Translated material
In the Moscow traffic jam
I read the new book of Sorokin in traffic jams. The heroes of his "snowstorm" also cannot get anywhere. Mans and night breaking through the snow, they spend a life on the road, saturated with dangerous adventures. The landscape, however, does not change, because nothing, as in the subway, is visible. Therefore, the purpose of the trip is gradually fading, and the only way is the road itself, which is increasingly difficult to find. In Moscow, I quickly mastered this existential modus and stopped looking at the watch. After making sure that we had not yet reached the first traffic light, I went deep into reading.
As always, Sorokin, the text was simultaneously familiar and fantastic. Having taken Tolstoy for Canvas, Sorokin introduced a private arsenal into the stylization - letter -upsized metaphors. So, a small man of Russian literature became even less with him. Now he goes on a plate, gets drunk from a thimble, but swearing like a large one. Together with the ordinary people, their animals also crushed. Self -rolling sleds in the "snowstorm" drive 50 horsepower, each the size of a mouse.
There were more strengths in our car, but they all went to spoil the air. Blue from the exhaust, he drunk like hydrolysis alcohol, and jammed longing for freedom. The traffic jam repulsed all desires, except for one - to turn into an empty lane, but it was not, and I continued to get acquainted with the post -apocalyptic world of Sorokin. According to the author, anti -utopia will begin as soon as oil ends.
“It would be faster,” I thought, looking at the enchanted city in which everyone was traveling, but no one is moving.
The early Sorokin had such a paradox, the mature had a blizzard, well familiar to Russian readers. But if in the "Captain's daughter" Buran serves as a form of history, and in the "owner and employee" - a denouement, then here the snow is a central hero. Interrupting to find the road, he does not allow him to get to the destination, nor return home.
“It would be better not to leave him,” I grumbled, but there is no reverse move from the cork either.
Knowing this, the driver strangled, and with him the whole herd was desperately and uselessly overwhelmed.
“This groan is called with a song,” I recalled the classic, without which Sorokina cannot be read.
In essence, he does not profan the great literature, but summarizes it. Percchushka coachman is a collective image of the suffering, but impotent people. Dr. Garin - a set of good -natured traditions. Faithful to his medical duty, he is lucky to a vaccine that protects him from Latin American Mora, who turns people into zombies (cocaine?). On the way, Garin passes through all the tests laid down by the intelligent character. He surrenders to fleeting passion, fraternizes with a man, hits him in the face, seeks atonements and finds him in hellish torment. Under the influence of psychedelic potion, Garin finds himself in an extremely realistic underworld, where it, as it was promised to us, is boiled in lean oil. Neither public confession, nor a passionate prayer, nor empty threats are saving from terrible torment. But when waking up, Garin re -experiences religious delight from a returned life and buys two portions of the potion for the future, which greatly resembles Dostoevsky’s novels.
Standing in a traffic jam, I often remembered him "a bathhouse with spiders." The general here is the hellish nightmare of negative eternity: time goes on, but nothing changes, especially on the garden.
“In New York,” I said from longing to the driver, “the mayor drives the subway.”
“Cheap,” the driver muttered, and, slipping into yellow, reliably blocked the intersection.
Dangers are in wait for the heroes of the Sorokinsky story. It is difficult for them because they did not come out growth. Especially - compared to the heroes of the past. A wagon crashed into the dead head of one of them (hello to Ruslan), breaking a runner in the nose of the giant.
The fossil covered with snow remained here from the previous time. “Big” - six -meter - men of the past are described in “blizzards” with folklore scope and physiological details: according to the proverb “Well done and snot”. In the blow, they demolish a whole forest, in a fight - pour the groove with blood, in offense - so shit in a well that they can’t scoop up a week. Even the dead giant serves as an obstacle, forcing the heroes to cut through his sinusitis nostril. According to Sorokin, the majestic past is inhibited by the present, which, however, still has no future. The snow never ends, Perchushka will freeze, Garin will not reach anywhere. The space alienated by snow ultimately turns out to be a stranger. Like all the last opuses of Sorokin, the "blizzard" ends in Chinese, when the new owner of life enters the final on a three-story horse.
The story got to the end, but we did not, and, closing the book, I began to scold the cork with the driver - monotonously and gambling, like Soviet power in the old kitchen. Traffic jam is an ideal plug. Enjoy evil, she punishes only those who prevents them to grow together with the front. After all, the cork not only unites, but also disconnects. Those who get into it dream of getting rid of trouble not at once, but one at a time. But for this you need a magical, as in Sorokin's prose, a tool: flashing lights.
As always, Sorokin, the text was simultaneously familiar and fantastic. Having taken Tolstoy for Canvas, Sorokin introduced a private arsenal into the stylization - letter -upsized metaphors. So, a small man of Russian literature became even less with him. Now he goes on a plate, gets drunk from a thimble, but swearing like a large one. Together with the ordinary people, their animals also crushed. Self -rolling sleds in the "snowstorm" drive 50 horsepower, each the size of a mouse.
There were more strengths in our car, but they all went to spoil the air. Blue from the exhaust, he drunk like hydrolysis alcohol, and jammed longing for freedom. The traffic jam repulsed all desires, except for one - to turn into an empty lane, but it was not, and I continued to get acquainted with the post -apocalyptic world of Sorokin. According to the author, anti -utopia will begin as soon as oil ends.
“It would be faster,” I thought, looking at the enchanted city in which everyone was traveling, but no one is moving.
The early Sorokin had such a paradox, the mature had a blizzard, well familiar to Russian readers. But if in the "Captain's daughter" Buran serves as a form of history, and in the "owner and employee" - a denouement, then here the snow is a central hero. Interrupting to find the road, he does not allow him to get to the destination, nor return home.
“It would be better not to leave him,” I grumbled, but there is no reverse move from the cork either.
Knowing this, the driver strangled, and with him the whole herd was desperately and uselessly overwhelmed.
“This groan is called with a song,” I recalled the classic, without which Sorokina cannot be read.
In essence, he does not profan the great literature, but summarizes it. Percchushka coachman is a collective image of the suffering, but impotent people. Dr. Garin - a set of good -natured traditions. Faithful to his medical duty, he is lucky to a vaccine that protects him from Latin American Mora, who turns people into zombies (cocaine?). On the way, Garin passes through all the tests laid down by the intelligent character. He surrenders to fleeting passion, fraternizes with a man, hits him in the face, seeks atonements and finds him in hellish torment. Under the influence of psychedelic potion, Garin finds himself in an extremely realistic underworld, where it, as it was promised to us, is boiled in lean oil. Neither public confession, nor a passionate prayer, nor empty threats are saving from terrible torment. But when waking up, Garin re -experiences religious delight from a returned life and buys two portions of the potion for the future, which greatly resembles Dostoevsky’s novels.
Standing in a traffic jam, I often remembered him "a bathhouse with spiders." The general here is the hellish nightmare of negative eternity: time goes on, but nothing changes, especially on the garden.
“In New York,” I said from longing to the driver, “the mayor drives the subway.”
“Cheap,” the driver muttered, and, slipping into yellow, reliably blocked the intersection.
Dangers are in wait for the heroes of the Sorokinsky story. It is difficult for them because they did not come out growth. Especially - compared to the heroes of the past. A wagon crashed into the dead head of one of them (hello to Ruslan), breaking a runner in the nose of the giant.
The fossil covered with snow remained here from the previous time. “Big” - six -meter - men of the past are described in “blizzards” with folklore scope and physiological details: according to the proverb “Well done and snot”. In the blow, they demolish a whole forest, in a fight - pour the groove with blood, in offense - so shit in a well that they can’t scoop up a week. Even the dead giant serves as an obstacle, forcing the heroes to cut through his sinusitis nostril. According to Sorokin, the majestic past is inhibited by the present, which, however, still has no future. The snow never ends, Perchushka will freeze, Garin will not reach anywhere. The space alienated by snow ultimately turns out to be a stranger. Like all the last opuses of Sorokin, the "blizzard" ends in Chinese, when the new owner of life enters the final on a three-story horse.
The story got to the end, but we did not, and, closing the book, I began to scold the cork with the driver - monotonously and gambling, like Soviet power in the old kitchen. Traffic jam is an ideal plug. Enjoy evil, she punishes only those who prevents them to grow together with the front. After all, the cork not only unites, but also disconnects. Those who get into it dream of getting rid of trouble not at once, but one at a time. But for this you need a magical, as in Sorokin's prose, a tool: flashing lights.