Dreamy, evocative; endless painful descriptions from painful memories for those of us who like to drag ourselves through someone else's muck.

An amazing book. The main character used to be a surrealist artist in Russia. The author echoes this by writing it in a surrealist fashion. Looking back on reading this book makes me wish I was still reading it.

He has a realization—
Something was happening to him—something strange, something, in fact, extremely unsettling—something that he was unable to explain, much less stop or control. He was being assailed by his past.

Anatoly Sukhanov is a man with a past he has edited, a past that now haunts him as those edited parts suddenly make themselves known in both his dreams and his waking hours. Just what is it that Sukhanov has suppressed all these years and that at the age of 56 now has him inhabiting a different plane of reality than those around him? Why do his dissatisfied wife and children, and his estranged associates look at him differently now? And what about his cousin whom he can’t remember, a man who comes out of nowhere and is now turning his life upside down when coming to live with him and his family? What else does the cousin want besides room and board? Read this book and you’ll know, bit by bit, what Sukhanov has kept hidden from himself and why.

You’ll also learn a lot about art in Russia during the mid twentieth century in which innovative artists seeking self-expression through their work were forced underground or worse for the greater good. Sukhanov was one of those underground artists, but he now writes articles for a Russian magazine that criticizes free expression and extolls the virtues of conformity so the common people will strive to be productive citizens, not have flights of fantasy about freedom promoted by surrealism and other subversive movements. Though times are changing, as is Sukhanov. But are they changing for better or for worse? And will he bend with them or break?

Before he knew it, he was staggering through the uncharted territory of the basement, criss-crossed with low-ceilinged, cramped, poorly lit corridors. The smells of cabbage stew and detergent cling to walls the color of sickness; an ill-looking striped cat slunk past him, its invisible tail bristling; shapeless objects cringed in the corners, briefly suggesting rags, pails, brooms, a rolled-up poster, a three-legged chair, a doll with a missing arm, then sinking back into the shadows...After the sparkling expanse of the lobby, the buildings faintly unclean, unsavory underside jarred his senses, and he felt a dull oppression descending on him, as if all nine stories of human existence above were weighing heavily on his spirit.

Sukhanov is a man in trouble, something the writing in this book makes very clear. It is an hallucinogenic marvel and one of the best parts of this book, as I never connected much with the characters. Many of the scenes were as surreal as the paintings by Dali that Sukhanov scoffed at. But it was never too much, just surreal enough to unsettle the reader as the author seamlessly blended reality into fantasy, fantasy into dreams, dreams into reality, then back again, all of them melting together and dripping languidly off the page like the clocks in Dali’s most famous painting. This caught me off guard and kept me on edge throughout the entire story, as I wasn’t sure if what I was reading was truly happening or not, since not even Sukhanov knew.

But this story is much more than a literary, illusionary magic trick. It’s about selective amnesia and survival. It’s about sacrifice and irony, the purpose of art, the power of the conscience. It’s about following one’s dreams and living through other people’s dreams, and more. The list goes on and on, the story perfect for any book club, with an ending that begs to be interpreted and compared within a group. Thanks again to my book club for giving me the chance to read an author new to me and a book I’d never have discovered on my own.

I don't know about you, but normally I run to a novel to hide from the world and get transported as quickly as possible to a far-away place. At first, (until chapter 6) I found it hard to sink into this story, not because of a dislike of it, but because of the richness of the language. The beauty of the descriptions made me stop to luxuriate in them, for example, "...the sun shot out through the glass in a fiery orange zigzag, and out into the street spilled the zesty smell of roast chicken and the honey notes of some classic romance". You can't not savour that.

Then, after chapter six, I settled down to read and, to quote Sukhanov, "The rest happened with the magical facility of a dream".

I'm not well-read enough to compare it to Bulgakov or Gogol's work, but I can say with total sincerity that this novel is a modern masterpiece that is worth experiencing before you die.