On Russia Archives - Page 42 of 44 - Los Cuadernos de Julia

Visiting London-5 (London Book Fair)

Three years ago, during my first visit to London, I was researching in the day and writing at night. This April I went there for the annual London Book Fair. I will not write about it more than you could already have found at the LBF official website.
My main impressions are:

meeting with my old University friend (yes, this world is really small!);
buying an English translation of Vladimir Mayakovsky’s My Discovery of America (I’ll be writing about this later);
attending three very interesting presentations;
spending about half an hour with a very interesting multilingual lady, who recently wrote a book about a cultured cat.

I’ll leave the third one out till later. Meeting my old friend was one of the biggest surprises in my entire life. I wrote somewhere on the blog about the new website that aims at bringing together current and former students from all Russian high education institutions. So this girl has finally registered there in early April, we exchanged a couple of messages, and then we found out that both of us were going to London for the Book Fair. Naturally, we decided to meet, which occurred in the form of stumbling into each other in the foyer. Soon after we sat outside chatting about each other and our unimates.

Strange things come out in these conversations. We had a girl in our year, who was a dedicated student of German medieval monasticism. Although a devoted Russian Orthodox, she was once very seriously discussing with another girl, whether they should attend the Christmas service at a Catholic or a Protestant church in Moscow on December 25th. Ultimately, she went to study in Germany for a year, where she’d met her present husband, a Muslim, for whom – reportedly – she’d converted into Islam. On one of the photographs we saw she was wearing a burqa.

Buying an English translation of Mayakovsky’s digest of visiting America was another huge surprise. When I saw the book on the stand, it didn’t even occur to me that I may not be able to buy it. So I just asked how much it cost. I bagged it with no problem whatsoever. Yet believe it or not I still haven’t read D. H. Lawrence, so when I saw several of his books on Wordsworth Classics stand, I asked if I could purchase Sons and Lovers. Turned out, they weren’t actually allowed to sell books. This was confirmed at another stand where I saw a book on successful blogging.

And the lady I spoke to is Brigitte Downey – a multilingual, cultured, well-travelled, exuberant person who spent years making documentaries and loving opera, and who had some wonderful recollections of Russia and Russian ballet. Half an hour that we spent chatting after I shared with Brigitte my knowledge of search marketing by explaining the difference between organic and sponsored results is the time to remember. And Chapter One of Diaries of a Cultured Cat is generally reminiscent of my experience of Moscow and Manchester that I have mentioned in chapters 1 and 4 of Visiting London.

In Egypt, as we know, cats were worshipped. And in 1932 T. S. Eliot wrote Old Possum’s Book of Practical Cats that was adapted for the stage by Andrew Lloyd Webber. You can browse the chapters from Old Possum’s Book here, but this is an extract most relevant to us:

You’ve read of several kinds of Cat,
And my opinion now is that
You should need no interpreter
to understand their character.
You now have learned enough to see
That Cats are much like you and me
And other people whome we find
Possessed of various types of mind.
For some are sane and some are mad
And some are good and some are bad
And some are better, some are worse –
But all may be described in verse.

Brigitte Downey is describing this in prose, but even after one chapter I feel her knowledge and style will make this book an insightful reading.

Links:

Vladimir Mayakovsky, My Discovery of America
Brigitte Downey, Diaries of a Cultured Cat
T. S. Eliot, Old Possum’s Book of Practical Cats
London Book Fair
Wordsworth Classics
Brigitte Downey’s website

Visiting London-3

Football Matters

I’ve been told recently that to be an Italian and not to like football is almost a crime. You’re being watched with suspicion. The person who enlightened me on this is, obviously, himself Italian, and he doesn’t like football, so I have no reason not to believe him. As for me, I haven’t really been interested in football until 2002, when first there was the World Cup and then Locomotive Moscow had won the Russian Premier League. The second fact was of more importance for Locomotive’s supporters (my grandmother and my parents in my case); the first had had a universal impact. For the rest of the summer season teenage boys and middle-aged men had been playing football. I remembered about this now because I’m writing this post in my hotel lounge, and the TV on the wall is showing highlights of the match between Chelsea and Blackburn. The highlights have just ended, with the reporter going totally ecstatic at every goal opportunity. Other highlights are still going on. It’s fun to listen to such enthusiastic commentary. And it’s fun when the match is actually engaging. But when watching the match is the same as watching the paint dry, then football indeed becomes one of the silliest, most miserable games out there.

Be Nice to Your Waiter

It may sound commonsensical. Or, on the contrary, absolutely unacceptable. But a visit to a pub in Central London has just proved that, although the waiter is there to take your orders, he is not be ordered around. This waiter was working on his own when I walked into a pleasantly decorated dining room and asked for a table for myself. He offered me a seat and a menu. I made the order. Soon after two women came in. I think I know the language they’ve been speaking between themselves. One of them said to the waiter: ‘There are two of us, can you find us a table?’

The waiter apologised and said that he couldn’t currently accept anybody, since he was working on his own. Undeterred, the woman pointed to the table at the window and said: ‘Well, we’ll take that table’. Again, he explained he wouldn’t be able to serve them. Women went and sat at the table. The waiter was now really displeased. He was now speaking loudly so that everyone could hear: ‘I’m sorry, ladies, but I will not be able to serve you’. The ladies eventually had to leave. There is no doubt all of them understood each other perfectly well.

Soon after, other people began to come in, and the waiter did not refuse them, although he did ask for extra help. And he turned out to be a really nice guy to those who showed some respect to the fact that his job is not the easiest one. Someone may think the waiter went too far with those women. For my part, I think he simply had dignity to demand respect to his pub and to himself.

Time Goes, People Change

Many black cab drivers in Manchester are not British. Not that I mind, and one of them was very kind to drive me from Manchester to Liverpool in just half an hour. But what is good about London cab drivers is that most of them are Londoners, have been living in the capital all their lives, and can therefore tell something interesting about the changes that have occurred in the city over the years.

I have done lots of walking today, and by the time I finished my lovely evening meal I was too tired to take the tube and to do more walking up and down stairs and in the street. So I took this black cab. The driver was really nice, and has always been living in North and North-Eastern London. Now in his fifties, he’d certainly seen a lot of London. He claimed he could tell the person from New York easily by their arrogant manner and hasty finger-clicking. So he seemed fit for the question I asked him.

‘How have people in London changed, would you say?’

‘That’s a good question’, he replied. ‘You know, I think people have become less polite. You used to be proud that you were British and that you were so well-known for your good manners. But these days people just don’t care’.

Regrettably, I feel this decline in manners is happening on the universal, rather than strictly British, scale. I must admit that when I was a student in Moscow, I would sometimes get so tired at the end of the long day at the lectures and in the libraries that all I ‘d arrive to my station. So I didn’t give a seat to quite a few people on such occasions, I suppose, but I will use my studies as an excuse because on other occasions I was one of the first to offer a seat to a disabled or a senior.

These days I’m being told that things have changed there. One of my old university friends had had a motorbike accident several years ago and now walks on crutches. When she visited Moscow last year, she was very rarely given a seat on the public transport. When I told this to my taxi driver, he said that if it was your “lucky” day then a situation like this could occur to you in London. I remembered a couple of similar occasions in Manchester. Then I remembered the tube this morning, when people were rushing into the carriage and not paying attention to those who wanted to alight. And we all know that the same kind of scene now and again happens at the bus stop.

It is the decline in manners, but, to my mind, it is caused by the growing decline in people’s ability to empathise. I know I use this word a lot, but it is really very important to put oneself in another person’s shoes at least once every so often, if one cannot organise themselves to do it regularly. To let another person off the train will be much easier if you imagine yourself being the person who tries to alight. To give up a seat on the bus to a disabled person will be easy if we allow for a thought that years down the line we or our friends or relatives may be in this person’s place.

This is all commonsensical; and, like all commonsensical things, it is just being forgotten.

Visiting London-2

As for where I’m writing this – I’m sitting in this souvenir shop in Southampton Row, just across the corner from Russell Square and the British Museum. I discovered it back in 2004, but I think it wasn’t in spring, but in autumn. 1 hour costs £1, which is much cheaper than to use a laptop in my hotel.

My hotel… My room reminds me of the one depicted by Fyodor Dostoevsky in Crime and Punishment. This is where Raskolnikov lived in St Petersburg:

His garret was under the roof of a high, five-storied house and was more like a cupboard than a room.

OK, my room is actually in the basement. I didn’t ask for it to be there, in case you’re wondering. I go there by lift. When I was leaving this morning, I tried to find a staircase to go upstairs, but all I saw were the rooms, with their doors open ajar, and the personnel already starting their daily cleaning routine. But it IS like a cupboard. It is by far the smallest room I’ve ever stayed in. Thankfully, it’s en suite. Also, the canteen where I’ve got to have breakfast between 7.30 and 9am is just a couple of steps away from my room, which again is hugely convenient. But I’ve also got the neighbours who slam the door every time they go in or out of the room.

I could be winging here about such experiences, but hey, what would I write about then? Besides, having neighbours, as I have already written previously, is very important.

My visit to London so far has been a check on my patience in relations with public transport. Yesterday, when I arrived at Euston, everybody was leaving, and the shops in the station were closing rather quickly. The voice in the loudspeaker, which is impossible to hear in the big crowd anyway, was saying something about alerts and the necessity to leave the station. Apart from those indiscernible words, the virtually first thing I heard upon arriving to London was “Yes, this is Tony Blair’s Britain”, coming from an Englishman.

And today there was a security alert whereby the trains on Piccadilly line towards Cockforsters were delayed. Those who have been waiting for the train to arrive were so keen to get in that they ignored those who were keen to get out. The station worker shouted in the loudspeaker: ‘Let other passengers off the train first, it may then be easier to get on’. The lady who stood beside me giggled: ‘You know, we’re actually supposed to be the nation of queues’. I giggled back: ‘Yes, foreign tourists have spoiled you’.

I said that in full consciousness, for the described scene has reminded me of many similar occasions that I’ve seen and experienced on the Moscow underground. I must say, though: nothing can substitute the experience of being lifted up by people around you and brought into the carriage. Nothing can substitute the sensation of floating in the space when your feet are actually dangling in the air a few inches above the floor during the rush hour. It is a powerful experience – to stare directly into someone’s sweaty face or tortoise skin on the neck with no possibility to turn away because there is nowhere to turn. So, I do recommend to go through it at least once, unless you live in Moscow or London or any other big city and such experience is hence a part of your daily routine.

As a matter of fact, I always let other passengers off first.

Visiting London -1

Since I’ve arrived in England, I almost never failed to visit London in spring. I visited the capital in early April in 2004, then in late March in 2005, I skipped 2006 for personal reasons, but now it’s April 2007, and I’m in London again. There must be, I feel, some kind of force in the working that brings me to London every year in spring.

Invariably, as well, every time I visit it, I experience a powerful feeling of being liberated. I know you’re already thinking that I feel being liberated from Manchester, but it’s not true. I still like Manchester a lot, not least because, as I said many times, I don’t suffer from hay fever in the North West. I don’t exactly suffer from it in London, but I do have to take medication.

This feeling of freedom comes simply from the fact that London possesses much more space than Manchester. It is the fact, and there is little sense to try and pretend that the vastness and grandeur of London can be substituted for something else. It can’t, and it will never be. London is not a desert, it’s the same kind of city of steel, and concrete, and brick, like Manchester, and indeed, like many other modern cities. It is its space that people like me love and miss. More than that, it is the space in the city centre that I personally miss a lot.

With me, it all comes from personal experience, of course. In Moscow, I used to lose myself in those endless serpentine boulevards, just strolling down old slopy streets with buildings of different periods and colours, or walking across bridges, stumbling accidentally into previously unnoticed little architectural gems, or revisiting the places that I have long discovered and fallen in love with. Moscow, in a way, is like Venice in Henry James’s Italian Hours that I am currently reading. So much has become known about it since the uplift of the Iron Curtain, so many people have visited it and are planning to visit in future, that it is hardly possible to say something totally new.

Same goes for London. But the fact that all hidden gems of this city have already been discovered and categorised doesn’t diminish the allure of the place. I most certainly don’t feel intimidated by it. The reason why I like going there and why now I am writing about it is the same that made James write about Venice, as he explains in this short introduction to the chapter on his reflections on this city.

It is a great pleasure to write the word; but I am not sure
there is not a certain impudence in pretending to add anything
to it. Venice has been painted and described many thousands of
times, and of all the cities of the world is the easiest to
visit without going there. Open the first book and you will find
a rhapsody about it; step into the first picture-dealer's and
you will find three or four high-coloured "views" of it. There
is notoriously nothing more to be said on the subject. Every one
has been there, and every one has brought back a collection of
photographs. There is as little mystery about the Grand Canal as
about our local thoroughfare, and the name of St. Mark is as
familiar as the postman's ring. It is not forbidden, however, to
speak of familiar things, and I hold that for the true Venice-
lover Venice is always in order. There is nothing new to be said
about her certainly, but the old is better than any novelty. It
would be a sad day indeed when there should be something new to
say. I write these lines with the full consciousness of having
no information whatever to offer. I do not pretend to enlighten
the reader; I pretend only to give a fillip to his memory; and I
hold any writer sufficiently justified who is himself in love
with his theme.

Henry James, Italian Hours (a full text at Project Gutenberg).

Unless you have already read it, this book by the late Prof Roy Porter is a great introduction to the history of London’s growth. I bought London: A Social History back in 2002, at Waterstones in either Bolton or Blackpool, and it was one of the most interesting semi-academic readings I’ve ever come across. The rich vocabulary of a Londoner who also happened to be a seasoned and versatile academic made up for a vivid and engaging reconstruction of London’s history from the times immemorial to the present day. It doesn’t contain many illustrations, and those that were included in the book are black-and-white. But I shall once more underline his style and language; together, they provide you with all colours and detail you need to paint a picture of London’s history.

The Winds of Change

It looks like this winter Britain and Russia have become inexplicably and inextricably connected by some changes in weather. As you know, I was born and grew up in Moscow. Normally, at this time of the year the temperature would be well below -10 Celsius. As I love skiing, I would only be able to ski while it’s above -15; once it was below that point, skiing would be dangerous to one’s health (unless one was dying to experience pneumonia).

Now, I look at the BBC weather forecast, and what do I see? I see that they forecast +6 C. this Friday in Moscow. This is normally the weather for mid-March.

The BBC reported yesterday on the effect such mild winter is having on people and animals. It is, in one word, depressive. I’ve spoken to someone with whom I used to study at the University in Moscow, and the person admitted being depressed. The bears in the zoo didn’t hybernate. It may sound amusing, but in Russia we are used to the heaps of snow in the streets, and skiing, and skating, and wearing huge winter coats, and maybe if this kind of weather visits my country next winter my people will take it differently.

Better still, the winds (one of which is currently howling and wailing at my window) have been playing tricks with radio listeners. Thus, people in Somerset had got a taster of Moscow radio, while people in Canada were stunned to listen weather forecast for Somerset. Unfortunately, the report doesn’t say what radio station had gone with the winds to Moscow.

I have experienced my bit of depression in the winter 2003/4, which was my first winter in England. When it snowed for about half an hour on New Year’s night, I was over the Moon. But otherwise it was lonely and unhappy. Admittedly, I probably couldn’t concentrate on this too much, as I was studying, so my mind was preoccupied with other things. But looking at what I was writing at the time, I realise that the climatic change which I could by no means escape did leave its mark.

In the Mood for a New Year

One of the biggest differences between England and Russia is the length of Xmas-New Year break. In England, the break has finished today. In Russia, people are relaxing (to a different extent) from December 30 until January 8.

So I thought I’d put up this video that I came across a couple of months ago, and hopefully it’ll put you in the mood for work. Thanks to kroneage, although, as he tells us, it’s not his dog, nor his video. Well, sorry, Kyle, but you’re my source on this occasion, so I’m linking to you. I don’t think you’d mind. ;-))

World Cinema Day

On December 28, 1895, at the Grand Cafe on Boulevard des Capucines in Paris, the Lumière brothers screened their first film. Since then, cinema has entered our everyday life.

Today different directors speak differently of their art. Some say that cinema is in a rut; some assert its potential to influence the audience. There is a grain of truth in both views. A film must contain something that may influence the audience, and these days it’s hard to predict what this may be. On the other hand, whatever it may be, the audience must be prepared to receive their gospel.

I’m reading Miller’s Big Sur in Russian, so I cannot quote the passage about the real and the imaginary, but I’ll try to summarise his thought. Our life, he writes, is a dream. We move from one phase of this dream to another, from the dream of sleep to the dream of awakening, from the dream of life to the dream of death. He means, simply, that we aren’t always aware of what is happening, of the boundary between certainty and uncertainty. But the ultimate beauty of the dream is in its transforming force. Every object, animate or inanimate, the entire world, has got an aura, which becomes fluid in the dream and can transform itself.

Cinema is a dream. Moreover, it is a play, and, as everyone would agree, it aims at constructing its own space with its rules and agents. And here is where we sometimes stumble. I don’t quite like it when in Russia, for instance, some people are trying to invent a new word to describe an actor’s performance. Simply, where in English there are two words, game and play, which are used differently and sometimes strictly in a collocation, in Russian we’ve only got one word, igra. Whether you’re speaking of a sexual foreplay, or political games, or children games, or an actor’s playing, you’re using the word igra. And some people want to put in a divide between woeful life and beautiful art – as if the two can really be separated. At worst, they say that acting fools people.

It does. I read recently that a certain lady had stopped her romancing with Anthony Hopkins because in her mind he was strongly identified with Hannibal Lecter. And there are scores of women who think that a certain actor is just as sexually wild in life as he is on screen. But Hopkins is not Lecter, and a heartthrob can be a very modest man. So, the actors are playing, and, if this gives enough consolation to anyone, they fool themselves just as they fool us. In real life, they are nice and gentle parents, and on screen they kill in cold blood. Indeed, it looks like they use their talent against us. In truth, they give us an image of life that we’re craving for – like in The Purple Rose of Cairo. Or they make us see something we’d rather not look at. Or they try and show us a new dimension to life, which otherwise may have consisted of four walls of our room.

The world is a dark cinema hall, says Jean-Luc Godard in Notre Musique, and cinema is the ‘light’ that shines upon it from the screen. Cinema manipulates with the imaginary objects, but only imaginary is certain; reality is uncertain.

And so we’re living a dream. We’re living it in real time, if one agrees with Henry Miller, and we’re living it, when we watch films. Admittedly, as techniques and resources improved, the dream has become longer and brighter. The very first films shown at the Grand Cafe in Paris were only about 90 sec long. These days they can last as long as 4 hours, or even more.

The point is not that someone on both sides of the screen is constantly pulling our leg. If we think that art only reflects life, then we’re being fooled when we listen to the music, and when we read books, and when we look at the paintings. All that is a dream. But we need its transforming power to learn about ourselves, to see our aura being modified, if only slightly or very gradually.

More on the Lumière brothers films – here.

2006 Xmas

Richard Fair wrote on BBC Radio Manchester Blog about his annoyance at sites that are permanently under construction and also at bloggers, who take a Christmas break. I’m jumping up and down with joy because it’s my first year on the blog, and so I created this new label, 2006 Xmas, where I’ll be gathering and/or narrating some Xmas and New Year related stories. Obviously, I cannot collect them all, consequently, the choice is purely random.

Now, for years they have been observing the British monarchy becoming *modern*, and today it looks like the institution (or at least those who represent it) has become almost totally advanced, at least as far as the use of technology is concerned. This year Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II is going to podcast her Christmas address, which was recorded at the Southwark Cathedral. The article states that

a Yuletide institution, the 10-minute broadcast is televised on December 25 at 3:00 pm (1500 GMT) in Britain, as many families are recovering from their traditional turkey lunch.

The opportunity to download the podcast will mean two things. First, you can recover from your lunch without feeling guilty that you cannot properly tune in to what your governor has got to tell you. [It’s best not to watch TV or to read newspapers while eating, anyway]. Secondly, you can enjoy Her Majesty’s address whenever and wherever you want, and for as many times as you may wish. I think this is even better than a one-off chance to see and to listen to your monarch.

I didn’t hear President Putin considering a podcast of his New Year address. The Russian New Year address happens shortly before midnight 1 January (Moscow time). Most people celebrate the New Year at home or with friends, but some go out to the Red Square and other open places. Wherever they decide to celebrate the New Year, they gather solemnly with the glasses of champagne to listen to the address. The address is followed by the traditional striking of the clock on Spasskaya Tower at the Kremlin, during which you make your New Year resolutions. After the last (12th) strike of the clock the New Year has officially started, and so you drink your champagne and carry on watching your entertainment TV.

There is one thing some people do whilst listening to the clock striking. They write their resolutions on a piece of paper, immediately burn it, mix the ash with champagne, and drink it. I know it sounds weird, but this is considered to be the way to make your wishes come true. I never did it – because I’m pathetic at using a lighter. Every other time I’m using it, I end up burning the tip of my thumb’s nail. So I just repeat my resolutions to myself.

On Trains, Passports, and Travels

I shall confess – I love travelling by train. Much more so than by air or car. Sure, travelling by air consumes less time (usually), whilst travelling by car allows you to shove all your luggage in the boot and to enjoy some nice landscapes at almost any speed you like. But I still prefer trains. In some inexplicable sense, I find them more comfortable and definitely more romantic. Re the latter, I don’t mean exactly a night train, but simply the state of sitting nicely at the window, especially if you’re travelling on a Pendolino.

As I said ages ago, I was planning to go to London. Now I can tell you, why. In Russia, we’ve got two passports – one domestic, another foreign – which every citizen has to renew every so often. The ‘every so often’ for my foreign passport arrived last November, so I went to London to submit documents for renewal. I was told that it would take approximately 3-4 months to receive a new passport. Having submitted the papers in November 2005, I didn’t hear about my passport until August 2006. And for different reasons I only managed to get to the consulate last week – only to find out that my surname has once again been spelt in French (apparently French is still the official transciption language on such documents).

What’s the difference, you may wonder? Well, my surname in French is spelt as ‘Chouvalova‘. Can you imagine me explaining to every English-speaking official that this is French spelling, and that they should pronounce ‘ch’ as ‘sh’? A poor chap (or chapess) will think I’m taking a mickey out of them. I must say, my consulate has made a correction, so my great and hearty commendations to them. Now I will have to tell the officials to look at the penultimate page in my passport for correct spelling. How different is that?

[Gosh, I only just realised something about this French spelling. Remember ‘mon petit chou‘? I resolve to go to France in 2007, to test their reaction to my surname, he-he. Or perhaps even remake it into something posh, say, ‘Chouvalois’…].

Generally, I like travelling to London. Of course, as I was born and raised in Moscow, going to London sometimes feels like homecoming. I’ve got loads of buses (that come frequently and on time), I’ve got the Tube, I’ve got scores of art places, etc. I never got lost on the underground, and I even find the whole tube system quite easy to figure out.

But this time (Thursday, 14th) my journey wasn’t half as pleasant. For various reasons, I haven’t left Manchester at all since last November. When I read this entry on Richard’s blog, I thought I’d do the same. Instead, I made this entry in my real notebook:

‘Early morning on the train. Why do I feel like it’s not my train? I must have spent too much time not travelling anywhere‘.

Later on, another anxiety visited me – I began to feel like I was going to forget something somewhere. I only had one bag with me, and I always had it with me, in my hand or on my shoulder. Yet for some reason I was almost convinced I was going to forget something. Of course, I didn’t.

When I first mentioned here that I was going to London, I said that I was planning to visit two exhibitions at the Victoria and Albert Museum. Alas, I didn’t. My shoes decided to try and kill me, so walking wasn’t always comfy. Then I saw a poster on the Tube about Rodin’s exhibition at the Royal Academy of Art. My spirits sank completely. In the end, I took an early train home.

On Friday, Richard Fair at Radio Manchester was inviting us to announce our New Year resolutions. One of mine is – definitely – travelling.

80 Years of Quiet Flows the Don Autograph

As you know, Quiet Flows the Don was written by Mikhail Sholokhov between 1926 and 1940 (vols. 1-3 were written between 1926 and 1928, and the 4th volume was published in 1940). However, throughout his life Sholokhov was plagued by the accusations of plagiarism, mainly because he was very young at the time of composition, and because the narrative had suggested an in-depth awareness of the events and the life experience, which seemed impossible for a 21-year-old.

The first tide of rumours came in 1929, which led Stalin to order a special investigation. The investigation completed, Sholokhov’s authorship was proved and upheld. Since the 1960s, however, there had been many attempts to disprove his authorship, most of them dissatisfactory, since they mostly included the analysis of the printed texts.

Both critique and the defense of Sholokhov’s authorship were jeopardised by the disappearing of the author’s manuscript. His archive was destroyed in a bomb raid during the war, and only the 4th volume has survived. The authographs of the first two volumes, however, were entrusted by Sholokhov to his friend, Vassily Kudashov, who was killed in the war. Since his death, the autograph had been looked after by Kudashov’s widow, who for some reason never disclosed the fact of owning it.

The manuscript was only rescued in 1999, with the help of the Russian Government. The subsequent analysis of the novel has unambiguously proved Sholokhov’s authorship. The manuscript consists of 885 A-4 pages, the writing paper dates back to the 1920s. 605 pages are in the writer’s own hand, and 285 are transcribed by his wife, Maria, and his sisters. The main body of the manuscript is the draft text, which gives a unique opportunity to follow the author’s work on the novel.

What prompted me to write this post, however, is not only the chance to introduce the PDF. copies of the manuscript of this genuine novel. You can browse them here. There is something more symbolic. The date on the top of the first page reads ’15 November 1926′, which makes it (almost) exactly 80 years since Sholokhov had begun to work on Quiet Flows the Don. And whether or not you understand enough Russian to read the text, you can still observe the author’s ‘workshop’ below.

[This post uses the text of the address of Felix Kuznetsov at the 10th Congress of Russian Writers, 1999 (in Russian)].

[Courtesy of the Fundamental Electronic Library].