Where: Hoi An, Hanoi, Kuala Lumpur

Where: Hoi An, Hanoi, Kuala Lumpur

Ярко, сюрно, философски.

"- Кстати, не объясните ли вы, что такое зарука?

- Как? — наморщился Чапаев.

- Зарука, — повторил я.

- Где это вы услыхали?

- Если я не ошибаюсь, вы сами только что говорили с трибуны о своей командирской заруке.

- А, — улыбнулся Чапаев, — вот вы о чем. Знаете, Петр, когда приходится говорить с массой, совершенно не важно, понимаешь ли сам произносимые слова. Важно, чтобы их понимали другие. Нужно просто отразить ожидания толпы. Некоторые достигают этого, изучая язык, на котором говорит масса, а я предпочитаю действовать напрямую. Так что если вы хотите узнать, что такое «зарука», вам надо спрашивать не у меня, а у тех, кто стоит сейчас на площади."

Вот так и эта книга. ( )

Weird, deeply weird. Multiple storylines, interludes from other points of view, philosophy and history all rolled into one. The main character, Pyotr Voyd (the name is no accident), is in a present-day mental hospital, but he's also living a life in early-20th century Russia as an associate of Chapaev (an actual historical figure). Or is that just Pyotr's delusion? Does he need to be cured or does the rest of the world?

I'm not much for philosophy, and I admit that my knowledge of Russian history is spotty, but I enjoyed this book immensely. It prompted me to read a little about the Russian sense of humor and their liking for jokes in the form of anecdotes. Not something I would have expected to end up learning about! This one isn't really for linear thinkers, but if you're willing to give yourself up and go for the ride even when it gets absurd, I think you'll find it rewarding.

Recommended for: Buddhists, amateur philosophers, fans of stories within stories.

Quote: "As I grew older, I came to understand that the words 'to come round' actually mean 'to come round to other people's point of view,' because no sooner is one born than these other people begin explaining just how hard one must try to force oneself to assume a form which they find acceptable." ( )

Wow. This is one messed up book. It’s not typical messed up. It is screw-with your-head messed up. And it’s messing-with-novelistic-conventions (which I typically love) messed up.

When I started writing my first novel, Death by Zamboni, I had only one original intention in mind. To break every single convention of fiction writing that I could think of. I approached it from a comedic perspective and had fun with it. It’s also a satire, of course, of commercialism and “entertainment,” as it turned out and as such is often intentionally didactic. That’s about all I can claim in common with Buddha’s Little Finger, which is also often didactic, but in quite grim and oddly fascinating ways.

BLF (not to be confused with your BFF) is a tale split between two realities, both featuring the same main character. In one case, our hero, Pyotr Voyd (note the name, as in Void) kills a man who is about to turn him in as an anti-red during the 1919 Russian Civil War and then finds himself accidentally mistaken for the man he killed. He continues the ruse in order to escape detection and ends up becoming a heroic soldier with the Bolshevik army on the front lines. The other reality features our hero as a schizophrenic in a mental hospital in 1990’s Moscow. He slips from one reality to the other as in a dream, and he is unable to distinguish which is “real.” This dialogue between the two halves is a rather didactic demonstration of the Buddhist dictum that life is but a dream.*

The problem with this structure is, of course, that it doesn’t “prove” anything. It’s a literary technique. And as such has no greater weight than, say, Twilight proves the existence of vampires. It does make for an intriguing story, however, and the time travel effect allows for interesting symbolic juxtaposition of the communist war and the present decadence and poverty of Russian society.

Another didactic element used throughout the book is the Socratic dialogue. Many conversations in the book come across as debates about the nature of reality rather than as believable conversation. The most common sentence in the book is, “What do you mean?” (in various forms) in order to allow some character or another to expound a philosophical belief. Fortunately, the writing is solid, and the philosophy is fascinating so he manages to get away with it to my mind. And I appreciate his bravado at breaking the rules. Did I love it, though? No. The Buddhist philosophy strewn throughout this book was not very comforting. In fact, I found this to be a deeply sad and lonely book. It portrays a cold existence for our narrator. Some critics seem to find humor in the story, but for me, except for a brief moment or two, it was primarily bleak.

But the novel has stayed with me. BLF has a surreality to it that lingers in disturbing and creepy ways. It managed to get under my skin. Despite feeling forced at times, despite being didactic and in some ways misrepresentative of Buddhism, Pelevin captures the underlying sadness and absurdity of life. For that, along with the outstanding writing, I salute you.

*I note here that I have strong Buddhist leanings myself. There are many sects within Buddhism. Some of which are purely philosophy-focused, others being somewhat more religious in nature. And each variant has a different focus and or approach to what Buddhism means. Life being “a dream” is not necessarily a global Buddhist belief. Some Buddhist’s would say that there is nothing to believe at all. Other Buddhist beliefs discussed herein are even less accepted globally, such as the existence of limbo and reincarnation. Although Tibetan Buddhists believe in reincarnation, most Buddhists do not. ( )