TBT #94: Nineteenth Century Russian Novelists Discuss Life’s Little Things

Oh man. I have this idea. This great idea. I am tired of writing things that are low-brow. I mean, hell, guys, do you realize how easy it is to write about people in a relationship? It’s just all whine whine whine and then you’re done. You — yes, you — could write that sort of thing if you ever tried. That’s the sinister truth about creative writing: it is ridiculously simple. Writers just try to make it sound complicated by using big words like protagonist, denouement and arc. (Which mean guy, end and stuff, respectively.) And also by making esoteric (”obscure”) allusions (”references”) to old poems and stories and Shakespearean soliloquies (”poems”) and such. They dress up creative writing to the point where it becomes complicated and thus somehow prove their talent in front of an audience of, like, eight people. Because there are only eight people that want to read a story about the time a young girl’s father patched her ripped pants after a day riding horses in the field that contains reference to Kubrick’s Barry Lyndon, Kafka’s The Trial and Broderbrund Software’s Where in the World is Carmen Sandiego?.

And I want to do that too, is what I’m saying. I am sick of writing for schmoes who like dialogue and character and even plot. From now on I will primarily write for the purpose of subtly illuminating my thoughts on sections of Finnegan’s Wake. And not the easy sections, either. The hard ones. Where they’re all like “aeiii ouvere the fountaines in fa’l d’ye se’ this, boy? We ain’ s’e ‘rish nah minotaur.” That stuff is fucking awesome. I’m going to write a story where, like, two guys talk about Joyce and then one of them descends into madness and the other questions the apostrophe (he’ll be all ” ‘? ” if that makes any sense, and I think it does) and then the ground will open up and swallow them both and Virgil will be there wearing a a sash made from the flag of Ireland and doves will skim across the River Styx and then it’ll just end. But it won’t be “The End” it’ll be “The End?” because that’s a very provocative way to end a story, even one about James Joyce and Finnegan’s Wake.

But that’ll be later. I gotta work my way up to that. First, I’ve decided to write a story about a bunch of Russian novelists hanging out and discussing their lives because that sounds like an award-winning idea if I ever heard one. It’s called “Hephaestus in Kiev”, a reference to Russian poverty and political struggles and also the google search I just ran on “Greek Gods.”

Hephaestus in Kiev

The wind is blowing across the windy landscape of Russia. It is a time outside of time, when the minute hand moves slower than the hour hand and the only real way to mark the day is the sound of church bells, whatever that means. Various types of Russian wildlife dart too and fro across the granite streets passing between poor people who stand in land for mere morsels of food. They have no dignity or razors — sadness and hair abounds. Elsewhere, some people are inventing Communism. It is really easy, they think, and are rather gleeful about the whole deal. “Hegel!” they say, collapsing into giggles, before inventing more big words.

Inside a bar talented people sit, doing their best not to think about the bitter cold depression outside the doors. For they have money where others do not. The writings they can sell pay only a pittance, but a pittance goes a long way in this pitied place called Kiev. Around the table the conversation is muted. Leo Tolstoy sits at the head of the table, the only one visibly drunk. He’s expressing to Fyodor Dostoevsky his idea for a story about an epileptic prince who is kind of an asshole. The title is “The Motherfucker” though later Dostoevsky, after stealing the idea, will change the title to something less profane.

Joseph Conrad sits beside them, pretending to be involved in their conversation but really just staring at the rings on his fingers. For a long time he only had 9 rings, leaving his leftmost pinky undecorated. Today he managed to procure the last ring, making his hands look spectacular. He spent two hours convincing the ring’s previous owner — a teenage girl — that he was a magician. Then he made the ring disappear. Then he distracted the girl by pointing behind her and yelling. It is the proudest day of Joseph Conrad’s life.

Anton Chekov talks only to himself. He uses two voices, one in the second person and the other in the third. It is complicated and not worth understanding. He is currently accusing Kafka — who is not there, probably because he stubbed his toe and got all mopey about it — of stealing his idea for a book about a man who turned into a bug. His would have been better: it was about two groups of people, one that turned into cars and one that turned into planes. There would be conflict. “You will write it as symbolic of the worker and the moneylender,” he says. “Yes. Anthon Chekov will,” he concurs with himself.

Aleksei Maksimovich Peshkov, a stern man in a black coat sits at the other end of the table with Aleksandr Pushkin, a black man in a stern coat. They get along well. They have the same initials and Pushkin’s sister actually dated Peshkov’s roommate like three years ago, before either of them knew each other. Peshkov continuously attempts to correct factual errors that the other men make, such as pointing out that Joseph Conrad is not Russian and, saying to Chekov, that, not only as he just developed an early concept for the 1980s cartoon series The Transformers, he has done so decades before the invention of both the automobile and plane. Pushkin tells him not to bother, that facts are irrelevant in the bitter cold of Russia, then asks if anyone thinks his last name is cute-sounding.

Everyone does, voting with a raise of their glass, a hush falls across the table.

“You know,” slurs Tolstoy. “As I stand here today, reflecting on my life and death, I can’t help but think that, wow, I can’t remember anything I have written.”

All of the table agrees. Dostoevsky adds that, in addition to that, he can not even remember how to spell his name. There is laughter by all except from Conrad, whose expression changes from delight to confusion as his eyes move from the rings to his compatriots.

“You all predate me by several decades,” he whines.

Chekov hits Joseph Conrad in the back of the head, angry because he feels Conrad stole his idea for a story about a displaced white man searching the jungle for a rogue agent whose fallen into horrors. Chekov’s was going to be about Vietnam and feature Robert Duvall in an Oscar-nominated role. Conrad is now doubly confused, due to complications stemming from Chekov’s use of the word ‘you’. He uses it uniquely.

“I want to marry an Irish woman,” says Aleksandr Pushkin. “A child born of a Russian Man and an Irish Woman would have a name with the perfect balance of vowels and consonants!”

“And the perfect balance of poverty,” snipes Peshkov. He laughs at himself dryly. The others do not. They all think he tries too hard.

Later they discuss Communism and Hegel. They all agree that the Hegelian view of history is way off-base, except for Joseph Conrad, who measures his toes on the table. Pehskhov think’s its rude; Pushkin thinks he has cute feet. Dostoevsky theorizes that nothing can progress forever. Everything will grow too high and eventually fall over. Tolstoy laughs and calls him an asshole, turning his back to the table and pointing at his rear-end for everyone’s benefit. Then he pretends his lengthy beard is actually the underside of a cow, grabbing two fistfuls of hair and ‘milking’ them like udders, inexplicably.

The night continues.

They toast to Mother Russia, and Communism, and the Worker, and the various types of wildlife in Russia, of which they know all the various types, including the bear.