Oxota: A Short Russian Novel

BOOK

ONE

CHAPTER ONE

This time we are both

The old thaw is inert, everything set again in snow

At insomnia, at apathy

We must learn to endure the insecurity as we read

The felt need for a love intrigue

There is no person—he or she was appeased and withdrawn

There is relationship but it lacks simplicity

People are very aggressive and every week more so

The Soviet colonel appearing in such of our stories

He is sentimental and duck-footed

He is held fast, he is in his principles

But here is a small piece of the truth—I am glad to greet you

There, just with a few simple words it is possible to say the truth

It is so because often men and women display their sense of honor

CHAPTER TWO

No form at all—it’s impossible to imagine its being seen from above

Nor sense of time since work is only done discontinuously

I had no sense of making an impression

The blue shadows of footprints and a diffuse pink or green light between them on the saturated park were soaking the snow

A reflection of the violent word MIR painted green was mirrored warped on a stretch of deserted ice

All my memories then as Leningrad lay like the shallow sheets water banked by rubble and melting snow which covered the field in a northern housing district of the city across which we were often walking toward the housing blocks in winter, its surface wildly broken by the light

Something impossible to freeze, or the very lack of thing

Dusk as it continued to be

In the evenings particularly we made notes and took dictation in anticipation of writing a short Russian novel, something neither invented nor constructed, by moving through that time as I experienced it unable to take part personally in the hunting

Taking patience and suddenness—even sleeping in preparedness, in sadness

No paper for books

I had lost all sense of forming expressions

No paper at all in the south, and the butcher stuffs pieces of greasy black beef into the women’s purses

Other links exist, on other levels, between our affairs

CHAPTER THREE

Something hangs in the drawing room and it’s green

A painted herring hung where it’s harder to recognize

I slept there in a corner on the sofa called America

In a bed near the Vyborg by a crowbar with a magpie-dog duo singing a ballad without the neighbor’s shaking out his blanket

I dreamed I was walking somewhere in the Crimea with my mother when we met two soldiers and their man in handcuffs

He was a criminal of passion

The riddle depending on delayed recognition of a thing is like the herring—Armenian

A maiden name

A visa

I answered the top man at the consulate and said the word was marital

Rubble—so you see that our people must squat in their ditch and speak of beauty

The enemy freezes to its trees

The old women who survived had to have been witches, said Misha

Bitches, said Arkadii Trofimovich—the crime of passion is our Soviet kindness

CHAPTER FOUR

A person’s hypersensitivity is in America no longer witty

In the Russian novel is an obverse of a person

A complete entity with a voice its own droning with its nose pressed against the wall

The wall was intuitively placed between the breasts

Not having possession but being pressed

And we are conscientious

With age one ought to gain something besides weight

Height

Adherence

There’s a lot of waiting in the drama of experience

Now cold is suddenly springing from the floorboards

Travelers buying the brooms of birches

More than once as I write you’ll find yourself reading of the weather and Leningrad light

The next morning was minus eight degrees and our sense of the passage of time was mild since our time had no destination

CHAPTER FIVE

We are occupied with production, but these are our times of mute people

A dim housing block the substance of igloo

A colossal revaluation of meat and money

A sleep somewhere between crumbling and construction

Then a dream in which Stalin enters it

People are told to renovate the means by which they satisfy their material wants and that’s not art

All light ruins white

Whom then to love

What

How could one love one’s life if it were new

The famous émigré is a bourgeois lyricist

Why not, said Lydia Yakovlevna

If there can be socialist realism then there can surely be bourgeois lyricism

To the post office, then the apothecary

CHAPTER SIX

Arkadii Trofimovich wrote from 1:30 to 3

White and no degree

Enormous angry crows and furious magpies waited for a dog under the trees

With a name like Polkan to be called it is called

A colonel on the snow past babushkas on their bench with the mineral water culled from iron

He will pull off his huge coat to cover the child on the rails

A sentence and its passivity

Its metonymy

Then Vitya arrived—slow discussion with him

Effacement, orientation, the syllogism, retardation

I can’t say whether the person was appeased or never existed

About something which is nothing, for example, we can say but cannot show

We can say he is … he is don’t-sew-a-sleeve-to-a-cunt

He is quotidian

CHAPTER SEVEN

One person believes in nothing and another dislikes poetry

They don’t present equal dangers to society

The lowness of the light stole the field from its shadows

An old babushka wobbled on the ice atop the ridge of snow packed beside the street

In deed and word

She was hissing

And a pedestrian screaming, what are you doing up there, you stupid old woman

The shouting Samaritan jerked the granny to safety

She was hissing like a street cat

An engine, an omen of weddings

An habitual association with daily aesthetic impressions

An omen of the love of art and its social functioning

An orb standing for an orbit

The old woman still standing in the street

CHAPTER EIGHT

This is not seen as something else

This is not scene—not in a dramatic sense

Standing as a voluptuary, developed in a wooden box

Clutched from frost

Well, I would like to lose all my bad habits, but never in my life have I had so little opportunity for doing so

Gray or white with objectivity which slides out written

At times human experiences appear more dramatic to others than they do to the person who is having them but as if waiting

As if lacking a self to improve

An instrumental

I am settled in the shadows at the corner of the bed

I am reprimanded by Zina that the light is bad

But I had nothing to link to it

A sex static and tingling of oblivion and description

The child of my father but not me

CHAPTER NINE

There is a room in Pushkin’s small house at Pavlovsk and it’s the same yellow

Somewhat sentimental or really so after the palace

Sentimental sides

The locking of asides

Snow was falling in the yard around a hard currency hospital of the same color

The rubles too as thick as snowflakes

And here at my window, said Arkadii Trofimovich, is my West

But where was Pushkin’s bed

He can’t decide what he decides

Two anti-Semites thundering about north guys and blue eyes and black guys

They were drumming on Sasha’s side

His face was pale, the skin thin and dry, his eyes full but of what he couldn’t say, asleep and awake, awful nights

More idiots! said the colonel, almost catching the intonation of the cab driver

Pushkin remains himself, but what self has he to remain

CHAPTER TEN

Misha, we too will submit to our lot

There’s a false opposition between art and reality

Misha!

Ho! answered Misha

Your brain wouldn’t even serve as a file folder

A false correspondence with life

You’re right, Mitya—it contains too little and yet it contains too much

But it’s naïve to refuse to acknowledge that one thing is art and another belongs to reality (and let’s assume that there’s only reality)

The sense of accumulation, and of the increase of probability—there are no opposites

There’s no sense in worrying about imitation, since a situation after enough time can’t help but sit and increase as it does so

Agoraphobic and sweating, people swollen in buses

A schoolboy submitted among thighs to the swelling and slept

Under cat steam, within cabbage

I hate to leave a place just before, during, or immediately after a storm

CHAPTER ELEVEN

With exhilarating humility we watched the accumulating snow

The shifting of greenish drifts, the yellow silent wind

Not defiant but obsequious in storm at kitchen window

Money is not unlucky

But a whistling man indoors is luckless in money

What then if snow is the substance of an accounting

No objects of metonymy, of economy

A colonel’s daughter drew in the frost like a vandal to the colonel

The wolves whistled in the forest near Pavlovsk

Little Dima bravely raced toward the palace parking lot

A poetry and with fear of authority—as if that were your sole justification, in itself, not in what you wrote

Simple being—simple agoraphobic being

Its meals

Their daily huntress

CHAPTER TWELVE

Almost blue horseradish in great sadness

Mute painting and articulate painter

The colonel said to his wife that they were cutting his pay to cover the cost of a panzer tank he’d lost in a maneuver

Well, Misha said, as they say, you slide down the slope bare-assed and stop yourself with your prick

Siberia starts twenty minutes from there

Slivers of meat whittled from a frozen slab stored on the window sill

But with an incomplete gesture, an unfinished phrase

We are among things on which reality has been slowly settling and is then dusted away

An hour after power soup, pieces of an unfamiliar fish and pickles scattered over rice

The second smoke in Soviet cooking is a blue one

Smoke, condiment, and bread

They are enclosed in such simple understanding that going out right then for milk involved an unintelligible belief in everything

I simply couldn’t manage the incorporation of what I know—or was in the process of knowing

As they say, black is a color that glitters, and blue is a black that doesn’t glitter

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Slogans are pasted in public, marking patterns of eros that remain unread

Your back is beautiful, he had said

Ahead of memory

Sulfur sifting through the lines

Pale rocks, enormous eggs

I remembered riding a sledge between horses’ legs

Gavronsky, inflated with pleasure, had his back turned

Arkadii Trofimovich waded through the mud

The old woman never tethered the goat, he said, her husband at the window yelling for his pay

The old woman took her wine with her mouth to the mud

If there are nationalists there is a city, an enthusiastic sum

Ahead of meat

And women with or without sympathy standing in lines

Ice outwaiting time

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Women do have sense of humor

And sense of utensil—steaming bus

Things bringing our being into proximity with themselves

A woman interesting a man in herself because of what women like

There are letters and place

One could long for someone right there with one and not be able