Ludmila Ulitskaya's award-winning novel Kukotsky Case (AKA Kukotsky Enigma) just released in Czech by PASEKA as Případ Kukockij (tr. by Alena Machoninová).
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Ceylon, a novel by Yuri Buida (2015)
Rights sold: Russia - EKSMO
Longlisted for the 2016 NOS literary award
Longlisted for the 2016 Big Book literary award
Yuri Buida's Ceylon is a family chronicle narrated in first person by Andrei Cherepnin, the last living representative of his family. Generation after generation, Cherepnins played a significant role in the life of a small provincial town Osorin; their private lives became integral part of its history, of the history of Russia. They were among the founders of the city, they have grown up and developed with it, they actively participated to the first industrial revolution, then to WWI and the Bolshevik revolution, the family was torn apart by the Russian Civil War, it survived the WWII, then the collapse of the Soviet Union and the Perestroika, and faced up with a new reality of modern Russia.
Family history of Cherepnins - just as the history of Russia - features an endless line of secrets, betrayals, deaths, and recompenses for their sins: narrator's great-grandfather, a prominent revolutionary, once executed his own brother, who was a counter-revolutionary. Narrator's grandfather, a director of the military plant, killed a murderer of his granddaughter. Life Andrei is also overfilled with losses and deaths of his most loved ones.
Ceylon is a parable novel, a tale of a broken reality, of the world nearing its end, but still aching for the impossible ideal, for the City of Sun. In Buida's vision, the Cherpnins are the metaphoric depiction of Russia. Their deliberate or intuitive intents to put together their broken lives only lead them to a new tragedy. The only thing that remains intact, and gives them strength to continue is their permanent longing for love and their native ability to share love with others.
(From the review published by Lizok's Bookshelf blog):
I might not call Yuri Buida's Цейлон (Ceylon) the author's headiest or most metaphysical novel—I definitely prefer both his Blue Blood and Zero Train—but Ceylon, like Poison and Honey, his previous book, is thoroughly readable and enjoyable. Lots of Ceylon felt familiar after reading several other Buida novels: part of my enjoyment, I suspect, came from just that because I love observing how authors reuse structures and tropes in various books. That familiarity may also help explain why I think Ceylon feels more accessible and mainstream (these aren't bad words!) to me than, say, his Blue Blood or Zero Train...
As with Blue Blood and Poison and Honey, a family home feels like a key character in Ceylon: in this case, as in Poison, there's a house on a hill. The area it's in is known as "Ceylon," which reminds of how a building in Blue Blood is known as "Africa." Both those names are introduced early in their respective novels, leading to questions about the origins of the building names. In the case of Ceylon, named thusly by a traveler in the eighteenth century enamored of the island, there were early attempts to dress up dogs as tigers, boys as monkeys, and wooden structures as palm trees. Not quite a tropical paradise but an attempt at paradise nevertheless and (long story short, since of course there's much more to things) the place, though not the original house, which burned, is now home to the Cherepin family, five generations of which are described in varying levels of detail in the book by Andrei Ilyich Cherepin, a first-person narrator who's genial and, though heavily involved in events, feels surprisingly reliable.
Ceylon, though, feels almost more like some form of "absurd realism" or at least "quirky realism" to me, what with brothers on opposite sides at revolution time—this, by the way, feels like another case of attempts at paradise, of which there are many in Ceylon and Ceylon, including through marriage—and a taxidermied bear and unlikely loves and a woman dancing the lambada at the grave of her son, who died in Chechnya. There's lots of everyday oddity. And I nearly forgot the big elm tree growing through the house. A sort of family tree.
There's a lot of history, too: Andrei's first job is at a dig, where he charms all the young women, he goes on to be a teacher, work at the local museum, and write his dissertation about local history that includes his family. Digs and cultural layers come up a lot in contemporary Russian fiction and Buida piles together Russian history, local history, and family history for the reader to dig through, working in the two brothers' conflicts about the revolution—I mention this again because I thought it's one of the strongest and best-integrated subplots in the book, with its combination of "big" history and family history—the military-industrial complex, whose secrets another family member keeps; the crime-ridden banditry of the nineties; the wars in Chechnya; and even the conflict in Ukraine. Some of these chunks of history are more successful than others, I think: as often happens in fiction, particularly family sagas that draw on and reflect a country's history, more distant events usually feel better contextualized and grounded than those more recent.
In the end, though, the town cemetery, known as Red Mountain, felt almost more significant to me than Ceylon, both because Andrei speaks, early on, of his youthful hope for immortality and because his grandfather has taken on a gigantic cemetery renovation project (financed in a way that doesn't sound perfectly legal) that dovetails nicely with Andrei's thoughts about the afterlife at the end of the book, when he's the father of three (almost four) children and has described rather dramatic losses of family members. There's a lot of mortality in Ceylon but also lots of birth.
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Three Characters in Search of Love and Immortality, a novel by Olga Medvedkova (2020)
Rights sold: Russia - NLO
Shortlisted for the 2021 Andrei Bely Award
Finalist of the 2021 NOS Award
Longlisted for the 2021 Piatigorsky Award
The three characters of the title are the central characters of three separate stories, united only by the title of the book – and yet… In the afterword to the book Medvedkova writes:
"What do they have in common? At first sight nothing... three stories, three epochs, three different countries; three ways of life, thought, feelings; three modes of narrative, proper to those countries and to those times.
A medieval princess is for some unknown reason taken somewhere, and she finds herself in a totally different world, in a Renaissance Italy, and there she meets with…
In mid-eighteenth century a smart widow conducts, deftly and tastefully, her publishing business in a provincial French town. Everything follows a well-thought-out plan and suddenly…
A Polish philologist, born in London at the end of the nineteenth century, looks out the window of his Roman flat at the Aventin hill, dreaming about something. Then, at the risk of his life, goes down the stairs and out in the street, and…
So what do they have in common ? Just one thing: in the turmoil of events and circumstances all three search for love and immortality."
This is a highly unusual book. Deeply human, even when it is cruel, and human in a universal way. It is so elusive that a good way to describe it is by saying what it is not. It is not concerned with social, historical, or psychological “problems," it does not try to stir up the past or peek into the future, it is not a utopia or dystopia, nor is it a murder mystery (there is a murder in one of the stories, but there is so much more), nor a love story (one of them is a wonderful love story, but so much more), nor an intellectual riddle (one of them is about an intellectual quest, but again, there is so much more). It portrays, with a very light touch, characters who live – each in his/her own way, tragically or happily – through something like a revelation or transfiguration. It is as if a miracle happened to each of them, a miracle along the lines indicated in the title.
It is useless to retell these stories, because there is a mystery in them that will evaporate in retelling. The narrative is not a subject with its logic leading from a beginning to an end; it works rather as a special sort of freedom, a gift of chance, not a fatum that follows the rules of a genre. All three stories end well. Not in the sense of a ‘’happy end’’, although there is that, too, but in the sense of the heroes’ secret yearnings being fulfilled.
Medvedkova’s prose is refined without being highbrow. The language of each of the novellas is a stylization done as a conscious playing with the tradition of European prose. And yet it does not leave one with the feeling of an intellectual excercise or of superficial brilliance; rather it feels like a true picture of human life, with all its fragility and its force.
At the same time there is not a drop of sentimentality in these stories. They are told soberly and poetically, in a dream-like language that feels like a translation from every language into Russian. It takes place, as the author herself says, “in wonderful in-between spaces, in which the characters live and breathe freely.”
There is a universality in this book that touches the minds and resonates in the hearts of all sorts of readers, from the simple and naive to the most sophisticated. Readers react as if all three heroes are our contemporaries.The publication of the book in Russia, in the fall of 2020, has been followed by a flood of responses, personal and on social platforms, from all sorts of people. And also by a host of positive reviews in newspapers, internet magazines, and platforms. The publisher has presented it for the “Big Book” award, a prestigious prize for the best book of the year.
Yes, immortality, immortality… that’s the whole point, and it seems that the author herself seeks for it, while sending her heroes, her scouts to reconnoiter… And, above all, she does find what she's searching for! -- Olga Balla-Gertman, Colta.ru
...what comes to the forefront is the level of the writing itself. In Medvedkova it is magic, supple, precise, wise. It is adorned with the precious stones of finely chiseled metaphors. One can see that the author knows more than what she writes, and understands more than she knows. -- Dmitry Bavilsky, literary critic
There is in Medvedkova’s refined prose… the sense of European culture as her own and alien at the same time. This own-alien quality does not convey the habitual Russian drama of alienation, but there is in it the feeling of a special mischievous happiness that is granted to people who know how to wear masks (in this case the masks of foreign languages) while remaining themselves under them. -- Igor Gulin, literary critic, Kommersant.
The ability to create a world on the tips of her fingers, a world that is subject to love and at the same time is absolutely indestructible as it touches immortality – this is what constitutes uniqueness of Olga Medvedkova’s writing and reminds readers of the important possibilities of life and literature. -- Anna Berseneva, writer, Noviye Izvestia.
The book is originally written in Russian and has around 64.000 words.
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