Normal guy goes to other world, growing up with his pretty mom. He doesn't seem like an OP jerk so far, that good, but I could not keep reading. It is marked slice of life, but that does not give it a excuse for that life to be uninteresting.
Other reviews by this user. This story is somewhat nice and there was a lot of potential with the narrative, but poor characterization really killed it for me.
The MC is actually well-built and human, with a depressing but normal past life without being a NEET, which is always a plus. The problem is when he attempts to interact with others, it always falls flat. If it was just the MC it would be fine even interesting but none of the other people in this story seem real at all but just automatons designed to Leave a Review Guidelines. Hunter St, the city.
A baby bird lies under its tree in the gutter A young boy carries a watering can in Waverley People waiting for a bus in George st are A mother and her twin daughters hold hands A fountain on a timer drops a shower of water Wind blowing down Kirribilli avenue inflates Hunter st, city centre.
A man waiting for a train at Circular Quay Office workers and shoppers stand on the corner Castlereagh street, the city.
Women gather in Martin Place to pay their A Bicycle courier riding between deliveries The shadows of a man and a woman fall onto How do you see your own writing in relation to these tensions? The dichotomy between art as free creation and art in service of the state is particularly dramatic in totalitarian societies like Soviet Russia; it acquires additional moral, political, historical depths, which I attempt to explore in the book. As a young writer in search of an audience—and one raised on the Russian notion that an artist is a sort of tribune whose sacred trust is to give voice to the people—I find the debate fascinating, and far from black and white.
Could you talk about the mode of narration in the novel? Why do you sometimes switch from an omniscient narrator to Sukhanov narrating his own story?
After I finished the first draft, I experimented with converting the first-person segments into third person, and I felt that the novel lost its natural intonation. What is life like for artists and writers in Russia now? How different is the literary situation here in the United States? Traditionally, art held a position of unique importance in Russia.
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For most of the last two centuries, the artist—whether writer, painter, or composer—was often seen as a figure of immense power, a prophet, a warrior, a savior, whose holy duty was to proclaim the Truth in times of trials and tribulations. The transition has not been easy, and I have heard many say that their freedom of expression has come at a price, and a steep one at that.
I myself do not have any firsthand experience of the Russian literary world, but I suspect that at this stage, with Russian publishing still breaking in its new commercial shoes, it is much harder for one to publish noncommercial fiction in Russia than in the United States. On the other hand, the fact that blacklists and gulags are things of the past must surely count for something. How have readers and critics in Russia responded to your book?
And what about those here in the United States? There is no Russian translation of the novel as of yet, and while the few reviews that have appeared in the Russian press have been quite favorable, my book has so far reached only English-speaking Russians. Of course, I very much hope that the novel will be published in Russia someday.
As for the reception in the United States, it has been an ongoing, deepening, pleasant surprise: Could you describe the creative process involved in imagining the consciousness of someone like Sukhanov, someone quite different from yourself—a middle-aged art magazine editor in the Soviet Union whose life is unraveling? How do you get so convincingly inside the minds and hearts of your characters?
In my short stories, I have written from the perspective of a little boy who collects stamps, a Greek policeman on a remote island, an old photographer, a drunk ballet dancer, even a pair of shoelaces—but only once or twice from the viewpoint of a young woman. On the other hand, while none of the characters in my novel is autobiographical, many carry a little piece of myself, a familiar emotion, a possible choice, a chance thought—rooted mainly in the shared happenstance of being human, I suspect, rather than any gender, age, or factual similarity between me and the figments of my imagination.
Picturing myself in his shoes did not stretch my imagination as wildly as one might think. Sukhanov is first fascinated by surrealism, later forced to denounce it, and finally seems to be subsumed by it in his own Daliesque hallucinations. Why did you choose to make surrealism such a central part of the novel? The fantastic, the surreal, the nightmarish or fairy-tale underside of daily life, has always been present in my writing.
I like to find the absurd, the disturbing, the magical amid the ordinary, and when I considered the kind of art Sukhanov was likely to create in his youth, surrealism seemed the natural choice.