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The narrative is simple. Victor's mother's last letter from the German concentration camp is one of the moving chapters in the novel.The scenes at the Russian labor camp are also interesting and informative. Life anf Fate gives a total, let me say, accurate picture of the Soviet Union. As some critics said, while other writers went out of the soviet system and wrote about it, Vasily Grossman lived in and through the troubles of soviet society and wrote about it. Like Dr. Zhivago this is also an important book for them who who love great fiction.
Grossman's magnificent acheivement is to allow us to empathise with these characters and explore a war of the bad with the worse. The pages do not "fly by" - but they do stay with you long after the book is finished. Grossman was a Soviet war journalist, and his coverage of everything from the battle of Stalingrad to the gulag is utterly gripping. It is not a feelgood book, or a "testament to the triumph of the human spirit". It is a beautiful, memorable tribute to how ordinary people cope with impossible situations. If you have any interest in life in an utterly different situation, this book is a purchase you should really, really not pass up. I cannot praise it highly enough.
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This varied collection of stories was, for me, an excellent introduction to a writer of clearly major importance. Written mainly during the darkest days of Stalinism, they are a testament to the heroism involved merely in maintaining one's humanity.
I'm being a bit too romantic, too hyperbolic. I probably shouldn't have attempted this. But I want to put my two cents in as concerns this work, because I love it. It is a marvelous book.
Robert Chandler does a good job of convincing the reader that the threats he discusses are both real and credible. Highly recommended by someone with no military background.
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Happy Moscow, through its heroine, Moscow Chestnova, sets aside blithe idealism and explores the gulf that, in reality, existed between Stalin's "triumphant" socialism and the low living standards and bleak expectations of the people.
Moscow Chestnova, the heroine of Happy Moscow, was never meant to be seen as an individual. She's Every Citizen, the idea and the ideal of Stalinist Collectivity. More than anything, Moscow Chestnova cares; she embraces fully Dostoyevsky's mandate that "All are responsible for all." She cares about cleanliness, the proper heating of water, the driving of piles into the Moscow River. Following Stalinist ideology, she's the ideal every man desires and she gives of herself freely to anyone who asks. In Moscow Chestnova's world, as in Stalin's Moscow, there will always be room for "one more."
Just as Moscow Chestnova seeks to transcend the limits of individuality in favor of collectivity, so do the other characters in this book. One, in particular, buys a new passport and thus changes his identity. He goes on to acquire a new job, a new wife and a new family...all in the name of communist idealism.
Moscow Chestnova, of course, is eventually repelled by what she had, at first, embraced. She feels the isolation of the people, the lack of peace in their homes and in their lives and the oppressive sadness that covers the city like a blanket. Moscow finally comes to realize that even as individuals have been ignored, collectivity has gone to hell.
The language used in Happy Moscow ranges from the hilarious to the grotesque. Stylistically, the book is often absurd in its juxtapositions. Puns are rarely used for comic effect alone; they often contain important ideological or philosophical commentary. Platonov also has a unique ability of recontextualizing Stalin's rhetoric (drawn from his own speeches) in ludicrous parody and metaphor.
Happy Moscow is a gem of a book. It is a book, that, like the city of Moscow, herself, is, by turns, comic, creative, grotesque, and bizarre, yet ultimately crippled. It's a shame this book is not more widely read and better known.
I haven't read Chandler, so I'll stick with (3). This book is a good read. The story, characters, and plot are sufficiently engaging that I found it hard to put down, which is rare for me. Parker really excels at detective fiction, and this ranks with his best.
One issue is that Marlowe as represented here is like Spenser's twin brother, so if you're tired of Spenser, you'll be only moderately refreshed by the new protagonist.
Another is that Parker's love for Boston and New England doesn't extend to LA, Hollywood, and "Poodle Springs" (Newberry Springs?). There's a shallowness in his description, which is perhaps partially justified. But Michael Connelly, for example, does a much better job of capturing a feel for life in the Los Angeles region.
But still I recommend this book. On it's own, it's a good, engaging detective novel.
Yet Parker is not Chandler and there are places in the book where I kept feeling that he wasn't getting Marlowe just right. Probably I was looking for these non-Chandleresque moments and they are actually intriguing. Marlowe fans can read the book with this additional level of interest: did Parker capture the essence of Philip Marlowe in this scene or not?
All that aside this is a well-paced and entertaining mystery. There is a side plot as the book opens right after Marlowe's marriage to an heiress. The tension is between the independent and honest detective and his pampered wife who can't understand each other. He gets along better with her house boy, and she can't understand why he won't sit back and let her daddy take care of them.
The main plot is pure Marlowe with a sleazy pornographer/blackmailer leading a double life and mixed up in a murder. Marlowe keeps discovering bodies which puts him in trouble with the cops. Yet he can't quite figure out who is the murderer until it is almost too late.
If you haven't read Raymond Chandler this is not the place to start. Although this is a minor addition to the Marlowe corpus, it will be a welcome addition to those who have read the other works and desire more Marlowe. It reads quickly and never lets you down.
Now as Christopher Hitchens once pointed out, to be even compared to Tolstoy is no small achievement, so saying that Grossman does not meet this standard is hardly a damning criticism. Grossman, during the war a prominent journalist and later a novelists, was understandably horrified at the infinite cruelties and callousness of the Stalinist regime. That he is unsparing of the interrogations, the deportations, the tortures, the bureaucratic spite and viciousness, the way that political correctness encouraged cowardice and despair does credit to his courage. But courage is not enough, and one should beware those who believe it is a substitute for art. To say, as George Steiner, that Solzhenitsyn and Grossman "eclipse almost all that passes for serious fiction in the West today," is unfair. These subjects are powerful and moving is true, but beside the point. How could such they not be? Grossman must do more, and ultimately he does not do it.
Grossman suffers the vices of a journalist. His writing resembles romantic magazine cliches ("His love for Marya Ivanova was the deepest truth of his soul. How could it have given birth to so many lies?) The sententious title, all too reminiscent of War and Peace, does not help. Passages are suffused with rhetoric ("No, whatever life holds in store...they will live as human beings and die as human beings, the same as those who have already perished; and in this alone lies man's eternal and bitter victory over all the grandiose and inhuman forces that every have been or will be.") and the comments about freedom are particularly hollow. ("Does man lose his innate yearning for freedom?" "Man's innate yearning for freedom can be suppressed but never destroyed.") Behind the suppressed liberal, a middlebrow is waiting to come out.
Grossman writes at one point of how in totalitarian countries a small minority is able to bully or brainwash the rest of the country. This point has two flaws: it is a simplistic description of how modern terror works and Grossman does not bring it aesthetically to life. True, there are some stirring passages as the protagonist Viktor Shtrum finds all his colleagues at the scientific institute he works with drop away from him once he is criticized for supporting modern physics. But Grossman cannot portray the mind of an Anti-Semite or a Stalinist torturer. This failure is particularly damaging when one considers that Russian literature has no shortage of profound portraits of this sort of corrupt mindset (Dostoyevsky, Gogol, Saltykov-Shchedrin, Chekhov, Tolstoy, even Nabokov's Humbert Humbert). While it is true that Hitler was not the product of a primordial German anti-semitism, Grossman's picture of the Holocaust where almost none of the perpetrators are actually anti-Semites, just cogs in an automatic system, is seriously misleading. (One thinks of Omer Bartov's Hitler's Army in contrast).
Stalinism per se seems to be a caste separate from the population. This is misleading because it does not deal sufficiently with the internalization of Stalinism among the Soviet population. Viktor Shtrum seems surprisingly calm and composed towards the Germans who murdered his mother because she was a Jew. What is really odd is that most of the rest of the Soviet characters feel the same way. On both sides there is stoicism, a sense of comradely duty, thoughts about loved ones. There is not on the German side violent racist loathing towards the enemy. Likewise, there is surprisingly little rage, indignation, heartbroken grief and anger or lust for vengeance on the Russian side, though God knows there was no lack of provocation from the Germans. It would have been very easy, indeed one would think it unavoidable, to show reasonably decent Russians consumed with rage against the Germans. But that would complicate Grossman's picture of evil flowing down from a totalitarian state. It also says something that the Communists never win an argument in this book. (When a Russian prisoner of Tolstoyan pacifist opinions speaks of redeeming the world with acts of spontaneous kindness, no one actually points out that a lot more is needed to stop the Nazis.)
A comparison to Aharon Appelfeld's novels, or Gunter Grass's The Danzig Trilogy, or This way to the Gas Ladies and Gentlemen, shows Grossman's weakness as a writer of character. He assumes that most people are like himself. (Consider the failure in his portraits of Hitler and Stalin). And so there are endless scenes of people thinking about their loved ones, because Grossman cannot provide much more. They are endless scenes of women portrayed as the objects of men's affections, rarely as subjects, and certainly without the depth of other writers. (One notices that in Stalingrad the German soldiers have love affairs with Russian girls. They do not rape them). Strikingly, Grossman's characters are overwhelmingly Russian. Although the Soviet Union was a multinational state, other nationalities are usually only mentioned as reminders of Soviet persecution. In the end one is reminded that whereas Dostoyevsky could convince a reader that it is just and humane for Dimitri Karamazov to suffer the punishment for a murder that was actually committed by someone else, Vasily Grossman is unable to bring many of his liberal good wishes to life.