Alexander Ageev. Hunger 91

Hunger 91
Practical gastroenterology reading

Alexander Ageev

Publication date: November 27, 2003

Two big troubles this week: firstly, either on Monday or Tuesday I saw Irina Denezhkina through the “box” (before that I had only read and heard legends about this “hope of modern literature”), and secondly,Rosbank refused to finance the Apollo Grigoriev Prize .

For some reason, in my head, these two unequal events merged into one, and how it happened that it was not Potanin’s Rosbank that refused annual support to decent writers in the amount of $30 thousand, but the moronic girl Denezhkina embezzled this money.

In a certain abstract sense, this is probably true: the too reputable Academy of Russian Contemporary Literature and those writers who received the Apollo Award for six years were not very suitable for performing advertising functions. There were no scandals or fights, no cannibalistic and moronic books were noticed, noble party-goers of all stripes were not invited to the jury. Can you sell something like this at a profit? But the inarticulate girl, who coyly does not pronounce the letter “e” (she says, for example: “my literary destiny”) and writes texts at the level of the school literary club, was promoted (by the same magazine and newspaper girls) instantly. They almost called this treasure from the glorious city of Yekaterinburg “our Françoise Sagan.” It’s a city with good literary traditions, but come on, this kind of thing grows there.

The presenters of “Country and the World” on NTV, where she was shown, looked at her with affectionate curiosity, as if she were such a funny little animal that does not have to have human intelligence (that’s what makes her funny, by the way), but they invited her into the program and asked questions with respectful irony . For example: "Who is the hero of your generation?" “I am the hero of our generation,” Denezhkina answered with iron confidence in her voice.

A week before, in Expert, Alexander Garros and Alexey Evdokimov, two laureates of this year’s National Bestseller , tore to smithereens the Anthology of Prose of Twenty-Year-Olds, which Denezhkina compiled and is now noisily presenting, and I thought: what a paradox! Denezhkina was only on last year’s short list of the National Best, and Garros-Evdokimov, writers who are much more professional, received this prize. God knows what kind of mystery their “puzzle” is, but it still looks like literature. But where have you seen Garros and Evdokimov promoted?

And they write correctly about the “Anthology”:

"Denezhkina and Co" is the most instructive reading; A generation of people is being introduced into fiction who have absolutely no idea how to cut themselves according to quality patterns... but they have a very good idea of ​​how to format their own young revelations into fashionable brands, slogans and labels for the sake of greater efficiency ."

I’m thinking: should I feel sorry or should I not feel sorry for Denezhkin? If she ever finds out that she really doesn’t write at all, and this discovery will not be too joyful for her, then, of course, she will be sorry. What if he never finds out? The same Garros and Evdokimov write:

“ It’s worse (and more likely) if the vacuum is filled with cheerful Huns who sincerely do not understand that there are good texts and there are not. And there will be no one who would tell them about this. And erudite literary reviewers will then begin to reasonably explain to us that Denezhkina and Co. write coolly, as erudite music columnists have already explained to us that the Tatu group sings and plays great ."

Although, however, both the senseless Denezhkina and the highly intelligent Garros and Evdokimov were launched into literary orbit by the same gray-bearded guy. That's who probably quietly rejoiced, sitting yesterday in the large hall of the Central House of Writers, when Rosbank representative Anya Parshchikova, at first showered with clumsy compliments to the Academy, practically without transition announced the cessation of funding for a competing award!

Yes, it was a strange meeting. It was planned a long time ago, long before the regrettable decision of Rosbank, and should have taken place, as far as I understand, in the format of a discussion about the results of the literary year. The organizers were not afraid of the 400-seat hall, which means they experienced some literary optimism. And everything was supposed to end with the election of the jury for the Apollo Grigoriev Prize for this and next year (since there were only ten academicians left who had not yet participated in the jury).

I knew about what had happened since Monday, and therefore, probably, everything that was said from the stage by various worthy people was colored for me in tones that were not too positive. Well, let’s say, Marina Vishnevetskaya, Andrei Dmitriev, Vera Pavlova - “Apollo” laureates of previous years - performed there, and I thought to myself: “Well, this is a memorial demonstration of past achievements.” Boris Kuzminsky spoke (to whom I managed to tell about Rosbank before the start of the event) and told how a new bestseller by Günter Grass was presented at the Frankfurt Book Fair, and in his story one could hear a reproach to domestic writers: they will not, like Günter Grass, “drag their legs” on a carefully choreographed performance designed to promote the book. But in vain - you need to be able to kick your leg for a good cause.

Kuzminsky, by the way, proposed introducing a quota for the translation and publication of foreign literature in Russia. He believes that flooding the market with a mass of mediocre and poorly translated Western psychological fiction is an insidious plan of large publishers. Thus, according to Kuzminsky, the taste for serious reading is discouraged: the consumer will suffer over a poor translation of a boring book, and will give up on this matter altogether, switching to detective stories and science fiction. And this, they say, is what publishers need. Well, I don’t know, Kuzminsky produces some very smart publishers.

The director of the Moscow bookstore M. Kameneva spoke more cheerfully than all the writers and critics combined. This lady calmed down our sad brethren and told us the good news: they do read modern Russian literature, and they read it very well. And they buy it more and more from year to year, and spend a lot on books, despite their relative poverty. Several times this performance was interrupted by applause: a businesslike and self-confident person, engaged in useful activities, looked very advantageous against the backdrop of speaking critics (critics still write better than they speak - and even from a large, brightly lit stage). The Moscow store, by the way, has its own website , and it’s a very good one.

I didn’t wait until the announcement of the fateful news, which the organizers had saved for the very end - there were things to do, and I don’t like funerals. Then they told me that there was some excitement in the hall about this (contrary to fears, quite a lot of people came) ...

Meanwhile, the academicians had previously conferred by telephone: what should we do now? Some were inclined to take extreme measures: close the bonus and tell Rosbank outright that they are assholes.

It seems to me that Rosbank should be thanked: they might not have given it at all, but they gave it for six whole years (Booker’s sponsors changed much more often). And keep the bonus, because not only is there an intrigue in thirty thousand bucks, but in the semblance of a “Hamburg account.” In addition, experience shows that suspended bonuses are never returned (like Antibooker, for example).

For now, let's look at the bottle of vodka and the apple that make up the Andrei Bely Prize, and then, lo and behold, there will be some sponsor who does not expect significant, visible and quick dividends from serious literature.

And so, I thought, the Academy remained true to itself: it did not make a scandal out of a situation fraught with scandal.

And yet, it’s a shame that Denezhkina and those literary journalists who enthusiastically promote her won. After all, it was they who wrote about the Apollo Grigoriev Prize all these years with constant bewilderment: why, they say, is such a prize needed that is given to no one (that is, to the “ordinary reader”) by unknown writers? Well, they knocked and knocked and reached the stony hearts of bankers. And bankers can love the young lady Denezhkina just for her last name...