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Contents. Monument There is a monument for the novel in the Borby Square, Moscow, by the artists Valery Kuznetsov and Sergei Mantserev, consisting of two sculptures. One shows a man clinging to the train station sign Moscow and the sentence 'You cannot trust an opinion of a person who hasn't yet got some ' written on the pedestal. The other one shows a young woman under the train station sign Petushki and the sentence 'In Petushki the jasmine never stops blooming and the birds always sing'.
Moscow to the End of the Line is a harrowing look at the link between addiction and madness with a sense of desperation akin to that of Hamson’s Hunger or, indeed, Dostoevsky’s Notes From Under the Carpet (as my Russian speaking professor use to insist was the actual title). The physical and mental slavery of addiction, in this case to spirits, is presented to the reader in ways that are both humorous (with a heavy dosage of the pitch-black) and horrifying. Erofeev stars in his own novel as the obsessive compulsive (but chaotic) alcoholic writer who finds himself waking up in hallways and lamenting the hours that will pass until the liquor stores open their doors. He measures everything in grams and their portents, beginning with a bizarre diagram delineating the connection between worker productivity and libation that ultimately loses him his job. The bulk of the novel recounts his subsequent trip from Moscow to Petrushki where, supposedly, a beautiful woman who bore him a child awaits at the station. On the train, where tickets are paid in grams of vodka, Erofeev finds himself a few drinking buddies and begins to wax both prosaic and poetic about the nature of hiccups and the connection between creation and the bottle. Plenty of this makes for hilarious reading.
After a litany of famous drunk authors are bantered about, Erofeev and his partner find themselves stumped by the case of Goethe – who supposedly never touched the bottle. Not content with this, they come to the conclusion that Goethe was of course an alcoholic – albeit a cowardly one who drinks vicariously through his characters. Comparing Goethe to a comrade who didn’t drink but all the same poured it down the throats of his friends, Erofeev solves the conundrum; “The same goes for your vaunted Johann von Goethe. Schiller would serve him something, but he would refuse – and how. He was an alcoholic, he was an alky, your Privy Counselor, Johann von Goethe, and his hands shook, as it were” (85). There are some more disturbing fun and games to be had on the train, although it all comes crashing down as Erofeev paints a picture of insanity that would be more comfortable if it could be taken for a case of serapionism rather than a hallucinatory bout with the DT’s. The end of Moscow to the End of the Line is fairly terrifying, although I would hardly toss out the word sobering.
The work is too twisted and drunk for that to enter into any realm of possibility.
Maybe the best book about Brezhnev's Russia imaginable. If you are the kind of person who has ever got drunk with friends, stormed a police station and then declared war on Norway then you will find much here that is familiar. It's a book rich in allusion starting from the title (Moscow to Petushki) and structure, which is reminiscent of Radishchev's,whose description of the country landed the author in a certain secure facility at the pleasure of her Imperial Maybe the best book about Brezhnev's Russia imaginable.
If you are the kind of person who has ever got drunk with friends, stormed a police station and then declared war on Norway then you will find much here that is familiar. It's a book rich in allusion starting from the title (Moscow to Petushki) and structure, which is reminiscent of Radishchev's,whose description of the country landed the author in a certain secure facility at the pleasure of her Imperial Highness Catherine II - it doesn't pay always to be too truthful about the homeland, but also in cocktail recipes (all of which are firmly in the 'do not try at home' category).
My father once working with a pair of alcoholics asked them how do you know when you've become an alcoholic and got past the probationary period of merely being a heavy drinker, said the first: when you find yourself straining metal polish. To which the second said: Nah, nah, you know that you're an alcoholic when you drink your metal polish neat this unoriginal anecdote is by no means is intended as a substitute for professional medical advice. And the cocktail recipes are much of that kind combining eye watering products such as Soviet medicated shampoos, the spiritual states that one finds ones self in after drinking are thoroughly detailed for the readers enlightenment. It's a drunken, tragic, comic book with some beautiful graphs plotting the daily drinking of a small team of theoretical cable layers who due to the drinking never seem to reach the phase of practical application. These graphs cost the narrator his job.
That's the kind of story this is. In other words it is a story about Breshnev's Russia in which opting out is achieved curtsey of our old friend intoxicating liquor. Zacchaeus bible story. But in a sense I've started this review from the bottom of the wrong glass. The narrator is on a train to visit his sweetheart, guarded by angels, with a bottle or two of spirits in his case in the event of the angels not being quite up to the job. He once worked laying cables in the vicinity of the Kremlin - a building he tells us repeatedly that he's never seen.
The work is reflective of Breshnev's Russia, they do a day's work in good weather, then rain obliges them to shelter in their rest hut with a bottle of the good stuff. Rain ruins cable, requiring them to relay cable in good weather. Anyway a degree of freedom is achieved through enslavement to the bottle. If dialectical materialism were turned on its head, something like angels would probably fall out. If you got drunk enough to cross Moscow a thousand times without ever seeing the Kremlin, something like freedom would happen, despite the State.
If poky old Petushki became Eden, just because you loved and it was there, materialism would be turned right side up again, but with the angels left in. That’s Erofeev, whose incredibly Russian cocktail of sadness & joy, shame, spirituality, and sensu If dialectical materialism were turned on its head, something like angels would probably fall out. If you got drunk enough to cross Moscow a thousand times without ever seeing the Kremlin, something like freedom would happen, despite the State.
If poky old Petushki became Eden, just because you loved and it was there, materialism would be turned right side up again, but with the angels left in. That’s Erofeev, whose incredibly Russian cocktail of sadness & joy, shame, spirituality, and sensual skewering of Lenin is Marxism’s inadvertent glory & a gorgeous f-you to Kremlins everywhere. Oh, crap, another Russian writer without a beard! It always makes me so sad.
Like seeing a squirrel without a tail. It seems unnatural, unfair. I'm impressed by his attempt at a Clark Gable 'stache though. So in the little bit of research I did on this book I found that it's considered a 'postmodernist prose poem' which I didn't necessarily pick up on while I was reading it. (The 'poem' bit, I mean - the 'postmodernist' part was quite evident.) Now I'm not sure what to think. I feel like Oh, crap, another Russian writer without a beard! It always makes me so sad.
Like seeing a squirrel without a tail. It seems unnatural, unfair. I'm impressed by his attempt at a Clark Gable 'stache though. So in the little bit of research I did on this book I found that it's considered a 'postmodernist prose poem' which I didn't necessarily pick up on while I was reading it. (The 'poem' bit, I mean - the 'postmodernist' part was quite evident.) Now I'm not sure what to think. I feel like I should re-read it in light of the whole 'prose poem' thing, but no - Proust is waiting for me patiently at the bedside table and there's that whole book I'm reading for my real-life Pretentious Bookclub, so there's just no time for a re-read of this. So let it be known that it's a 'prose poem'.
Maybe that will help you going into your own reading of it and then you won't have your world turned upside down like mine was. Even though Erofeev didn't sport the Russian-classic (ie, beard), he did write about an alcoholic, so he gets to keep his Russian literary citizenship for that at least. Supposedly pseudo-autobiographical it follows the story of Venichka who has just lost his job as a cable fitter for charting how much alcohol he and his coworkers drank. The majority of the story takes place on a train from Moscow to Petushki and involves the various discussions that take place between Venichka and his other travelers. Alcohol is consumed. Petushki is where Venya's lover and child await him, it is his 'salvation and joy'; unlike Moscow which obviously is meant to be all about restriction, destruction, and everything else bad about Russia in 1968 when Erofeev wrote the story.
One thing I love about the Russians is their veiled references to their oppressive society - being a postmodern work it probably goes without saying that I missed more than I should have because I suck at reading postmodern works sometimes. I should be in therapy for this problem. But I am trying, so shove it.
I also want to give a shout-out to the fantastic cover art that was chosen, Self Portrait with Demons (James Ensor). If an epic can be brief then this is one – Erofeev’s drunken journey to the end of the Moscow train line, stuffed with thoughts and ponderings true, tragic and hilarious. The first thing that strikes the reader is the overriding compulsion to make sense of the world – to catalog, categorize and assign values to things. It starts in on page one and pretty much follows on every page: “One of my acquaintances says that Coriander vodka has an antihuman effect on a person; that is, it strengthens all If an epic can be brief then this is one – Erofeev’s drunken journey to the end of the Moscow train line, stuffed with thoughts and ponderings true, tragic and hilarious. The first thing that strikes the reader is the overriding compulsion to make sense of the world – to catalog, categorize and assign values to things. It starts in on page one and pretty much follows on every page: “One of my acquaintances says that Coriander vodka has an antihuman effect on a person; that is, it strengthens all the physical members but weakens the soul. With me it happened the other way around for some reason; that is, my soul was strengthened in the highest degree while my members were weakened.
But I agree that this too is antihuman. Therefore, at the same time, I added two mugs of Zhiguli beer and an Albe de dessert port straight from the bottle.” If the narrator could have given up drinking, he would have made a great mathematician or IT guy or infographic designer because he couldn’t get enough of calculating and instructing and laying out (cocktail) recipes. For instance, he wants to know what is worse, paralyis or nausea? Nervous exhaustion or mortal sorrow?
It doesn’t surprise you that he is fired from his job for making graphs that chart the drinking habits of his coworkers relative to their productivity. But against this scientific instinct he also seeks to take the wrong path, to get life wrong, to throw his head back “like a piano player” and drink: “What sort of hallway was it? I haven’t the slight idea even now, and it ought to be that way.
Everything should. Everything should take place slowly and incorrectly so that man doesn’t get a chance to start feeling proud, so that man is sad and perplexed.” The book is of course also a social commentary on Soviet Russia, and starts with the narrator talking about how he couldn’t seem to find the Kremlin even if he tried, and ends with him finally in the Kremlin and not liking what he finds there. Highly recommended. Recently, I drank beer with a friend whose native language is Arabic.
As our bottles clinked, I asked him if there was anything we could say in Arabic that would be appropriate, such as ‘cheers’, na zdorovya, etc. “No”, he laughed, “it is prohibited!” I then asked if there was an Arabic word for ‘hangover.’ No, he said. Not even some sort of impolite or forbidden word, I asked, or a word to describe people from other countries who’ve had too much alcohol, and what they experience when they wake Recently, I drank beer with a friend whose native language is Arabic. As our bottles clinked, I asked him if there was anything we could say in Arabic that would be appropriate, such as ‘cheers’, na zdorovya, etc.
“No”, he laughed, “it is prohibited!” I then asked if there was an Arabic word for ‘hangover.’ No, he said. Not even some sort of impolite or forbidden word, I asked, or a word to describe people from other countries who’ve had too much alcohol, and what they experience when they wake up the next morning? No one who spoke Arabic ever observed such a thing and wanted to describe it? The closest thing, he told me, is a word that simply means ‘out of one’s mind’, which, from the perspective of a native English speaker, isn’t very close at all. Yesterday I thought of this book, and I got to wondering how many words Russian has for ‘hangover.’ I know of one, bodoon, but I get the impression there may be others. On the last page of my used copy of Moscow to the End of the Line, or Moskva-Petushki, there is written in pencil, under the questions “make a fig?” and “money to buy drinks?”, a “recipe” for a drink called “Tear of a Komsomol Girl”, a recipe that looks to me like it’s potentially fatal. When I asked my Russian teacher about it, she said that people really drank things like this during the Soviet Union.
She also said the book is one of her favorites. I think I can understand why. Along with A Confederacy of Dunces, it’s one of the few genuinely funny books I’ve read- and like that book, also very sad. A man, having recently been fired from his job, gets on a train in Moscow, intending to go to Petushki- the end of the line. He meets all sorts of characters on the train, real and imagined, including, inevitably, the devil, who demands that the man answer impossible and scatological riddles. I don’t want to spoil anything, but as the book went along, and the man got closer to his destination, I got a clearer understanding of what Yerofeyev was trying to do- and the sense of tragedy, of a life passing by in a haze, and the large-scale tragedy of Communism, became more apparent. The book is a little like a night of drinking heavily; everything at first seems enjoyable and humorous, then you start to feel depressed and vaguely ill, and realize you shouldn’t be urinating off the edge of the roofand if you’ve really drunk too much, maybe you drift into some awful realm of the spirit like the one depicted in the last 20 or so pages.
Maybe there’s a word for that in Russian. I don’t know much about Yerofeyev’s life, but I get the sense that he lived his book. I watched a small part of a documentary about him, and when he was interviewed he was lying on a couch in his apartment, barely able to move, speaking through a hole in his throat.
I don’t know how old he was at the time, but the back cover of the book says that he lived only to 55. Moscow to the End of the Line and Walpurgis Night, or The Steps of the Commander (which I haven’t yet read) seem to be the only novels of his translated into English.
The back cover mentions two other titles with intriguing names, Annunciation and Notes of a Psychopath, but I don’t know if they’ve been translated. Amazing book:)))) For me it was hilarious and tragic, illuminating and devastating at the same time.
I really enjoyed Erofeev’s humor, which was based on paronomasia, or play on words. The grace, with which he interlaces words into most elegant and unobtrusive humor, was amazing and captivating. It is hard for me to judge, but I think that the novel in general and its humor in particular, might be hard to understand for people who is not closely familiar with everyday life of regular Russian peo Amazing book:)))) For me it was hilarious and tragic, illuminating and devastating at the same time. I really enjoyed Erofeev’s humor, which was based on paronomasia, or play on words. The grace, with which he interlaces words into most elegant and unobtrusive humor, was amazing and captivating.
It is hard for me to judge, but I think that the novel in general and its humor in particular, might be hard to understand for people who is not closely familiar with everyday life of regular Russian people during late 60th, with policies and views of same period, with Marx’ and Lenin’s quotes and with Russian literature. This is a pseudo-autobiographical prose poem about a cable fitter, intellectual and alcoholic – Venichka – who was fired from his job, for the graphs creation of his and his coworkers’ productivity against the amount of alcohol they intake.:)))) The whole novel is set during Venichka’s travel. While on the train, he drinks and engages in conversations with different people and with himself, discussing the wide variety of subjects from politics to religion, from philosophy to literature, from recipes to make different alcoholic “cocktails”(from eau de toilette, nails polish and other products that contain alcohol) to the meaning of life. As novel progress and as more Venichka drinks, novel becoming more and more surrealistic, hallucinogenic and dark. Some view this novel as a sarcastic overview of the soviet life during late 60th. Other, consider it to be a cry for help, a cry for changes in the system and in the everyday life.
I will not get into discussion on this, because I don’t think that this novel can be easily classified. 'And since then I have not regained consciousness, and I never will' Venichka Erofeev never regained his full literary power after he finished this small book. Everything he had in his delicate beautiful sensitive soul, he expressed in this 'poem', although it's written as a prose. His friends saw only allegiance in his drunkenness, he never cherished alcohol itself, but yet he created the greatest hymn to drinking as a way of life. 'Moscow to the End of the Line' is a very funny book, there's a 'And since then I have not regained consciousness, and I never will' Venichka Erofeev never regained his full literary power after he finished this small book. Everything he had in his delicate beautiful sensitive soul, he expressed in this 'poem', although it's written as a prose.
His friends saw only allegiance in his drunkenness, he never cherished alcohol itself, but yet he created the greatest hymn to drinking as a way of life. 'Moscow to the End of the Line' is a very funny book, there's a lot of laugh in there. But Erofeev laughs on the subjects that are laughable already, and somehow turns them into tragedy. He never distances himself from the subjects he laughs on and as a result readers always end up sympathizing this poor drunk with his crazy cocktails. This one is my favorite, called “The Spirit of Geneva”: White Lilac 50g.
Athlete’s Foot Remedy 50g. Zhiguli Beer 200g. Alcohol Vanish 150g. The book is a tragic-comic account of the narrator's (fictional?) trip from Moscow to Petuschki. The first half of the book isoften very funny. The narrator's biggest worry is how to get his next drink - in fact, I don't think I've ever read a book in which anyone ever had that many drinks.
And the characters drink everything: they even mix their own cocktails adding for example petrol or nail polish! The book also talks a lot about the drinking habits of several authors (mainly Russian ones). I The book is a tragic-comic account of the narrator's (fictional?) trip from Moscow to Petuschki. The first half of the book isoften very funny. The narrator's biggest worry is how to get his next drink - in fact, I don't think I've ever read a book in which anyone ever had that many drinks.
And the characters drink everything: they even mix their own cocktails adding for example petrol or nail polish! The book also talks a lot about the drinking habits of several authors (mainly Russian ones). It also describes what the characters do when they are drunk, for example declare war on Norway and other strange things.
In the second half - when the narrator and his fellow travellers are already very drunk - the characters started to philosophize a bit too much in my opinion (something I also don't like about drunk people in real life). At one point the narrator is so drunk that he doesn't know if it's night or day or if he's going from Moscow to Petuschki or vice versa. This second part spoiled my reading experience a bit.
The first part of the book I'd have rated 4 stars but the second part (unfortunately) pulled the rating down to 3 stars. Trippy, drunken, twisty-turny day in the life of Venedikt Erofeev. Mostly monologue, mostly on a train, totally sauced. Pretty deep philosophy expressed through lol allusion (I couldn't catch or connect all of it). He puts a premium on imagination and the future.
The eponymous protag (who has never seen the Kremlin despite living in Moscow - hahaha) remains as likeable as he is disgusting. It takes a lot to get me repulsed by a drink. Erofeev is up to the task! A bit grossed out here in sunny, Trippy, drunken, twisty-turny day in the life of Venedikt Erofeev. Mostly monologue, mostly on a train, totally sauced. Pretty deep philosophy expressed through lol allusion (I couldn't catch or connect all of it). He puts a premium on imagination and the future.
The eponymous protag (who has never seen the Kremlin despite living in Moscow - hahaha) remains as likeable as he is disgusting. It takes a lot to get me repulsed by a drink. Erofeev is up to the task! A bit grossed out here in sunny, health-obsessed California.
The drinking, I suppose, is a Soviet-times metaphor for 'We are deprived of freedom of will and are in the power of the arbitrary which has no name and from which there is no escape.' 'We must honor. The dark reaches of another's soul. We must look into them even if there's nothing there, even if there's only trash there.' This is what 43 should've said after he looked into Putin's soul. On, I suppose, the Bolsheviks: ' revolution acieves something essential when it occurs in the heart and not the town square.' On us, I suppose, in the West: 'I moved from fire to fire with a single alarming thought: why wasn't anyone in the world willing to have anything to do with us?
Why such silence in the world?' On communism (after a famous statue of the personification of the hammer and sicle come to life): 'And the worker hit me on the head with his hammer and then the peasant woman gave it to me in the balls with her sickle.' Without accepting this world, perceiving it close up and far away, inside and out, perceiving but not accepting.' A real fighter of the good fight! I read it as a 4-star but missed some stuff and I read it in English (an agile translation). I believe it would be a 5-star book when read by an educated person who understands the whole book in Russian. This was a fascinating book, published 'samizdat' in the 1970s.
All over the place, the drunken tumbling thoughts of a complete alcoholic, trying to get from Moscow to Petushi at the end of the metropolitan train line. The recipes for drinks alone worth the price of the book. Here's one: 'Labor's crown is it's own supreme reward,' as the poet said. In any event, I present to you the cocktail 'Bitches Brew,' a beverage which overshadows all others.
Ron c the c theory rarlab. The beats were produced by Johnny Z of N2Deep, Michael Grayson, Ron 'C', and Tyrone Samples. The 'C' Theory is the third album by Ron 'C'. He was a member of the rap group Nemesis and was signed to Profile Records and Midwest Records. The album was released in 1994 for Profile Records.
This is more than a beverage-it is the music This was a fascinating book, published 'samizdat' in the 1970s. All over the place, the drunken tumbling thoughts of a complete alcoholic, trying to get from Moscow to Petushi at the end of the metropolitan train line.
The recipes for drinks alone worth the price of the book. Here's one: 'Labor's crown is it's own supreme reward,' as the poet said. In any event, I present to you the cocktail 'Bitches Brew,' a beverage which overshadows all others. This is more than a beverage-it is the music of the spheres. What is the finest thing in the wrold? The struggle for the liberation of humanity.
But even finer is this (write it down): Zhiguli Beer 100g. 'Sadko' Shampoo 30 g Dandruff treatment 70g Athlete's Foot Remedy 30 g Small Bug Killer 20 g. The whole thing is steeped for a week in cigar tobacco and served at table. The other thing I loved about this book was nearing the end, wrapping my mind around an indication of why people really do drink like this-very much at odds with the disease model presented to us in the west, but true I think on the existential level, having known a number of hopeless drunks myself: 'And if I die sometime-I'm going to die very soon-I know I'll die as I am, without accepting this world, perceiving it closeup and far away, inside and out, perceiving but not accepting it.' Was not expecting that. I had heard good references about the book.
I heard that it is a peculiar test of intelligence and humor. Could I miss the opportunity to join the circles of people with unconventional thinking, peculiar humor and refined taste? No, no, I couldn’t. And the book had been waiting on my Kindle for a while, the soul was sad and journey long. So on my bus from Liepāja to Rīga, I let Venichka share the path.
But what a shame, what a disaster. I think I didn’t get the book. Even more, I don’t remember I had heard good references about the book. I heard that it is a peculiar test of intelligence and humor. Could I miss the opportunity to join the circles of people with unconventional thinking, peculiar humor and refined taste? No, no, I couldn’t. And the book had been waiting on my Kindle for a while, the soul was sad and journey long.
So on my bus from Liepāja to Rīga, I let Venichka share the path. But what a shame, what a disaster. I think I didn’t get the book. Even more, I don’t remember get it through. Could it be that I’m a hopeless fool? No brains, no taste and muddy soul? Or shall I blame the book?
Call it weird and author drunken fool? Yes, yes, I’ll be the better man. I’ll blame the book and drunken fool, I’ll blame the mixed up world and blame myself for missing past and missing point. Oh Venichka, why did you that to me? Why made me fool, why made me bulk my eyes and hurt my heart, why locked me out in cold and dark?
Not much like anything else I've ever read. Echoes of Kafka and Bulgakov, but mainly reminded me of one of my fave movies - Jim Jarmusch's 'Dead Man' - a surreal journey through. Where exactly? Where exactly? And populated by weird/wonderful minor characters with their own 'business'. Delving into the world of alcoholics' bewildering/bewildered dialogue was both very well done in itself and also served perfectly for the fractured narrative. No-Qu Astounding.
Not much like anything else I've ever read. Echoes of Kafka and Bulgakov, but mainly reminded me of one of my fave movies - Jim Jarmusch's 'Dead Man' - a surreal journey through. Where exactly? Where exactly? And populated by weird/wonderful minor characters with their own 'business'.
Delving into the world of alcoholics' bewildering/bewildered dialogue was both very well done in itself and also served perfectly for the fractured narrative. No-Quibble 5-Star and straight onto the favourites shelf. Venedikt Erofeev wrote two books, of which Moscow to the End of the Line was first.
The second book was misplaced before it could be published, or even distributed via samizdat network. 'Moscow-Petushki,' the original title, chronicals the travels, both psychological and psychological, of Venya, a 30 year old 'Kid' who has recently lost his job as the supervisor of a cable fitting crew who spent all of their labors laying a single section of pipe over and over again. They worked so slowly that t Venedikt Erofeev wrote two books, of which Moscow to the End of the Line was first. The second book was misplaced before it could be published, or even distributed via samizdat network. 'Moscow-Petushki,' the original title, chronicals the travels, both psychological and psychological, of Venya, a 30 year old 'Kid' who has recently lost his job as the supervisor of a cable fitting crew who spent all of their labors laying a single section of pipe over and over again. They worked so slowly that the sections of pipe would become water-logged and have to be replaced the following week. He wasn't fired over performance, but when, instead of sending in the usual report of the team's 'progress,' he submited a study of how much alcohol, and of what type, each member of the team drank over the period of the work week.
Some of the workers on his crew began the week drinking wine and the typical vodka, but resorted to drinking paint thinner and cleaning solutions with varying degrees of success and no regard for personal safety. Erofeev describes a distopian soviet-run communism, where the abject proletariat escape into drunkeness with abandon, as vestigial workers confined within a workless and absurd beurocracy. The story opens in the wee hours on a Moscow street where Venya is desperately trying to stave off sleep and sobriety and has begun to hear voices. He is attended to by singing angels who suggest all-night spots around Moscow, where he may find brandy. As the sun comes up, he packs a suitcase full of alcohol and decides to take the train back to his childhood home of Petushki, a town which begins to takes on mythic qualities as the book, and the train ride continue. Erofeev also experiments with many literary forms in the book, including the heroic poem, the beurocratic papers he must complete as supervisor, as well as the blurred lines of memoir and fiction,. In so doing, he alludes to many of literary forefathers, Pushkin, Gogol, Dostoyevsky, and even Nabokov, all handled with a glib detachment that may cause the casual reader to dismiss this effort as merely a work of humor.
I love this book because it consistantly and exponentially defies expectation with an adept structure that begs to be deconstructed, analyzed and re-analyzed, not as a taoist mystery, but as a whole and complex empathic portrait of creativity, addiction, politics and society. It is both historically vital, as a soviet mirror to the social struggles of the sixties, and deeply personal. Quite good really, probably great at times.
If you've ever gotten properly sloshed and had the guts to also start thinking about things, you will notice much resemblance to those misguided thoughts in this writing. I still didn't really enjoy 'Moscow-Petushki' (as it's usually called) as much as I thought I might. The incoherent state that our narrator gradually falls into is extremely depressing to me: towards the end it sort of reaches a level of St. Anthony combined with a drunken Moravagine, Quite good really, probably great at times.
If you've ever gotten properly sloshed and had the guts to also start thinking about things, you will notice much resemblance to those misguided thoughts in this writing. I still didn't really enjoy 'Moscow-Petushki' (as it's usually called) as much as I thought I might. The incoherent state that our narrator gradually falls into is extremely depressing to me: towards the end it sort of reaches a level of St. Anthony combined with a drunken Moravagine, with violent visions soon becoming a reality. I'm not smart enough to completely understand the purpose of this text.
Whether it is: a simple treatise on the pitfalls of alcoholism, Russian social satire, something else, or all of these combined. I don't know. Either way the writing style and plot layout is quite intriguing and often times Venichka's rambling is quite profound. The notion that book is a good percent 'comedy' does not ring true in my mind, the whole journey is very sorrowful, with the comedic interludes not providing much relief. The ending is seriously dark. Also does anyone know who the 4 classical figures are?
Occasionally very funny paean to alcohol, and, with its fun graphs and amusing diversions, is in the spirit of B.S. Johnson's great Christie Malry's Own Double-Entry.
End Of The Line Lyrics
The first seventy pages are really excellent, as is a long analysis of writers' obsession with champagne, but as the book descends into stupor and madness once the lead boards the train, I found it increasingly frustrating to read. This might be a fault of translation (I suspect it is), because the novel has a good reputation in Ru Occasionally very funny paean to alcohol, and, with its fun graphs and amusing diversions, is in the spirit of B.S. Johnson's great Christie Malry's Own Double-Entry. The first seventy pages are really excellent, as is a long analysis of writers' obsession with champagne, but as the book descends into stupor and madness once the lead boards the train, I found it increasingly frustrating to read. This might be a fault of translation (I suspect it is), because the novel has a good reputation in Russia, but this is one of those books that's better when it's more bound by reality.
The good parts save it. Some of the humor was way over my head- mostly due to our cultural differences- but the story winds itself into such a fury that i had to stop over analyzing the russian dialect and submit to the madness. It is absurd and fierce. The way Erofeev slays professionalism is especially hilarious. The world we know that is filled with importance and drama is torn a new one. This book is a mockery of YOUR 'epic' proportions. I am savoring the discomfort i had upon finishing the book and look forwar some of the humor was way over my head- mostly due to our cultural differences- but the story winds itself into such a fury that i had to stop over analyzing the russian dialect and submit to the madness.
It is absurd and fierce. The way Erofeev slays professionalism is especially hilarious. The world we know that is filled with importance and drama is torn a new one. This book is a mockery of YOUR 'epic' proportions.
I am savoring the discomfort i had upon finishing the book and look forward to reading it again. Something i dont tend to do. “I've always been in two minds about women, really. On the one hand, I always liked the fact they had waists, and we hadn't. That aroused in me a feeling of - how shall I put it? - well, pleasure.
Yes, pleasurable feelings. Still, on the other hand, they did stab Marat with a penknife, and Marat was Incorruptible, so they shouldn't have stabbed him. That fairly killed off the pleasure. Then again, like Karl Marx, I've always loved women for their little weaknesses - i.e.
They've got to sit down to pee, and I've always liked that - that's always filled me with - well, what the hell - a sort of warm feeling. Yes, pleasurable warmth. But then again they did shoot at Lenin, with a revolver no less! And that put a damper on the pleasure as well. I mean, fair enough, sitting down to pee, but shooting at Lenin? That's a sick joke, talking about pleasure after that.
However, I digress.” —.
— Kilometer 85 - Orekhovo-Zhuevo The samizdat classic Moskva-Petushki is a comedic prose poem written in 1969 by Venedikt Erofeev; playwright, literary critic, ex-cable fitter, and drunken layabout of the highest order. It was published first in Europe and passed around the Soviet underground to great success, but not officially published in its native Russia until 1987, a year before the author's death of throat cancer. It was translated into English a few different times under different names (such as Moscow to the End of the Line and Moscow Stations). The author's surname is also spelled Erofeyev or Yerofeyev, to more adequately reflect the pronunciation. The story follows a Muscovite cable-fitter named, called Venichka for short, who was recently fired from his job as a foreman for accidentally sending out charts measuring his workers' productivity against the amount of alcohol they drunk that day.
The novel opens on the hero waking up at dawn in an hallway somewhere in Moscow, after having passed out from drinking the night before. He immediately sets to what he had been attempting to do the other night before the drunken blackout distracted him - get on a train to Petushki, a small town 125 kilometers from Moscow, where his three-year-old son and love interest await.
So, armed only with a suitcase full of presents (and booze), a choir of guardian angels, and a hangover, our hero manages to catch the train from Kursk Station. From from then on it's simply a matter of sitting, drinking, and on living in. It so happens that forces beyond Venichka's reckoning are conspiring to keep him away from his child and beloved. Provides examples of:.: Our hero.: The ending.: It's a Russian novel narrated entirely by a drunk guy. What did you expect?.: Even in Moscow region the majority of people don't know what Petushki is. Thus translators tried to be creative: Moscow to the End of the Line (technically wrong, few trains go east of Petushki, but the end is Vladimir), Moscow Stations, Moscow Circles (technically wrong too, the protagonist goes in radial direction and doesn't use any of circular routes).
The 1st and 3rd also count as ominous foreshadowing.: Depending on how you'd like to interpret it, the ending reveals that Erofeev was so drunk he missed his stop at Petushki and just stayed on the train until it arrived back in Moscow that night, where he was beaten into unconsciousness by a group of thugs. Or you can take it literally. In which case all the forces of darkness from Pontic King Mithridates and the Devil Himself to a fellow passenger's abusive ex, have successfully magicked him back to Moscow, where the angelic choir following him around pulls a and stabs the letter U into his throat with an awl.
That last scene also becomes if you know what the author died of.: It's great fun picking out all the subtle references to other works of Russian literature.: Venichka pulls this on a ticket inspector. Since nobody traveling the line ever actually buys a ticket, that in and of itself is not a problem. But Venichka never has money or vodka to spare for bribes, so he finds it necessary to come up with a new story to distract the inspector with every time he does the rounds.: Erofeev kindly provides recipes for mixed drinks with grandiose names like Balsam of Canaan or A Young Communist's Teardrop. Which are made out of, among other things,; for when you just can't get your hands on alcohol proper. Those 'drinks' are real and (mostly) safe for consuming if you'll be careful and know how much to drink.: (Well, in general, really.) But in its literal form, this trope appears as a riddle a sphinx presents to Venichka.: The preface says that in the first draft the chapter 'Serp i Molot—Karacharovo' contained too many cuss words. The author had to add a warning for sensitive girls, but it had, thus he ended up removing all obscenities, leaving only 'And he drank immediately.' It's how true the story is.
Prominent example of Brezhnev-era underground literature: Venedikt Erofeevs 1969 Moscow to the End of the Line Moskva- Petushki. The latter work is, after.Amazon.com: Moscow to the End of the Line 001: Venedikt Erofeev, H. William Tjalsma: Books.Moscow-Petushki, also published as Moscow to the End of the Line, Moscow Stations, and Moscow Circles, is a. Erofeevs Mosk d of the Line has 3903 ratings and 149 reviews. Rodney said: If dialectical materialism e turned on its head, something like angels w. 2 There can be no longer any doubt that Venedikt Erofeev 1938 - 1990, author of the prose poem Moscow to the End of the Line 1969, has become just.Erofeevs 1969 novel Moscow-Petushki published in English as Moscow to the End of the Line Erofeev, 1992. T he quantitati ve study of c onsumption of.Venedi kt Erofeev, Moscow to the End of the Li ne, tr anslate d by H.
V ladi mir Na bokov, Invita tio n to a.V ene dik t Erofee v, Moscow to the E nd of the L in e. This course span s the li teratu re and cul ture of twentieth-century Russia, beginning slightly before the 1917.Press release PDF. The exhibition To The End of the Line refers to Venedikt Erofeevs prose poem From Moscow to Petushki written between 1969 and 1970.Venedict Erofeev, Moskva-Petushki a.k.a. Moscow Circles Moscow to the End of the Line.
Moscow to the End of the Line. Evanston.Amazon.com: Moscow to the End of the Line 001: Venedikt Erofeev, H. William Tjalsma: education planning and administration pdf Books.Moscow-Petushki, also published as Moscow to the End of the Line, Moscow Stations, and Moscow Circles, is a. Erofeevs Moskva-Petuski.prominent example of Brezhnev-era e183d1 1 pdf underground literature: Venedikt Erofeevs 1969 Moscow to the End of the Line Moskva-Petushki. The latter work is, after.Moscow to the End of the Line has 3903 ratings and 149 reviews. Rodney said: If dialectical materialism were turned on its head, something like angels w. 2 There can be no longer any doubt that Venedikt Erofeev 1938 - 1990, author of the prose poem Moscow to the End of the Line 1969, has become just.Bunin, Ivan.
Evanston.Venedict Erofeev, Moskva-Petushki a.k.a. Moscow Circles Moscow to the End of the Line. All other materials will be made available in handouts or via links to.Moscow to the End of the Line, Venedikt Erofeev, 1969. And freedom thus remains a phantom on ecosistemas en el mundo pdf that continent of sorrow the United States of America and.Moscow saw its Metro attacked by suicide bombers.