From all six sides

The bookstore of the OGI Project club is the only one in Moscow where you can shop almost around the clock. (Photo: Alexander Sorin )

Today, only the laziest of all those who write about Boris Akunin does not begin his writings with the fact that only the laziest today does not write about Boris Akunin. It’s not true - for example, we consider ourselves quite lazy, but we write. We are writing that by publishing a new piece called “Pelagia and the White Bulldog,” Akunin gave life to a new project. The name of the project is “Provincial Detective” (in exactly this spelling). Everything is different there. Erast Fandorin, with whom we almost became related, is no longer there. And there is nun Pelagia, a most cunning unraveler of various knots, who by the very fact of her literary birth conveys greetings to us from the foreigner Father Brown. We will discover other greetings as we read. From Conan Doyle: the intrigue revolves around the dog. From the writer Leskov: the perfectly stylized, leisurely and moderately florid style refers either to “The Cathedrals” or to “A Seedy Family.” Here is an example at random: “The only mention of the ancient existence of our unknown region is contained in the Nizhny Novgorod Izbornik, a chronicle of the fifteenth century.” It's clear? Slowness and measured writing are usually not considered among the merits of an author of the adventurous genre. So what? Akunin has already gotten back on his feet to the point where he can afford some imposing slowness. It’s already possible - they’ll read it anyway, they won’t go anywhere.

They really write a lot about Akunin’s books. Moreover, new motives began to appear in the reviews. Having recovered from the cultural shock that was the very rapid and endlessly intriguing appearance of a new author on the literary scene, critics began to criticize him. For incomplete compliance with the genre. For length. For something else. You can agree with the criticism or not, but the very fact of its existence seems to be a good sign. A sign that Akunin was no longer perceived as just a cultural sensation, but began to be valued as a writer.

The action of the story revolves, as already mentioned, around the dog. However, there is a completely different dog on the cover, and I know it well. This white goofy boxer who lives in my friends' house, in a paroxysm of unbridled friendliness, once tore my new scarf. And if it weren’t for his inhuman charm in every sense of the word, I would never have forgiven the scoundrel.

The book, however, is not about that. And what to report is not only pointless, but also criminal. Pointless, because most people reading these notes have already read the book. And it’s criminal, because who retells such books? Sometimes they beat me for this, and rightly so, between us, they do it.

Need I mention that Akunina always publishes “Zakharov” - a publishing house that thinks not in the names of authors or titles of books, but in exclusively strategic categories.

But the strategy of the Vagrius publishing house could be called extremely risky, because how else can one qualify the persistent desire to combine the seemingly incompatible - commercial success and a focus on quality. Eight years of existence of the publishing house (namely, it celebrated its “anniversary” recently) allow us to draw quite gratifying conclusions: so far it’s working. The name of the publishing house is associated with both scandalous political stories (like the story with the famous book by Chubais - this is when the word “writer” acquired another meaning), and “chamber” literary names, the discovery of which and introduction into the mass reader’s consciousness “Vagrius” is passionately and consistently engaged . It seems to us that the most important (in the sense of the most conceptual) publishing project is the so-called gray series, representing modern Russian prose. Risk is risk, and some of the books in this series, unfortunately, match the color of their covers. But the success rate is still impressive. The names of authors "widely known in narrow circles" may be perceived as "blind" to the average bookstore visitor. This is, of course, a problem. But this is no reason not to publish decent prose. There are, however, obvious names. For example, there is certainly no need to explain who Venedikt Erofeev is.

There is an opinion about Erofeev as the author of one thing. It's clear which one. A supporter of this view has the opportunity to either once again become convinced that he is right, or to reconsider his position by reading the writer’s one-volume work published in Vagrius in a row. In addition to the classic “Petushki”, the book also includes early diaries called “Notes of a Psychopath” (that’s the name of the entire one-volume book), and prose from the samizdat magazine “Veche”, previously known as “Vasily Rozanov through the eyes of an eccentric”, and the play “Walpurgis Night, or Commander's Steps" and notebooks from various - mostly recent - years. Notebooks, however, are always interesting. In general, you are convinced that none of the texts (some are better, some are worse, some are completely different) do not even approach the level of “Petushki”. The rest is just either “before” or “after”.

The OGI Project club is already so well known that there is no need to explain what it actually is. Suffice it to say: this space is unique in part because books, their readers and their authors effortlessly coexist in it. But also publishers. The club recently began publishing the “Poetry Series”, where Timur Kibirov’s book “Ostrovityanova Street” has already been published, where a book by Mikhail Eisenberg is expected and, I would like to think, many more good books. And just through the efforts of the OGI, a one-volume work by Yuli Gugolev, “Complete. Collected Works,” appeared. That's right: "Complete". Dot. "Collected Works".

On the one hand, it makes sense to count Gugolev among the famous poets. Fans of modern poetry have known and appreciated him for a long time. On the other hand, he is a young debutant in the sense that he has not had any books yet. Many, including myself, came to know, love and continue to love the poet Gugolev in his oral, rhapsodic, so to speak, form. Now there is a book. You can read slowly, carefully, meticulously. However, I really don’t want to find fault. Not in the sense that there is no point. There is just that - and this is a sign of creative health.

What is the secret of the rare charm of Google's texts? Is it not that, despite the obvious ease with which he sets himself and solves formal problems, not a single note bears claims to “Great Poetry”. In relation to foreign traditions and styles, the poet does not take either an aggressive polemical position or a “bottom-up” position. This is a partnership. Cultural codes are not only not camouflaged, but the author’s finger is directly pointed at some of them: “Good listener, you see now/ out of calculation, and not at all foolishly/ I chose this fucking size/ to lick Timura again.” It's clear. And for those who do not understand, let us remind you that Timur is the name of the poet Kibirov. And here is the most artistic passage, referring to the repertoire of Vsevolod Nekrasov: “Even lucky, one might say, thank God, everyone is alive./ Still lucky, I say, thank God, everyone is alive, one might say./ No, well, that was a complete surprise./ Well I don’t even really know what to say.”

It is appropriate to consider the work of Yuli Gugolev in the light of fashionable theories of “physicality”. The point is not only that the significant elements of poetics are the musical or acting abilities organically inherent in the author. This is also evident in genre preferences. Gugolev's favorite genre is self-portrait, where the author looks, to put it mildly, unadorned. Mandelstam’s allusion “It would seem that a body has been given to me... /And what do you want to do with it” reads almost like a manifesto. And one of the best poems sounds like a sublime hymn to one’s own stomach. How can one resist a simple pun about the “phenomenology of the belly”? And so, in essence, it is: “- Well, what are you all about your belly? / It’s not you in it, it lives in you. / As if there are no other worries... / - Well, there are no other worries.”

Those readers who suspect us that we need all sorts of discussions about “corporality” and other things only in order to suck in more quotes will not be so hopelessly wrong. I really want to quote Yuliy Gugolev as much as possible.

It is believed that poetry is composed by poets. Which, despite the apparent obviousness, is not always true. There exists, confidently filling a certain cultural niche, a kind of other poetry - the poetry of prose writers, the poetry of musicians, the poetry of philologists, the poetry of artists. If the poetry of a poet is valuable and significant to the extent that the poet himself is able to overcome the firm and fair, in our opinion, conviction that poetry is impossible, the poetry of a non-poet is perceived and evaluated according to completely different criteria. You sometimes read the poetry of a non-poet with sympathy, but never with compassion. For an artist, poetry and other literary pursuits are only components or special cases of his visual practice.

The volume of poetry by Kazimir Malevich, compiled, annotated and prepared for publication by Alexandra Shatskikh, will be of interest not so much to poetry lovers as to Malevich lovers. But they are certainly interested. For the book was published - both from a scientific and from a printing point of view - impeccably: the preface, comments and notes, rare illustrations - everything is in its place. The section “Poems of Contemporary Poets” deserves special mention. Kharms, Kruchenykh, and Igor Bakhterev are there.

Outside of the historical and cultural context, Malevich's poems are perceived, at best, as inspired monologues of a deaf-mute. At worst, they are like loud-boiling manifestations of significant vulgarity accumulated over a whole century. Or vulgar significance - whichever you prefer. How, pray tell, can one read such a couplet on a blue eye today:
purpose of music
silence
But you don’t need to read it with a blue eye. But that’s why our ideas about the history of art are meant to be read correctly. In a sense - adequate.

And there is also a completely different kind of poetry, and you can’t get away without it either.

There are a lot of songwriters like “Street Songs”. This one just caught our eye. It was published by the little-known Kolokol-Press publishing house. Published, of course, rather clumsily and, moreover, on gray paper. But this genre does not offer any special luxuries. Previously, all this was generally placed in a shabby notebook - and nothing. The collection begins, of course, with “Murka”. Things seem to be heading towards the fact that “Murka” will soon become our national anthem.

Reading the collection is not just an educational activity, but also at times poignantly nostalgic. Still: childhood! For example, I’m reading my favorite “Gop-with-a-bow” and find previously unfamiliar verses. But I don’t find any friends. Where, for example, did this go: “Of course, we didn’t pay a fine. / But we beat the cop. / They beat and beat and beat, / They turned his face into an ass, / Because we were drunk”?

But there are recognitions of a different kind. For example, I never knew how the song “Noisy Marseille at Night” ends. And I only knew the beginning of “White Shoes.” And I always wanted to know what’s next! Now I know. Gaping gaps in education have been filled. Useful publication.

The publishing house "NLO" began publishing fiction with "Omnibus" by Andrei Sergeev, following the fresh traces of the event that was the awarding of the Booker Prize to the author. During this time, a lot happened: the publishing house published a lot of high-quality and varied literature of any genre, and Sergeev, alas, passed away. He left, having, however, managed to collect his second book for his favorite publishing house. Now this book with the title “Exorcism of Demons” has been published, collecting short prose, or “stories”, according to the author’s definition (some of this prose migrated from the same “Omnibus”), and poems from different years. Wonderful, thoroughly playful and at the same time skillful poetry to the point of metallic shine: “Well, what are you, what are you, this, brother, is that, / That, and not something else - / It’s true, it’s nothing, / Especially since nothing like that / And, therefore, it will do without anything. / That’s better this way..."

But what, however, can be written about Andrei Sergeev - he was a classic during his lifetime. All I can add is that the book is excellently published. And from the last page of the cover a lively and cheerful poet looks at us, seeing off the reader with a friendly parting word: “Now, having thrown away school templates, / Look at the world from all six sides...”

Need to try.