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A review by tits_mcgee
Moscow Circles by Venedikt Erofeev, Benedict Erofeev
dark
funny
reflective
slow-paced
- Plot- or character-driven? Character
- Strong character development? Yes
- Loveable characters? Yes
- Diverse cast of characters? Yes
- Flaws of characters a main focus? No
5.0
🚂 Review of Moscow Circles by Benedict Erofeev 🚂
⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️
*partial spoilers, but the plot isn't the point*
I'm always a fan of characters whose motivation begins and ends with a bottle of booze and whose existence bears no influence on the world around them. Benedict Erofeev is both the author and the main character of Moscow Circles, a book that was published on the hush hush and passed around the literary underground. A form of rebellion.
The repressive nature of Soviet Russia was clearly a big influence, but in true satirical fashion, the reason for this book being physically written was actually a dare.
The structure works really well, it is a stream of consciousness in style, broken only by the announcements of the train stations. Indeed the book is set almost entirely on the train from Moscow to Petushki, where our alcohol fuelled protagonist is to meet his invisible love interest, a woman who has "...eyes of white, white turning to whitish..." and whom Erofeev plans to give a box of chocolates.
I particularly liked this structure because it felt like one long drinking session; and, like a long drinking session, this book starts out hilarious, full of anecdotes, singing and guffawing, and eventually unravels in a fever dream of delirium and confusion, all the while the tone of the book turns grotesque, with more profound, hard hitting political statements and societal observations, flooding the unsuspecting reader with a shock of existential dread.
The ending in particular utilises one of my favourite literary techniques: the unreliable narrator becoming undone, paranoid and confused.
"Everything should take place slowly and incorrectly so that man doesn't get a chance to start feeling proud, so that man is sad and perplexed."
"Outside again. Oh, emptiness, oh, the bared fangs of existence."
"All the Italians ever do is just sing and draw. I mean, one Italian will stand and sing and next to him another will be drawing the one who's singing and nearby will be a third Italian, singing about the one who is drawing."
⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️
*partial spoilers, but the plot isn't the point*
I'm always a fan of characters whose motivation begins and ends with a bottle of booze and whose existence bears no influence on the world around them. Benedict Erofeev is both the author and the main character of Moscow Circles, a book that was published on the hush hush and passed around the literary underground. A form of rebellion.
The repressive nature of Soviet Russia was clearly a big influence, but in true satirical fashion, the reason for this book being physically written was actually a dare.
The structure works really well, it is a stream of consciousness in style, broken only by the announcements of the train stations. Indeed the book is set almost entirely on the train from Moscow to Petushki, where our alcohol fuelled protagonist is to meet his invisible love interest, a woman who has "...eyes of white, white turning to whitish..." and whom Erofeev plans to give a box of chocolates.
I particularly liked this structure because it felt like one long drinking session; and, like a long drinking session, this book starts out hilarious, full of anecdotes, singing and guffawing, and eventually unravels in a fever dream of delirium and confusion, all the while the tone of the book turns grotesque, with more profound, hard hitting political statements and societal observations, flooding the unsuspecting reader with a shock of existential dread.
The ending in particular utilises one of my favourite literary techniques: the unreliable narrator becoming undone, paranoid and confused.
"Everything should take place slowly and incorrectly so that man doesn't get a chance to start feeling proud, so that man is sad and perplexed."
"Outside again. Oh, emptiness, oh, the bared fangs of existence."
"All the Italians ever do is just sing and draw. I mean, one Italian will stand and sing and next to him another will be drawing the one who's singing and nearby will be a third Italian, singing about the one who is drawing."