Evgeny Reutov. Migratory sparks

C once - advice. If you already have two volumes of the novel in your hands, and you have not yet begun to read, but now you are going to, then it is better to postpone the beginning of this process on the weekend. On Friday evening, check if there are enough products in the refrigerator and pantry until Monday morning. It is better to turn off the phone. For it is not you will overcome the book of Tom Wolf, but she is you. So forget about the planned parties planned for the weekend or in the premium, attend about the trip to your six hundredths, cancel the rendezvous with X, the libation with Y, the adultery with Z.

The plot of the novel lies in the fact that ... no, I will not say anything about the plot canvas: I don’t want to be like a football fan, who, having listened on the radio, the live broadcast of the match, the next day looks at the TV record and performs in a friendly circle in the role of an oracle - they say, do not bend this, they will score ours (or vice versa). Is it that "bonfires of ambitions" is a criminal novel? Yes. Crime - in bulk. Love-School? Exactly. There are aforementioned adultery with Z, destroying families, erotic dreams and other related attributes. Social? Also true. Political? Partly and political.

I would determine Wulf's work carefully: a paranorama novel. Review. At least - from the height of the hawk flying over New York, between the skyscrapers of Wall Street ... The action time is the eighties. Vidaks and pagers are already there, there are no cellular ones yet. I wonder how the attachment of the action would be transformed if there were already a “suotic”? After all, the action of the novel sharply starts precisely with a call by phone-automatic. A millionaire, under the pretext of walking, the dog slipped out of his features to call his mistress. I dialed my own number in the park ...

In general, technical cartoons in the "fire of ambitions" are very appetizing. Voluminous scenes full of various movements of the psyche are based on such inventions of technical thought as a metal detector, a recorder. The hero comes with a voice -free voice -worn on the telecondges to his shackle, which, elegantly expressing him, led him to the tsugunder. It is necessary to draw a couple of phrases from her. And not to take and talk thoroughly, in a businesslike way. So no! A surge of tenderness, fifth to tenth, arms ... Oh, if during the time of Fedor Mikhailovich there were all these cunning things-brings, all these bugs and nervous-paralytic grounds, night vision devices, electric chairs! .. It remains only to guess what other heaven and in what other catacches of the human soul would be the reader of Russian literature ... God forbid me to play me. The parallels with Dostoevsky, but it is he who are related to the individual chapters of the "bonfires". Saying “related”, I mean that dynamism of psychological prose, when, reading the book, you are afraid to slide down the page, to the outcome of the scene: the tension created by the author is so large that it is sometimes difficult to take it out, and it is impossible to tear yourself away from reading (see above). Well, is it not in Dostoevsky’s tones, for example, a fragmentist about how the favorite of the gods, and the demigod himself, mentally calling himself the Lord of the Universe, going out in the midst of an exchange day supposedly for a moment, locks up in the toilet, and, like a trembling creature, opens the fresh issue of the newspaper, and, praying, frantically runs the headlines ... “since this is the trouble” He predicted, oh, Lord, you will not allow her, is it true? "

Together with the heroes of Wolf, the reader will re -survive his own overthrow to the underworld. By "overthrow" I do not mean crossing the threshold of Butyrka, "sailor silence" or some Vladivostok shipping, but at least the threshold of the barracks, a neurological dispensary, an anonymous examination. God news, this step through the threshold has to be taken precisely when everything develops so well in life, so cloudlessly. It is necessary to, the reader will have to feel the moment of the insight born in a stylish shirt, with a wallet in his teeth and a package of securities in a portfolio, the Wolfa character: "But I am guilty, guilty ..."

Montaen is right: "Man is a toy of the gods." Yes, not like a person is a race . Here are blacks, African American, for example. Yesterday they fought for their rights, manifested, etc., and today there is no longer any living from them. "Suddenly Sherman noticed that in the wet, dense shadow of trees and old houses, some figure was approaching him. Even at a distance of twenty steps, in the dark, he determined that it was the secret horror of every inhabitant Avenue south south of the sixth street: a black guy, lanky, long-legged, in white crosses. Steps, in ten ... " Wolf makes it unequivocally makes it clear that all the notorious" political correctness ", all anti -radiist apartments - the reception of blacks to work in eminent legendary restaurants, which they sore rallies in their support and so on are nothing more than fear . So Salabon Lebezita in front of the demobilization, and the "Shnyr" - before "Authority".

Are we, the Muscovites, in our bright Tomorrow, throwing the American embassy with tomatoes, protesting against the Ku-Klux-Klanovites in black hoodies? We will begin to open universities of the friendship of peoples named after perplexed, bent in waterclans, torn to shreds of the leaders of the struggle for the liberation of "Euro-Americans"? (By the way, the building, against which the author is captured - the last page of the cover - is very, very reminiscent of the Central House of Sciences.)

Even those few scenes where the state of a hangover, Bodun’s syndrome is drawn with a widespread hand and a wide vill brush, they suddenly remind of the underground “crystal” or “Ossetian spill”. However, Wolfe clearly had enough over the edge in an effort to make one of the main characters purely "negative." Well, the dude works with a journalist, takes money wherever possible, gets into the drunkenness into ridiculous Sitoevins, not a fool to eat and drink on a freebie. And what? This, simply put, the costs of production, and the Wulf himself - a professional journalist - this fact should be clear as the squares of Malevich.

And perhaps he is Wulfu and clear: this reporter in the novel is alive than all living things. The undoubted luck of the writer, who scattered the “bonfires” of the brightest passage or, better to say, episodic characters. For example, an empress of some South Asian state flashed in a restaurant. And here is the commentary of one of the heroes. "Whatever bumps they have in their homeland, but still suffer, as they think that nobody cares about them in New York. No, our world is something. There she has ten or twenty million poor fellows shudder and writhe on the earthen floors of their curses, she should move her finger, and she does not sleep at night, in New York, in the restaurant La Boue D'Argent does not know who, to the devil, she is like that. " Character? Still.

Our world is really something. Although, according to Wulf, sometimes he is not so much something intriguing as a everyday price list. Some pages of the book are more like arsbukh, to a barn book than art prose. But reading a savings book is one of the most exciting classes. Especially if this savings company is your own.