By Leonid Dobychin
Writing within the occasions Literary complement in 1994, Russian author Victor Erofeyev proclaimed Leonid Dobychin "one of the most heroes of twentieth-century Russian literature." imprecise for a few years, Dobychin is now celebrated as a modernist grasp. His brief tales are black-humored slices of existence from the early days of the Soviet Union--subtle and tightly built miniatures associated through routine issues and entire of ironic juxtaposition, context, allusion, and magnificence. For Dobychin early Soviet society was once an absurdist wonderland.
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Writing within the instances Literary complement in 1994, Russian author Victor Erofeyev proclaimed Leonid Dobychin "one of the most heroes of twentieth-century Russian literature. " vague for a few years, Dobychin is now celebrated as a modernist grasp. His brief tales are black-humored slices of existence from the early days of the Soviet Union--subtle and tightly developed miniatures associated by means of ordinary issues and entire of ironic juxtaposition, context, allusion, and elegance.
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Additional resources for Encounters with Lise and Other Stories (European Classics)
Kunst would redden. Wearing his student coat, with a little piece of bread in his pocket, wrapped in the newspaper The Age, he would leave the house. The snow was dark. Buds like little horns stuck out at the ends of branches. Old women were returning from queue ranks and clasping bread to their jackets. Mad soldiers, dispersing from the field hospitals, muttered as they went. The laundress Kubarikha would meet and greet him. Respectable folk have scattered, she would grieve, there are no longer the same sort of lodgers.
Easter had arrived. There was nothing to do. Kunst slept, looked at himself in the mirror, ate his distribution. The landlady would open the door, thrust her head through, and ask whether it smelled of fumes. “Ah, look what you got,” she examined closely and clasped her hands to her heart. ” In the next room the nurse was entertaining her colleagues. They were beating a tambourine, drinking spirits, and quacking. ” The smell of disinfectant wafted from them. Frieda, poetical, let down her hair, opened the ventilation window in the corridor, and sang.
26 Lidiya Spectators gadded about over the whirlpool. A guitar was being played. The sentry yawned. The Zaitsevs poked awhile at the hummock, to see whether there were any ants. The husband unwrapped the food. Young people in gold skullcaps, unfastening buttons, leapt down toward the river. ” Dudkina squinted. The husband snapped his fingers. ” Zaitseva fell into a reverie. Returning, they jabbered about politics. “Should be driven from every quarter,” the husband seethed. “No, I’m—for educated nations,” Dudkina disagreed.