It is noteworthy that Mikhail Khodorkovsky, recently amnestied and exiled abroad after his long prison term in Siberia, chose as his first western publication not a long, political tract, but a diminutive sketchbook.
But do not be deceived. This little book’s power is inversely proportional to its size.
Chekhovian in its brevity (81 pages), it is a compilation of perceptive, respectful portraits of people whom Khodorkovsky met in prison, people whose principles set them apart – for good or ill. And since the greatest and worst aspects of human character are expressed in times of profound difficulty, the book offers a grim, hazy reflection of Russian society more generally (and much of humanity) – its apathy and despair, its courage and character.
But the author does not belabor this point, and one is only drawn to that equation by his harmless, almost technocratic questions at the end of each disturbing story, such as, “What sort of people are we, if we allow such a thing?”
The storied visit of Crown Prince Alexis (third son of Alexander II and brother of Alexander III) to the US in 1871 came at a high point in US-Russian relations. Less than a decade after Russia had stood by the Union in the US Civil War and just after the sale of Alaska, US-Russian commerce and good relations were brimming with optimism.
Farrow presents a fascinating documentary of the flamboyant Romanov’s trip – including a still-famous buffalo hunting expedition with Custer and Cody, a visit to New Orleans during Mardi Gras, and countless balls and receptions, with every American town and city seeking to outdo the one before – while also offering excellent social and historical context, from Americans’ fascination with royalty, to the Washington scandal that almost sunk the visit.
In fact, Alexis’ visit, while it helped kickstart an American fascination with Russian literature, culture and history, may have been the last hurrah in US-Russian relations before a century of ill will and antagonism. Soon thereafter, Kennan and others exposed the dark underbelly of tsarism: the vast Siberian prison system. There followed the pogroms and emigrations, the failed 1905 revolution, renewed repressions. Yes, there was the warm hiccup of a World War alliance and a vaporous bourgeois revolution, but soon all things were overshadowed by the Bolshevik Thermidor, Civil War, Allied Intervention, and the purges.
We still have not recovered. One can’t help wondering if we ever will. So it is heartening to pick up Farrow’s history and step back to a time before resets, Cold Wars and summit meetings, to marvel at an era when the most exciting element of US-Russian relations was guessing at the significance of whom the Crown Prince had danced with during the previous night’s gala.
“There’s nothing boring about riding the Trans-Siberian,” Greene writes early on about his long railway excursion to fathom the Russian experience.
Indeed. Like Hedrick Smith and Elizabeth Pond before him, Greene, who previously served as the NPR bureau chief in Moscow, seeks to convey an understanding of Russia through a series of profiles of “normal” Russians, strung together with historical sidetracks, references to experts, and humorous personal adventures. And, like Smith and Pond, Greene succeeds marvelously.
The Trans-Siberian railway is the backbone of Greene’s story, and through him we gain an intimate familiarity with the venerable line. But it is also the story of meteorites, hockey fans, babushkas and village survival – the raging complexity of lives lived under markedly different conditions.
David Greene is a rare sort of journalist for our times: patient, humble, observant and self-effacing. He is not some know-it-all Russia-hand with an axe to grind. He just wants to hear people’s stories, to record them, to understand and convey meaning. To say the least, it is a refreshing approach that has created a book well worth reading (preferably alongside a steaming samovar).
In an interview some years ago, Sergey Gandlevsky, one of Russia’s leading poets, said of his art: “I write (try to write) very accurately. Each word is important to me, each particle. I write, weighing everything on a druggist’s scale. In the beginning I listen for intonation, because for me it’s more important to carry through intonation than the content of a poem—that’s second in line.”
This minute focus on language, on careful and meaningful turns of phrase, are evident in this short, entertaining, autobiographical novel of life during the 1990s. Rich with period details (and superbly footnoted), it is the story of the author’s wild, bohemian life coming into conflict with incipient fatherhood and adulthood – coincident with post-Soviet Russia getting up on its feet.
Funny, profound (“But this is a guy with dead eyes and a Komsomol paunch. How can I explain that it’s possible to step out for three minutes with the trash can and return three days later, from Leningrad and without the trash can?”), and often poetic, this is a short, dense read (kudos to Fusso for her translation) that evokes all of the hopelessness and haplessness that filled life in that unusual period. And it is so beautifully written that is requires multiple visits.
This compiled, edited and copiously footnoted diary is a historical treasure trove for an era that will never be short on paradoxes, colorful characters, brutal conflict, and harrowing circumstances. Poole, one of the last American diplomats in Russia after the Bolshevik revolution and before recognition in 1933, was a cool, detached observer of events, and rather prescient in his predictions of where Bolshevism was headed. This book’s strength is that it is really two interpretations: Poole’s direct accounts of events in 1917 and 1918, and his hind-sighted commentary 40 years later. Invaluable reading for anyone interested in the period.
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