Puddle with undercurrents

The Booker jury held a press conference at which they announced the shortlist of candidates for the award for the best Russian novel of the year. I will say this: in essence, the organizers gathered journalists to inform them that everything that was happening was not for the press.

The short list of the jury could be announced on the radio, for example. And then don’t suffer for fifteen minutes in front of television cameras, squeezing incredible texts out of yourself. Here’s one, for example, from the literary critic Dmitry Baku: “Two novels, the names of which I won’t tell you, are united by a problem that I can’t name.” And here’s what TV presenter Svetlana Sorokina told the press: “One of the novels—sorry, I won’t name the author—seems too literary and pretentious to me. But the other one—sorry, also without the name of the author—is very close to me as a human being.”

This comes close to the ideal formula of an information message that I remember from Soviet times: “The issues that were the subject of discussion were discussed at the meeting.”

Why were the Chrysostomists Alexander Kabakov (chairman of the jury), Dmitry Bak, Timur Kibirov, Svetlana Sorokina and Roman Solntsev so tongue-tied this time? The fact is that the respected jury (really respected, this is not a figure of speech at all) agreed at its last meeting that all disputes, disagreements, opinions and doubts will remain inside the “black box”. The result of the meeting will be reported to the press, but how it was achieved will be kept silent. And the jury members will keep their own opinions about the novels - both those included in the short list and those not included in it - to themselves.

The secretary of the Booker committee, Igor Shaitanov, explained to the audience, somewhat shocked by such treachery, that the jury members have the right to do this, it is written so in the award’s charter.

Yes they do, thanks for the help. Yes, I had no intention of suing the jury. I just want to explain why this behavior of the Booker jury seems to me wrong and even harmful.

The dream of any publisher and any writer is to have their work talked about. None of the novels included in the list are close in terms of circulation (and therefore in popularity) to today's bestsellers. So they are talking more and more about other creations that do not come close to the “Booker list”, but at least arouse curiosity in the public. Thanks to the many years of efforts of the English Booker, and fifteen years of the Russian one, a platform has been created in Russia where respected people can talk about serious literature in front of a wide audience. Here are television cameras, here are newspaper pages, here is priority display in any bookstore - agitate, argue, argue!

“As a Siberian, to be honest, I like some novels, but some I don’t,” this is from the speech of Roman Solntsev.

There is no need to look up to the Nobel Committee, where everything is hidden. Our prize does not yet have the same weight, and the names of our laureates are not heard by readers of at least some books. I am sure that the “incorrect” behavior of the chairman of last year’s Booker jury, Vasily Aksenov, who pointedly did not recognize the winner as the winner, added several thousand new readers to Denis Gutsko. They were simply interested to know why the young and little-known prose writer had angered the master so much. And how did he bribe the rest of the jury so much?

One of the members of the current politically correct jury (“I can’t say his name”) explained to me the reason for the collective silence agreement: “We don’t want to give food to gossip. There’s enough squabbles in the literary community as it is.”

A very vulnerable position. Firstly, “gossip” and “squabbles” - this, as I understand it, is one of the most obvious manifestations of literary life, oriented towards the outside world. Call it a controversy and it won't seem so bad. Secondly, I would really like to know what these undercurrents of irresistible force are hiding under the surface of our very small, sorry, literary puddle. And the public, I’m sure, would also be happy if they were told about everything. And the conversations in this audience would caress the ears of writers and publishers: “So who do you say is being dragged through? Olga Slavnikova? Must read. And who is against her? Zakhar Prilepin? Alan Cherchesov? We must remember. What did Timur Kibirov say about Denis Sobolev?”

But he didn’t say anything.

Boris Pasternak, “Vremya Novostei”