Peter Owen/UNESCO, 566 pp., $37.95
Moscow: Ad Marginem, 317 pp.
Moscow: Eksmo, 384 pp.
'The Europeans look at us like we're shit, like we're animals!' Vovchik the Small, one of Victor Pelevin's angst-ridden mobsters, declares in the 1999 Generation P. 'It's because we don't have a national i-den-ti-ty.' Vovchik may as well have been speaking of Pelevin's writerly colleagues. What began as a wonderful new start for artistic freedom—with Pelevin, in his first major publication, dismissing the dissident movement with a reference to 'various Solzhenitsyns'—has become, instead, a continuous existential headache. Some have abandoned the craft entirely, others have begun to write for politicians and the movies, while still others have taken the prophetic leanings of the older generation in unexpected directions—the repatriated memoirist Edward Limonov, for one, recently left prison after serving two years for the illegal purchase of some Kalashnikov rifles. On the more serious charge, of plotting to invade Kazakhstan, he was acquitted.
Review, 5646 words
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