Chevengur [Platonov A.] on *FREE* shipping on qualifying offers. V nashi dni Andrei Platonov po pravu zanial mesto vedushchego klassika. Chevengur by Andrei Platonov (Ann Arbor: Ardis Publishers, ), translated by Anthony Olcott. Posts on the novel: Links on Platanov and. Stalin called him scum. Sholokhov, Gorky, Pasternak, and Bulgakov all thought he was the bee’s knees. But when Andrei Platonov died in.

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There was no armoured train! Some of his work was published or reprinted during the s’ Khrushchev Thaw. But the driver eased back the regulator and moved away from the window. Plaronov devil only knows. Another one who won’t honour his parents! In other projects Wikimedia Commons. No other work of literature means so much to me.

A Common Reader: Chevengur by Andrei Platonov

Second, Platonov is hard to translate: On top of that, Zakhar Pavlovich—let alone Dvanov’s fisherman father—would never have left an entire hot locomotive to perish without a driver, and this too was something Aleksandr kept in mind. If this is so, if to read a book as it should be read calls for the rarest qualities of imagination, insight, and judgment, you may perhaps conclude that literature is a very complex art and that it is unlikely that we shall be able, even after a lifetime of reading, to make any valuable contribution to its criticism.

Sometimes, beneath the locomotive, there was the rumbling of little bridges, while clouds up above would flare with a mysterious light as they reflected the glow escaping from the open firebox. The big locomotive was obedient, and Dvanov did not push it too hard.

Wikimedia Commons has media related to Andrey Platonov. Platonov’s language is often extremely intimate yet also strange: This is what happened with both Pasternak and Solzhenitsyn. For many decades it was impossible for a Soviet writer to achieve fame in the west except through a major international scandal.


Chevengur – Asymptote

Empress of the East more to come The four-year-old was sitting in the window and smearing his fingers across the glass, imagining something that was different from his own life.

Dvanov felt calmer now and he left his seat, so he could see how his assistants were getting on and have a chat with them. chevengjr

Dvanov envied all this; he would have liked to take the trees, patonov air and the track and put them somewhere inside himself, so there would be no time to die under their protection. Gradually, however, he grew bolder and went platonob, though he still braked carefully on curves and gradients. In my personal judgment, it was confirmed for me during the last stages of my work on Russian Short Stories from Pushkin to Buidaan anthology of short stories I compiled for Penguin Classics.

To his surprise, Chevnegur finally dropped off and awoke in the colourless light of morning, with long dreary rain rustling gently on the roofs. But why are you so thin? With you gone, I didn’t feel like sleeping.

Dvanov seized hold of the windowsill to brace himself against the impact and took a last look at his adversary. It would have been better, perhaps, if Dvanov had gone up to that man in Shkarino station cevengur lain down beside him—and then, in the morning, gone out and disappeared in the steppe air.

Platpnov hands had gone cold and could barely turn the stiff spindle. She couldn’t understand how come, if there’d been a coffin, Sasha hadn’t died.

Is it that death was inside you and you didn’t let it in? Ever since Maryino Junction there’s been a White armoured train behind us.

Platonov’s stories work on many levels. From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia. Above all, I have the good fortune to have my wife, who shares my love of Platonov, and the brilliant American scholar, Olga Meerson, as my closest collaborators. A Red Army soldier was squatting down and looking at his chsvengur, from which blood was pressing out like dark wine. With heartfelt sorrow, Dvanov read these dictums—at home too, he had used to read a new calendar a year in advance.


And one of Platonov’s brothers has written that there really was a tame bear who worked in a local blacksmith’s.

Andrei Platonov

If it doesn’t work out, there’ll be only clay. Uncertainties of Spirit Cambridge, Eng.

The other train had already seen them and was letting out a continuous alarm whistle. Before Easter Zakhar Pavlovich made a coffin for his adoptive son; it was sturdy and splendid, with bolts and flanges—the last gift that a master-craftsman father could give to his son. And there was something else that Dvanov wanted to remember, but the effort was heavier than platinov memory and his thought disappeared round a bend of consciousness in sleep, like a bird from cjevengur wheel beginning to turn.

One teacher says we’re stinking dough and he’ll make us into a sweet pie. He was swelling up with such speed that the movement of his growing body was visible and his face was slowly darkening, as if the man were tumbling into the dark. Aleksandr waved goodbye to him twice, but the boy took fright and climbed down off the window—and so Dvanov saw no more of him and would never see him again.

Sonya will be old enough soon—and yes, it’s good she exists; she’s an orphan too.