta la stampa sovietica ed estera alla inaugurazione della grande opera è a mio avviso una perla assoluta, che testimonia in modo esemplare la coscienza degli autori (che erano innanzitutto giornalisti) di dove stessero andando a parare gli organi di informazione. Né miglior figura fanno i reporter stranieri, pieni come sono di pregiudizi verso l’URSS o direttamente asserviti agli interessi del capitale internazionale.
Resta ancora da dire come la estrema piacevolezza e la sostanza delle situazioni e dei ritratti umani e sociali che Il vitello d’oro propone al lettore siano supportate da uno stile di scrittura che fa tesoro dell’amore dei due autori (e della letteratura sovietica dell’epoca in genere) per il cinema. Come nota Caterina Graziadei, il romanzo è scritto con grande sapienza espressiva, con campi lunghi e panoramiche che si alterano a rapidi zoom e primi piani, e questo contribuisce non poco alla sua freschezza.
Il vitello d’oro può sorprendere il lettore che ritenesse l’URSS essere sempre stata quel contesto politico e culturale oppressivo e monolitico suggeritoci dalla propaganda post ‘89. È un romanzo nel quale una satira di stampo gogoliano viene applicata alla costruzione del socialismo, mettendone in luce vizi e debolezze, ma non mancando di sottolinearne la straordinarietà. Speriamo che presto ci sia consentito di nuovo di leggerlo.
July 9, 2023
Deed me denken aan Nescio ( maar die was vroeger in de tijd), maar met meer maatschappij/systeemkritiek.
April 5, 2017
Nu cred că am citit foarte multe cărți care pe tot parcursul lecturii să mă facă să chicotesc. De fapt, cred că aș putea să le număr pe degete. Momentele comice se țin în lanț, planurile dau greș, dar Ostap Bender, un optimist inventiv, reușește să iasă de fiecare dată din încurcătură.
Continuarea pe blog.
Continuarea pe blog.
October 22, 2020
Tikrai dėmesio verta knyga.
November 4, 2017
Признаюсь что вторая часть мне понравилась даже больше.
Просто с писательской точки зрения авторы стали намного точнее, их герои не такие выпуклые, они со вторым дном, при этом по древу растечься все не успевает. Редкое умение.
В книге по-прежнему огромное количество бытового юмора, высмеивания порядков (сильно изменились) и человеческих пороков (совсем не изменились). Все в довольно легкой форме, но при этом дают и пищу для размышлений. Как бы ты прожил жизнь второстепенных героев? Васисуалием Лоханкиным или или все же Александром Корейко?
Несколько удивила третья часть романа - возникло некоторое ощущение советской цензуры - будто без морали, даже "назидания", книгу не пускали в печать.
В целом замечательная, юморная и раскрывающая эпоху книга.
Просто с писательской точки зрения авторы стали намного точнее, их герои не такие выпуклые, они со вторым дном, при этом по древу растечься все не успевает. Редкое умение.
В книге по-прежнему огромное количество бытового юмора, высмеивания порядков (сильно изменились) и человеческих пороков (совсем не изменились). Все в довольно легкой форме, но при этом дают и пищу для размышлений. Как бы ты прожил жизнь второстепенных героев? Васисуалием Лоханкиным или или все же Александром Корейко?
Несколько удивила третья часть романа - возникло некоторое ощущение советской цензуры - будто без морали, даже "назидания", книгу не пускали в печать.
В целом замечательная, юморная и раскрывающая эпоху книга.
August 9, 2016
I'm a fan of Ilf and Petrov! They are a brilliant duo. I love the half sarcastic, half ironic style, love the way they show a picture of the Soviet society of the NEP era. I cannot say I love the characters in the sense of relating and looking up to them, but I can't but sympathize all of them. Though the end of Bender's adventures was predictable (taking into account, that the authors were Soviet journalist who just couldn't let The Great Combinator enjoy his 1 million in Rio), it was a bit of a pity.
The Golden Calf, as well as The Twelve Chairs, is a timeless classic. A truly literary delight and a source of dozens of witty quotes.
The Golden Calf, as well as The Twelve Chairs, is a timeless classic. A truly literary delight and a source of dozens of witty quotes.
March 7, 2017
Neticami, ka šo grāmatu vispār atļāva publicēt padomju režīma laikā, kur nu vēl filmu uzņemt. Laikam jau ironija ir stipri līdzīga propagandai, viss atkarīgs no skatupunkta.
Ļoti interesanti bija palasīt par laiku, kad tikai veidojas padomju režīms, kad cilvēki vēl īsti nav sapratuši, ka tas ir uz ilgu palikšanu. Vēl var pasmieties par jaunās iekārtas absurdumu.
Ļoti interesanti bija palasīt par laiku, kad tikai veidojas padomju režīms, kad cilvēki vēl īsti nav sapratuši, ka tas ir uz ilgu palikšanu. Vēl var pasmieties par jaunās iekārtas absurdumu.
November 8, 2021
Una serie di mirabolanti nuove avventure per Ostap Bender. Sul come abbia fatto a sopravvivere dopo quanto successo alla fine de "Le dodici sedie" ci sono un paio di cenni. Ma non è importante. Quello che conta è lui, la sua aura magnetica da "velikij kombinator", da grande "impresario" (un trafficone/truffatore/imbroglione). Una mente sopraffina che muove gli ingranaggi meglio di tutti, una "gran testa", senz'altro. Il romanzo, le situazioni, i dialoghi sono tutti spassosissimi e bella è pure la brigata di scagnozzi squinternati che O.B. si porta dietro (Panikovskij vs. le oche... ahah!).
Bender non poteva che essere il "commodoro" della spedizione, del raid automobilistico, della "Antilope", il comandante di tutta la compagnia. La diversità rispetto a "Le dici sedie" si avverte, in generale, nel maggior sferzare della satira e, in particolare, nell'ultima parte del romanzo, quando ci si rende conto che l'epoca non è più quella della gagliarda "NEP", bensì del primo "piano quinquennale". Il taglio del libro si incupisce, si intristisce e il lettore mastica amaro. A un tratto, si capisce che una figura come quella di Ostap Bender è ormai fuori dal mondo, surclassata dal grande delirio demagogico collettivo. Questa, probabilmente, è la parte più significativa, ancorché di gran lunga quella che ho apprezzato di meno. A ogni modo, gli anni trenta si fanno sentire e, di lì a poco, con la "codificazione" (imposizione) del "realismo socialista" (1934), non ce ne sarà più per nessuno: il panorama letterario cambierà fortemente, ingessandosi in qualcosa di completamente diverso.
Voto: 4,5 (a un passo da "Le dodici sedie").
Bender non poteva che essere il "commodoro" della spedizione, del raid automobilistico, della "Antilope", il comandante di tutta la compagnia. La diversità rispetto a "Le dici sedie" si avverte, in generale, nel maggior sferzare della satira e, in particolare, nell'ultima parte del romanzo, quando ci si rende conto che l'epoca non è più quella della gagliarda "NEP", bensì del primo "piano quinquennale". Il taglio del libro si incupisce, si intristisce e il lettore mastica amaro. A un tratto, si capisce che una figura come quella di Ostap Bender è ormai fuori dal mondo, surclassata dal grande delirio demagogico collettivo. Questa, probabilmente, è la parte più significativa, ancorché di gran lunga quella che ho apprezzato di meno. A ogni modo, gli anni trenta si fanno sentire e, di lì a poco, con la "codificazione" (imposizione) del "realismo socialista" (1934), non ce ne sarà più per nessuno: il panorama letterario cambierà fortemente, ingessandosi in qualcosa di completamente diverso.
Voto: 4,5 (a un passo da "Le dodici sedie").
March 23, 2017
Не перечитывала со школы, кажется, решила послушать. Порадовалась многим моментам, о которых не помнила, в очередной раз поняла, сколько устойчивых выражений из книги вошло в вокабуляр. Блестящий, увлекательный, наполненный событиями роман. Лёгкий слог, развесёлое ёрничанье, подколки коллег по цеху, бюрократов, обывателей, да и всех остальных =) И только финал не порадовал: авторам никак не даётся морализаторство; тяжело раскручиваются все истории, в которых Остапу нехорошо и некуда податься с наконец-то обретённым миллионом.
July 10, 2019
Best satire I've ever read; leaving no stone unturned in poking fun at every aspect of soviet political system/Russian daily life in general. Ostap Bender is one of the greatest characters ever, full stop. just a relentless grifter with no shame, yet impossible not to like. This new edition has superb/extensive notes to explain all the references (historical/political/customary/literary) and the English translation is smooth/natural. Very close to 5 stars, but marking down slightly as not quite as outrightly hilarious as The Twelve Chairs, so 4.5 rounding down to 4.
February 16, 2018
"12 stul"dan daha çox bəyəndim. Yenə də uzun təsvirlər var idi. İkinci, hətta üçüncü dərəcəli personajlar belə elə gözəl təsvir edilirdi ki, söhbətin əsl məğzi unudulurdu. Kitab içində kitab. Sətirləri sitatlara, gözəl aforizmlərə parçalamaq olar. Çox heyf ki daha bir kitab yoxdur.
March 18, 2008
Wonderful, funny and amazing this got by the censors in Russia in its time. these two authors created one of the finest characters in Russian literature -- Ostep Bender.
June 16, 2018
Очень остроумная и искренняя книжка!!!
Мне всё понравилось. Очень хочется продолжения, но его, к сожалению, не будет.
Мне всё понравилось. Очень хочется продолжения, но его, к сожалению, не будет.
May 9, 2019
Какое же счастье - этот тонкий юмор, эта ирония, этот язык! Почти физиологическое удовольствие.
December 25, 2023
Re-reading.
“Двенадцать стульев” and “Золотой телёнок” were very remarkable books to me: I read them first at a quite young age (and re-read several times after that) and, although I definitely was too stupid and immature to understand everything, I somehow still loved them instantly and basically just “inhaled” them; they became part of my internal vocabulary and way of thinking to a large extent (the irony, the joyful curiosity, the inventiveness, the lightness, the generosity, the kindness and nobleness in a world of crookery, etc.). I was thinking in quotes from these books and remembered long episodes almost word by word. I can see now that many people of my age or younger have no idea why these books belong to “cult reads,” and it is impossible to explain to them what is so cool about them. This year, I wanted to re-read them and probably re-assess them for myself, as I try to do now with the books that were “mind-shaping” for me (especially if they were Soviet/Russian). (Accidentally, I started with “Золотой телёнок,” and it looks like “Двенадцать стульев” will be re-read next year. It’s OK, I don’t mind the “wrong” order.)
The re-reading was quite interesting. I discovered that I still remember most of the book very well and even can see that I understood it then mostly correctly (although I thought that I had just some random fragments of it in my mind by now). And it is still cool and awesome, yes. However, today the book looks extremely sad to me. I never thought before that it is so sad. Contrary to a quite dark, even gory ending of “Двенадцать стульев,” “Золотой телёнок” ends on an almost comical note, with the famous laugh-inducing and relieving “Графа Монте-Кристо из меня не вышло. Придется переквалифицироваться в управдомы.” — and yet it feels much more depressing and dead-end, especially when you understand the real background of this book.
I don’t know why exactly Ильф & Петров decided to write a sequel to “Двенадцать стульев” and even resuscitated Остап Бендер for this purpose, but it looks like they understood about life in this country now much more and much sadder things than it was when they were writing playful and spunky “Двенадцать стульев.” Did they want to translate their mood into this book and share this sadness with their readers in the only possible way, or it just happened involuntarily? I don’t know.
“Двенадцать стульев” was written in 1927, when the decent Soviet intelligentsia still sincerely believed that the Soviet project was a promising and progressive one, and the life was mostly versatile, vibrant, and funny at the time, despite all the current problems and discomforts. I suppose Ильф & Петров were very sincere there reflecting their attitude to the “former aristocracy” and other idiots. In “Золотой телёнок,” their laughter feels much more arbitrary and confused, sometimes definitely stretched and unnatural (like with “ксендзы”), but mostly sad and embarrassed — everything looks extremely stupid and increasingly depressing in this society, and what is not stupid, was an obvious lie (very understandable but still a lie).
“Золотой телёнок” was written in 1931, when the last remains of the “НЭП” were liquidated, workers in cities were “mobilized” for a massive “industrialization” project, and peasants in villages were totally stripped of all their food and other means to survive, effectively becoming slaves, the lowest caste deprived of basic civil rights in this “society of workers and peasants.” It was the time when the USSR was bursting with peasant uprisings (especially in Ukraine), and the government was confiscating more and more food from them — now in order to inhibit any ability to protest and revolt with the help of famine. Just in a couple of years, they would organize deliberate Holodomors with millions of deaths from starvation and thus suppress any ability to protest among peasants, but in 1931, they had already started this process, and peasants were already suffering immensely. You should keep this picture in mind when you read “Золотой телёнок,” which was written at the same time and which tries to reflect “real life” to some extent — but only “to some extent,” of course. You can see those obvious “gaps” in the story, the light jokes in the places where in reality the most awful things were going on, and you understand the sadness seeping on you from the pages of this book — sadness about the betrayal the authors undoubtedly felt about themselves and sadness about life in this country overall.
I was reading this book in parallel with “Алхимия советской индустриализации. Время Торгсина” by Елена Осокина, and it was the most interesting and enlightening experience, as both books tell about the same time (“Торгсин” was founded in 1930 and would become the main way of depriving peasants of their last possessions during the artificial famine in just a couple of years) and the same place (Ukraine, South-Eastern Russia, Kazakhstan — all the regions that were deliberately targeted by the vehement “peasant-breaking campaign” and ensuing artificial famine in these most fertile and agriculturally developed regions, and it was where the network of “Торгсин” shops was the most developed, respectively). If you KNOW all this, you can see clearly how accurately and thoroughly Ильф & Петров evade the main subject that was definitely bothering them. You are just left with all-permeating sadness and feeling of guilt or shame probably.
“Казахи с криками усадили путешественников между горбами, помогли привязать чемодан, мешок и провизию на дорогу — бурдюк с кумысом и двух баранов. Верблюды поднялись сперва на задние ноги, отчего миллионеры низко поклонились, а потом на передние ноги и зашагали вдоль полотна Восточной Магистрали. Бараны, привязанные веревочками, трусили позади, время от времени катя шарики и блея душераздирающим образом.
— Эй, шейх Корейко! — крикнул Остап. — Александр Ибн-Иванович! Прекрасна ли жизнь?
Шейх ничего не ответил. Ему попался ледащий верблюд, и он яростно лупил его по плешивому заду саксауловой палкой.”
It was also interesting to reconsider my attitude to the degree of the authors’ collaboration with the government at this stage. For a more naive reader, “Золотой телёнок” may look like an acerbic satire directed first of all to Soviet bureaucracy and other idiocies of the Soviet lifestyle. Someone may even imagine that the book is “anti-Soviet” or “dissident” to a large extent. Nope, it is more pro-Soviet than not, although I can agree with the thought that Ильф & Петров were already reluctant about it at the time, not sincere, and definitely not enthusiastic. Note how thoroughly they avoid any mentionings of the OGPU, which would become known as “NKVD” a couple of years later but was already very powerful and fearsome, especially for all those “leftovers” of the НЭП, various private enterprisers and, especially, scammers and financial criminals like Остап Бендер. Nope, there are no such characters in their book, not even the slightest idea that such people ever existed. There are only very nice, fair, and sometimes helpless “militiamen” with whom the authors sympathize a lot.
Even the last episode of the book is very remarkable in this regard: apparently, Остап Бендер easily passes Soviet border guards (who, as we know now, were never simple soldiers; almost all border guard structures in the USSR, especially at the Western borders of the country, were specially trained OGPU/NKVD soldiers, whose main objective was to stop such people as Остап Бендер from fleeing the country and, especially, from smuggling any valuables with them) but could not avoid an “extraneous” obstacle: unexpectedly greedy and ruthless Romanian border guards. Yeah, sure, that’s exactly what would happen )).
The pro-Soviet tone (again, mostly reluctant and full of artificial “sweeteners”) is also very well seen in the main existential crisis of Остап Бендер: he does not know what to do with his money, he basically cannot buy anything, and he overall cannot find his place in this country as he is not an honest “proletarian,” and at the same time, he somehow comes to a conclusion that emigration would not solve his problems.
“— А как Рио-де-Жанейро, — возбужденно спросил Балаганов. — Поедем?
— Ну его к черту! — с неожиданной злостью сказал Остап. — Все это выдумка, нет никакого Рио-де-Жанейро, и Америки нет, и Европы нет, ничего нет. И вообще последний город — это Шепетовка, о которую разбиваются волны Атлантического океана.
— Ну и дела! — вздохнул Балаганов.
— Мне один доктор все объяснил, — продолжал Остап, — заграница — это миф о загробной жизни. Кто туда попадает, тот не возвращается.”
For anyone who knew the reality of Soviet life at the time, these places in the book looked like a confession of the authors: yes, we are obliged to do it, as much as we hate it; yes, we are disgusted by ourselves but we cannot do otherwise; sorry guys, we fucked up, sorry to all of you, especially to you, Великий Комбинатор.
(Of course, the state was happily accepting all the money it could get from any remains of “millionaires”; of course, it was interested in confiscating all the valuables it could find in private possessions — and that’s why “Торгсин” shops were founded, and we understand that such people as Остап Бендер would be forced to gradually exchange all their diamonds to bread just to survive; of course, such people as Остап Бендер or Александр Корейко would be immediately found by the OGPU/NKVD and required to give up everything they had; and of course, emigration was the only possible way for them to live any decent life, especially if they had the money for this, and that’s why almost nobody was allowed to emigrate, especially with their valuables.)
So yeah, it was a very illuminating read from a historical point of view, and I am glad that I re-read it now, when I already understand the real background of the story and can see what was shown to us (even through satire and feuilleton-like essays) and what was deliberately NOT shown. It would be extremely interesting to discuss the book with somebody from this point of view, but, as I understand, there are already several new generations of readers who do not even understand what this book means.
Still love it, though. Excellent writing, exciting story, unique and outstanding characters of all kinds, hundreds of immortal memes, an inimitable cocktail of charisma, insolence, innocence, and kindness, and beloved Великий Комбинатор.
“Командовать парадом буду я!”
“Двенадцать стульев” and “Золотой телёнок” were very remarkable books to me: I read them first at a quite young age (and re-read several times after that) and, although I definitely was too stupid and immature to understand everything, I somehow still loved them instantly and basically just “inhaled” them; they became part of my internal vocabulary and way of thinking to a large extent (the irony, the joyful curiosity, the inventiveness, the lightness, the generosity, the kindness and nobleness in a world of crookery, etc.). I was thinking in quotes from these books and remembered long episodes almost word by word. I can see now that many people of my age or younger have no idea why these books belong to “cult reads,” and it is impossible to explain to them what is so cool about them. This year, I wanted to re-read them and probably re-assess them for myself, as I try to do now with the books that were “mind-shaping” for me (especially if they were Soviet/Russian). (Accidentally, I started with “Золотой телёнок,” and it looks like “Двенадцать стульев” will be re-read next year. It’s OK, I don’t mind the “wrong” order.)
The re-reading was quite interesting. I discovered that I still remember most of the book very well and even can see that I understood it then mostly correctly (although I thought that I had just some random fragments of it in my mind by now). And it is still cool and awesome, yes. However, today the book looks extremely sad to me. I never thought before that it is so sad. Contrary to a quite dark, even gory ending of “Двенадцать стульев,” “Золотой телёнок” ends on an almost comical note, with the famous laugh-inducing and relieving “Графа Монте-Кристо из меня не вышло. Придется переквалифицироваться в управдомы.” — and yet it feels much more depressing and dead-end, especially when you understand the real background of this book.
I don’t know why exactly Ильф & Петров decided to write a sequel to “Двенадцать стульев” and even resuscitated Остап Бендер for this purpose, but it looks like they understood about life in this country now much more and much sadder things than it was when they were writing playful and spunky “Двенадцать стульев.” Did they want to translate their mood into this book and share this sadness with their readers in the only possible way, or it just happened involuntarily? I don’t know.
“Двенадцать стульев” was written in 1927, when the decent Soviet intelligentsia still sincerely believed that the Soviet project was a promising and progressive one, and the life was mostly versatile, vibrant, and funny at the time, despite all the current problems and discomforts. I suppose Ильф & Петров were very sincere there reflecting their attitude to the “former aristocracy” and other idiots. In “Золотой телёнок,” their laughter feels much more arbitrary and confused, sometimes definitely stretched and unnatural (like with “ксендзы”), but mostly sad and embarrassed — everything looks extremely stupid and increasingly depressing in this society, and what is not stupid, was an obvious lie (very understandable but still a lie).
“Золотой телёнок” was written in 1931, when the last remains of the “НЭП” were liquidated, workers in cities were “mobilized” for a massive “industrialization” project, and peasants in villages were totally stripped of all their food and other means to survive, effectively becoming slaves, the lowest caste deprived of basic civil rights in this “society of workers and peasants.” It was the time when the USSR was bursting with peasant uprisings (especially in Ukraine), and the government was confiscating more and more food from them — now in order to inhibit any ability to protest and revolt with the help of famine. Just in a couple of years, they would organize deliberate Holodomors with millions of deaths from starvation and thus suppress any ability to protest among peasants, but in 1931, they had already started this process, and peasants were already suffering immensely. You should keep this picture in mind when you read “Золотой телёнок,” which was written at the same time and which tries to reflect “real life” to some extent — but only “to some extent,” of course. You can see those obvious “gaps” in the story, the light jokes in the places where in reality the most awful things were going on, and you understand the sadness seeping on you from the pages of this book — sadness about the betrayal the authors undoubtedly felt about themselves and sadness about life in this country overall.
I was reading this book in parallel with “Алхимия советской индустриализации. Время Торгсина” by Елена Осокина, and it was the most interesting and enlightening experience, as both books tell about the same time (“Торгсин” was founded in 1930 and would become the main way of depriving peasants of their last possessions during the artificial famine in just a couple of years) and the same place (Ukraine, South-Eastern Russia, Kazakhstan — all the regions that were deliberately targeted by the vehement “peasant-breaking campaign” and ensuing artificial famine in these most fertile and agriculturally developed regions, and it was where the network of “Торгсин” shops was the most developed, respectively). If you KNOW all this, you can see clearly how accurately and thoroughly Ильф & Петров evade the main subject that was definitely bothering them. You are just left with all-permeating sadness and feeling of guilt or shame probably.
“Казахи с криками усадили путешественников между горбами, помогли привязать чемодан, мешок и провизию на дорогу — бурдюк с кумысом и двух баранов. Верблюды поднялись сперва на задние ноги, отчего миллионеры низко поклонились, а потом на передние ноги и зашагали вдоль полотна Восточной Магистрали. Бараны, привязанные веревочками, трусили позади, время от времени катя шарики и блея душераздирающим образом.
— Эй, шейх Корейко! — крикнул Остап. — Александр Ибн-Иванович! Прекрасна ли жизнь?
Шейх ничего не ответил. Ему попался ледащий верблюд, и он яростно лупил его по плешивому заду саксауловой палкой.”
It was also interesting to reconsider my attitude to the degree of the authors’ collaboration with the government at this stage. For a more naive reader, “Золотой телёнок” may look like an acerbic satire directed first of all to Soviet bureaucracy and other idiocies of the Soviet lifestyle. Someone may even imagine that the book is “anti-Soviet” or “dissident” to a large extent. Nope, it is more pro-Soviet than not, although I can agree with the thought that Ильф & Петров were already reluctant about it at the time, not sincere, and definitely not enthusiastic. Note how thoroughly they avoid any mentionings of the OGPU, which would become known as “NKVD” a couple of years later but was already very powerful and fearsome, especially for all those “leftovers” of the НЭП, various private enterprisers and, especially, scammers and financial criminals like Остап Бендер. Nope, there are no such characters in their book, not even the slightest idea that such people ever existed. There are only very nice, fair, and sometimes helpless “militiamen” with whom the authors sympathize a lot.
Even the last episode of the book is very remarkable in this regard: apparently, Остап Бендер easily passes Soviet border guards (who, as we know now, were never simple soldiers; almost all border guard structures in the USSR, especially at the Western borders of the country, were specially trained OGPU/NKVD soldiers, whose main objective was to stop such people as Остап Бендер from fleeing the country and, especially, from smuggling any valuables with them) but could not avoid an “extraneous” obstacle: unexpectedly greedy and ruthless Romanian border guards. Yeah, sure, that’s exactly what would happen )).
The pro-Soviet tone (again, mostly reluctant and full of artificial “sweeteners”) is also very well seen in the main existential crisis of Остап Бендер: he does not know what to do with his money, he basically cannot buy anything, and he overall cannot find his place in this country as he is not an honest “proletarian,” and at the same time, he somehow comes to a conclusion that emigration would not solve his problems.
“— А как Рио-де-Жанейро, — возбужденно спросил Балаганов. — Поедем?
— Ну его к черту! — с неожиданной злостью сказал Остап. — Все это выдумка, нет никакого Рио-де-Жанейро, и Америки нет, и Европы нет, ничего нет. И вообще последний город — это Шепетовка, о которую разбиваются волны Атлантического океана.
— Ну и дела! — вздохнул Балаганов.
— Мне один доктор все объяснил, — продолжал Остап, — заграница — это миф о загробной жизни. Кто туда попадает, тот не возвращается.”
For anyone who knew the reality of Soviet life at the time, these places in the book looked like a confession of the authors: yes, we are obliged to do it, as much as we hate it; yes, we are disgusted by ourselves but we cannot do otherwise; sorry guys, we fucked up, sorry to all of you, especially to you, Великий Комбинатор.
(Of course, the state was happily accepting all the money it could get from any remains of “millionaires”; of course, it was interested in confiscating all the valuables it could find in private possessions — and that’s why “Торгсин” shops were founded, and we understand that such people as Остап Бендер would be forced to gradually exchange all their diamonds to bread just to survive; of course, such people as Остап Бендер or Александр Корейко would be immediately found by the OGPU/NKVD and required to give up everything they had; and of course, emigration was the only possible way for them to live any decent life, especially if they had the money for this, and that’s why almost nobody was allowed to emigrate, especially with their valuables.)
So yeah, it was a very illuminating read from a historical point of view, and I am glad that I re-read it now, when I already understand the real background of the story and can see what was shown to us (even through satire and feuilleton-like essays) and what was deliberately NOT shown. It would be extremely interesting to discuss the book with somebody from this point of view, but, as I understand, there are already several new generations of readers who do not even understand what this book means.
Still love it, though. Excellent writing, exciting story, unique and outstanding characters of all kinds, hundreds of immortal memes, an inimitable cocktail of charisma, insolence, innocence, and kindness, and beloved Великий Комбинатор.
“Командовать парадом буду я!”
April 27, 2020
Kaip išsiaiškinti, ar skaitomas kūrinys vertas klasikos vardo?
Tada, kai pasitikrini, kada rašytas kūrinys, paaiškėja, jog prieš beveik šimtą metų, o autoriai lyg į vandenį žiūrėjo.
„Bekraštės stepės toliai skleidė tokius gaivius kvapus, kad atsidūręs Ostapo vietoje koks nors kaimo rašytojas vidutiniokas iš grupės „Plieninis tešmuo“ nesusilaikytų neišlipęs, atsisėstų žolėje ir nieko nelaukdamas savo kelioniniame bloknote pradėtų rašyti naują apysaką: „Aure išputojo žiemkenčiai. Išsilaisvino iš apdarų saulelė motulė ir paskleidė savo spindulėlius po margąjį svietelį. Pauostė senis Romualdičius savo autą ir net išsirietė visas...“
Literatūros mokytojai, duokit šitą knygą dvyliktokams. Seriously.
„Aukso veršis“ man patiko labiau nei „Dvylika kėdžių“. Pastarasis kūrinys – daugiau mažiau – „Žiurkių lenktynės“. O čia panašu, kad prieš rašydami šią knygą, Ilfas ir Petrovas ne tik liežuvius pasigalando, bet dar ir pykčio pamarinavo. Į sistemos daržą dideliu greičiu lekia jau net ne akmenukai, o visas Puntukas, ir dar sumaniai apdangstytas propagandos popieriumi. Ir vis dėlto jo smūgio užteko, kad „Aukso veršio“ ekranizacijų būtų mažiau ir kad jos būtų vėlesnės.
Jau net ne šaipomasi, o tyčiojamasi. Iš visko: tarybinės kontoros gyvenimo, posėdžių/susitikimų kultūros (puikiai tinka šiuolaikinei meetings kultūrai), darbo „efektyvinimo“, standartizacijos (Polichajevo štampukas), turistinių papročių, religinių organizacijų, primiršusių savo pirminę paskirtį, pseudointelektualų (įtariu, kad posakis „penkiacoliai jambai“ nuo „sermėginės tiesos“ parėjo), cenzūros (politizuoti ir propagandos prikimšti net rebusai), valdžios kišimosi į kiekvieną gyvenimo aspektą, (netgi sapnus, Karlai).
„Jegoras sakė teisingas kalbas apie tarybinę visuomenę, apie kultūrinį darbą, apie profsąjungų mokymą ir apie saviveiklos ratelius. Bet už tų karštų žodžių nieko nebuvo. Penkiolika politinių ir muzikini dramos ratelių jau dveji metai rengė savo perspektyvinius planus; laisvanoriškų draugijų būreliai, įkurti chemijos žinioms gilinti, aviacijai, automobilizmui, jojimui, kelių tiesimui, taip pat spartesniam didžiavalstybinio šovinizmo išnaikinimui remti – gyvavo tik karščiuojančioje vietos komiteto narių vaizduotėje. O profsąjungų mokymo mokykla, kurios kūrimą Skumbrijevičius laikė ypatingu savo nuopelnu, nuolat reformavosi, o tai, kaip žinoma, reiškia visišką neveiklumą.“
Apie biblinių siužetų sugretinimą su tarybinės visuomenės tvėrimu išvis patylėsiu.
„Aukso veršis“ kapsto giliau ir aprėpia daugiau plotmių. Vien dėl to, kad labai daug kritikuojamų reiškinių per beveik šimtmetį niekur nedingo. Kaip tik, būtent šioje knygoje aprašomoje epochoje jie užgimė ir nusistovėjo jų veikimo principai. Tūkstantmečių sandūros žmogui šią knygą be išankstinio pasiruošimo skaityti sunku (prireikia ir istorinių žinių, ir tėvų ar senelių, kad kontekstą paaiškintų, ir „Google“), tačiau lengviau nei „Dvylika kėdžių“. Būtent dėlto, kad „Aukso veršio“ laikmetis sudėjo pagrindus mūsų šiuolaikiniam gyvenimui. Komunalinio buto realijos bus suprantamos visiems, kam kliuvo laimė rinkti pinigus daugiabučio stogo taisymui.
Vietų, kur juoktumeisi vien dėl to, kad turėtų būti juokinga, „Aukso veršyje“ mažiau nei „Dvylikoj kėdžių“. Gal čia vertimo dalykas? Situacijų ir personažų deus ex machina stiliumi irgi mažiau. Vis dėlto, nepatiko negrabiai ties dviem trečdaliais knygos pamesti personažai ir taip sau įkišta Zofijos linija. Knygos pabaiga ištęsta ir didaktika dvelkė. „Dvylika kėdžių“ čia man patiko labiau.
Bet ką čia, „Aukso veršį“ perskaityti verta – tikimybė, kad rasite sau artimą kritiką netobulam pasauliui – nemenka.
Tada, kai pasitikrini, kada rašytas kūrinys, paaiškėja, jog prieš beveik šimtą metų, o autoriai lyg į vandenį žiūrėjo.
„Bekraštės stepės toliai skleidė tokius gaivius kvapus, kad atsidūręs Ostapo vietoje koks nors kaimo rašytojas vidutiniokas iš grupės „Plieninis tešmuo“ nesusilaikytų neišlipęs, atsisėstų žolėje ir nieko nelaukdamas savo kelioniniame bloknote pradėtų rašyti naują apysaką: „Aure išputojo žiemkenčiai. Išsilaisvino iš apdarų saulelė motulė ir paskleidė savo spindulėlius po margąjį svietelį. Pauostė senis Romualdičius savo autą ir net išsirietė visas...“
Literatūros mokytojai, duokit šitą knygą dvyliktokams. Seriously.
„Aukso veršis“ man patiko labiau nei „Dvylika kėdžių“. Pastarasis kūrinys – daugiau mažiau – „Žiurkių lenktynės“. O čia panašu, kad prieš rašydami šią knygą, Ilfas ir Petrovas ne tik liežuvius pasigalando, bet dar ir pykčio pamarinavo. Į sistemos daržą dideliu greičiu lekia jau net ne akmenukai, o visas Puntukas, ir dar sumaniai apdangstytas propagandos popieriumi. Ir vis dėlto jo smūgio užteko, kad „Aukso veršio“ ekranizacijų būtų mažiau ir kad jos būtų vėlesnės.
Jau net ne šaipomasi, o tyčiojamasi. Iš visko: tarybinės kontoros gyvenimo, posėdžių/susitikimų kultūros (puikiai tinka šiuolaikinei meetings kultūrai), darbo „efektyvinimo“, standartizacijos (Polichajevo štampukas), turistinių papročių, religinių organizacijų, primiršusių savo pirminę paskirtį, pseudointelektualų (įtariu, kad posakis „penkiacoliai jambai“ nuo „sermėginės tiesos“ parėjo), cenzūros (politizuoti ir propagandos prikimšti net rebusai), valdžios kišimosi į kiekvieną gyvenimo aspektą, (netgi sapnus, Karlai).
„Jegoras sakė teisingas kalbas apie tarybinę visuomenę, apie kultūrinį darbą, apie profsąjungų mokymą ir apie saviveiklos ratelius. Bet už tų karštų žodžių nieko nebuvo. Penkiolika politinių ir muzikini dramos ratelių jau dveji metai rengė savo perspektyvinius planus; laisvanoriškų draugijų būreliai, įkurti chemijos žinioms gilinti, aviacijai, automobilizmui, jojimui, kelių tiesimui, taip pat spartesniam didžiavalstybinio šovinizmo išnaikinimui remti – gyvavo tik karščiuojančioje vietos komiteto narių vaizduotėje. O profsąjungų mokymo mokykla, kurios kūrimą Skumbrijevičius laikė ypatingu savo nuopelnu, nuolat reformavosi, o tai, kaip žinoma, reiškia visišką neveiklumą.“
Apie biblinių siužetų sugretinimą su tarybinės visuomenės tvėrimu išvis patylėsiu.
„Aukso veršis“ kapsto giliau ir aprėpia daugiau plotmių. Vien dėl to, kad labai daug kritikuojamų reiškinių per beveik šimtmetį niekur nedingo. Kaip tik, būtent šioje knygoje aprašomoje epochoje jie užgimė ir nusistovėjo jų veikimo principai. Tūkstantmečių sandūros žmogui šią knygą be išankstinio pasiruošimo skaityti sunku (prireikia ir istorinių žinių, ir tėvų ar senelių, kad kontekstą paaiškintų, ir „Google“), tačiau lengviau nei „Dvylika kėdžių“. Būtent dėlto, kad „Aukso veršio“ laikmetis sudėjo pagrindus mūsų šiuolaikiniam gyvenimui. Komunalinio buto realijos bus suprantamos visiems, kam kliuvo laimė rinkti pinigus daugiabučio stogo taisymui.
Vietų, kur juoktumeisi vien dėl to, kad turėtų būti juokinga, „Aukso veršyje“ mažiau nei „Dvylikoj kėdžių“. Gal čia vertimo dalykas? Situacijų ir personažų deus ex machina stiliumi irgi mažiau. Vis dėlto, nepatiko negrabiai ties dviem trečdaliais knygos pamesti personažai ir taip sau įkišta Zofijos linija. Knygos pabaiga ištęsta ir didaktika dvelkė. „Dvylika kėdžių“ čia man patiko labiau.
Bet ką čia, „Aukso veršį“ perskaityti verta – tikimybė, kad rasite sau artimą kritiką netobulam pasauliui – nemenka.
August 22, 2024
باسمه
🔰 غولهای ادبیات روسی جوری نمود دارن که باقی آثار خوبشون کمتر به چشم میاد. به نظرم توی این زمینه، حتماً باید به آثار ایلف و پتروف اشاره کرد؛ یعنی دوگانه «دوازده صندلی» و «گوساله طلایی». تابستون سال گذشته بود که دوازده صندلی رو خوندم و در اولین روز آخرین ماه تابستون امسال، گوساله طلایی هم به پایان رسید. یه سری توضیحات کلی و همینطور در مورد نویسندگان مشترک این کتابها، ایلف و پتروف، هست که قبلاً توی یادداشت مربوط به کتاب اول نوشته بودم. اگه براتون جالب بود، اون متن رو هم بخونین.
🔰 گوساله طلایی دنبالهای مستقل برای کتاب دوازده صندلی هست. اثری با محوریت شخص شخیص آستاپ بندر که این بار میشه کمتر از دستش حرص خورد - چون طرف حسابش ایندفعه واقعاً آدم خلافکاری هست - و بیشتر بهش خندید. آستاپ مشخصاً پختهتر - و بامزهتر - عمل میکنه. شیرینی طنز رو در پیوستگی مطالب احساس میکنین؛ اینه که نتونستم بریدهای از کتاب رو به اشتراک بذارم. واقعاً مزه شوخیها از دست میرفت!
🔰 ما با یه سفر دور و دراز مواجهیم؛ سفری پر از شخصیت و موقعیت... با آستاپ در شهرهای مختلفی رو همراه شدم و ماجراهای زیادی رو تجربه کردم. خوندم و خندیدم و به فکر فرو رفتم... فکر اینکه هر تصمیم چقدر نتایج عجیب و غریبی میتونه داشته باشه... بخشهایی از کتاب باعث میشد عمیقاً افسوس بخورم؛ افسوسی برای از دست رفتن دنیاهای گذشته افراد... این مدت خواه ناخواه زیاد به این موضوع فکر میکنم و همین بخشها باعث میشد ببینم این تأثر محدود به خودم هم نیست؛ برای مثال از ساختارها، کشورها و شخصیتهایی توی کتاب صحبت شده که چند سال بعد از درگذشت ایلف و پتروف هم اثری ازشون نمونده... بماند که کل اون زیستبوم هم الآن اثری ازش نیست... بگذریم... شاید بعداً در موردش نوشتم...
🔰 ترجمه کتاب گرچه به پای کار آقای گلکار نرسیده؛ اما کار راه بنداز هست. توضیحات کمی برای اصطلاحات و اسامی داده شده که اگه کنجکاو باشین، زحمت جستجوی اون با خودتونه. از لحاظ ویرایشی هم ایراداتی به متن وارده؛ اما نه به اندازه روکش جلد کتاب که تا آخر مطالعه، گوشههاش بلند شدن...
✅ خوشحالم که آثار ناشناخته (البته برای ما) ایلف و پتروف رو خوندم. لحظات خوشایندی رو با شخصیتها سپری کردم. همچنان هم این کتابها رو به افرادی که برای شروع مطالعه ادبیات روسی مردد هستن، توصیه میکنم و پیشنهاد مطالعهاش رو به شما هم میدم ❤️
❗اگه کتاب رو مطالعه نکردین، بند آخر رو نخونین: ❗
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🔰 مثل آخر دوازده صندلی، در پایان اینجا هم تلنگر عجیبی بهم وارد شد... اینکه بعضی مواقع چقدر سعی و تلاش میتونه به آنی به هیچ و پوچ تبدیل بشه. تصمیمات بندر و نتایجش برای خودش، زوسیا و حتی پانیکوفسکی... سرنوشت محتومی که انگار قریب به اتفاق شخصیتهای ریز و درشت باهاش مواجه بودن؛ به صورت خاص بالگانوف... به صورت خاص تنهایی آستاپ...
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🔰 غولهای ادبیات روسی جوری نمود دارن که باقی آثار خوبشون کمتر به چشم میاد. به نظرم توی این زمینه، حتماً باید به آثار ایلف و پتروف اشاره کرد؛ یعنی دوگانه «دوازده صندلی» و «گوساله طلایی». تابستون سال گذشته بود که دوازده صندلی رو خوندم و در اولین روز آخرین ماه تابستون امسال، گوساله طلایی هم به پایان رسید. یه سری توضیحات کلی و همینطور در مورد نویسندگان مشترک این کتابها، ایلف و پتروف، هست که قبلاً توی یادداشت مربوط به کتاب اول نوشته بودم. اگه براتون جالب بود، اون متن رو هم بخونین.
🔰 گوساله طلایی دنبالهای مستقل برای کتاب دوازده صندلی هست. اثری با محوریت شخص شخیص آستاپ بندر که این بار میشه کمتر از دستش حرص خورد - چون طرف حسابش ایندفعه واقعاً آدم خلافکاری هست - و بیشتر بهش خندید. آستاپ مشخصاً پختهتر - و بامزهتر - عمل میکنه. شیرینی طنز رو در پیوستگی مطالب احساس میکنین؛ اینه که نتونستم بریدهای از کتاب رو به اشتراک بذارم. واقعاً مزه شوخیها از دست میرفت!
🔰 ما با یه سفر دور و دراز مواجهیم؛ سفری پر از شخصیت و موقعیت... با آستاپ در شهرهای مختلفی رو همراه شدم و ماجراهای زیادی رو تجربه کردم. خوندم و خندیدم و به فکر فرو رفتم... فکر اینکه هر تصمیم چقدر نتایج عجیب و غریبی میتونه داشته باشه... بخشهایی از کتاب باعث میشد عمیقاً افسوس بخورم؛ افسوسی برای از دست رفتن دنیاهای گذشته افراد... این مدت خواه ناخواه زیاد به این موضوع فکر میکنم و همین بخشها باعث میشد ببینم این تأثر محدود به خودم هم نیست؛ برای مثال از ساختارها، کشورها و شخصیتهایی توی کتاب صحبت شده که چند سال بعد از درگذشت ایلف و پتروف هم اثری ازشون نمونده... بماند که کل اون زیستبوم هم الآن اثری ازش نیست... بگذریم... شاید بعداً در موردش نوشتم...
🔰 ترجمه کتاب گرچه به پای کار آقای گلکار نرسیده؛ اما کار راه بنداز هست. توضیحات کمی برای اصطلاحات و اسامی داده شده که اگه کنجکاو باشین، زحمت جستجوی اون با خودتونه. از لحاظ ویرایشی هم ایراداتی به متن وارده؛ اما نه به اندازه روکش جلد کتاب که تا آخر مطالعه، گوشههاش بلند شدن...
✅ خوشحالم که آثار ناشناخته (البته برای ما) ایلف و پتروف رو خوندم. لحظات خوشایندی رو با شخصیتها سپری کردم. همچنان هم این کتابها رو به افرادی که برای شروع مطالعه ادبیات روسی مردد هستن، توصیه میکنم و پیشنهاد مطالعهاش رو به شما هم میدم ❤️
❗اگه کتاب رو مطالعه نکردین، بند آخر رو نخونین: ❗
.
.
.
.
.
⚠️⚠️⚠️⚠️
🔰 مثل آخر دوازده صندلی، در پایان اینجا هم تلنگر عجیبی بهم وارد شد... اینکه بعضی مواقع چقدر سعی و تلاش میتونه به آنی به هیچ و پوچ تبدیل بشه. تصمیمات بندر و نتایجش برای خودش، زوسیا و حتی پانیکوفسکی... سرنوشت محتومی که انگار قریب به اتفاق شخصیتهای ریز و درشت باهاش مواجه بودن؛ به صورت خاص بالگانوف... به صورت خاص تنهایی آستاپ...
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