LITMIR.BIZ

      Contents

       Cover

      Title Page

      OTHER WORKS BY SERENA VITALE IN ENGLISH TRANSLATION

      Preface to the First Edition

New Preface, or A Preface Not about the KGB

The Interviews

December 23

      ON THE INFINITY OF THE NOVEL. ART HAS NEITHER BEGINNING, MIDDLE, NOR END. EPILOGUES ARE CLOYING LEFTOVERS. ART DEALS ALWAYS AND ONLY WITH LIFE.

       December 24

      THE MEMORIES BEGIN. CHILDHOOD IN PETERSBURG. HOW TO EAT BLINTZES. DIGRESSION ON THE DRAWBACKS OF HAVING A SECRETARY. SHKLOVSKY MEETING MAYAKOVSKY, HE DOESN’T REMEMBER EXACTLY WHEN; THE BEGINNING OF THEIR FRIENDSHIP. THE FUTURIST EVENINGS—THE TECHNIQUE OF SCANDAL. BAUDOUIN DE COURTENAY. POETS SHOULDN’T BE ALLOWED TO DIVORCE. SEMINARIANS AND CARPENTERS DUKING IT OUT ON THE ICE.

       December 26

      YOUNG PHILOLOGISTS MEET AND DISCUSS LITERATURE AT THE UNIVERSITY OF PETERSBURG. THE BIRTH OF FORMALISM. LEV JAKUBINSKY. YEVGENI POLIVANOV. POETRY AND TIME: “THE BRONZE HORSEMAN.” POETRY AS THE “DEEP JOY OF RECOGNITION.” SHKLOVSKY, SAYS BLOK, UNDERSTANDS EVERYTHING. YURY TYNYANOV. BORIS EIKHENBAUM. HOW TWO EX-FORMALISTS ARGUED THE DAY AKHMATOVA DIED. DERZHAVIN’S ARRIVAL SPELLS THE END OF FORMALISM. MAN’S DESTINY IS THE MATERIAL OF ART. WHICH HAS TO BE SHAKEN UP ONCE IN A WHILE, LIKE A CLOCK THAT STOPS TICKING. ON THE FUTILITY OF LOOKING AT FLAGS.

       December 27

      KHLEBNIKOV, FILONOV, AND A PAINTING THAT REFUSES TO HANG ON THE WALL. MALEVICH’S SQUARE. FEBRUARY 1917. MEMORIES OF WAR. A STOMACH WOUND. A KISS FROM KORNILOV. RUSSIA AND ASIA. RUSSIA AND EUROPE. ESENIN IN VALENKI. MAYAKOVSKY HAS THE LAST WORD: THE PEOPLE KNOW HOW TO DRINK.

       December 28

      CIVIL WAR IN PETROGRAD, DEAD HORSES IN THE STREETS. THE “SHIP OF FOOLS.” THE SERAPION BROTHERS: LOTS OF YOUNG PEOPLE, SOME IN THEIR TEENS. REVOLUTION = DICTATORSHIP OF THE ACADEMY OF SCIENCES. MEYERHOLD, THE OLDEST DIRECTOR IN THE WORLD. HIS ARCHIVES SAVED BY EISENSTEIN. TWO INSPECTORS GENERAL. ZOSHCHENKO TURNS ON SOME DISCONCERTING LIGHTS. BERLIN. A MISTREATED HAT. AN UPLIFTING SONG.

       December 29

      THE BIRTH OF SOVIET CINEMA IS COMPARED TO THE CREATION OF THE WORLD. THE LETATLIN: A DREAMING MACHINE. THE WEAPON OF PATIENCE. MAYAKOVSKY DIDN’T WANT DEBTS. DIGRESSION ON PASTERNAK’S POETRY, BULGAKOV’S NOVELS. SHKLOVSKY BEGINS TO WORK IN CINEMA, HE WRITES INTERTITLES AND THEN SCRIPTS. HE MEETS EISENSTEIN. WHAT WAS THE ROLE OF DISHES IN THE OCTOBER REVOLUTION? SOME FILMS SHKLOVSKY WROTE: BY THE LAW, BED AND SOFA, MININ AND POZHARSKY. SHKLOVSKY TEARS APART TARKOVSKY’S ANDREI RUBLEV. AN UNUSUAL EDITING JOB. AN EVEN MORE UNUSUAL WRITING JOB.

       December 30

      TOLSTOY BEGINS TO WRITE. “A HISTORY OF YESTERDAY.” FOR SOME REASON SHKLOVSKY TORE UP THE FIRST VOLUME OF TOLSTOY’S COMPLETE WORKS. THE YOUNG TOLSTOY LEFT FOR THE CAUCASUS WITH AN ENGLISH DICTIONARY, A FLUTE, THE COUNT OF MONTE CRISTO, AND A SAMOVAR. AN ANCESTOR OF OURS LEFT OUT OF ZOO, OR LETTERS NOT ABOUT LOVE. FRIGHTENING, POETIC DREAMS. WHAT DOES REALISM MEAN?

       January 2

      THE WORD. POETRY OF WORDS AND POETRY OF LETTERS. MAYAKOVSKY LOVED THE RADIO. AN UGLY, STUPID BOX. ONE MUSTN’T FEAR THE FUTURE. TOLSTOY GETS EDITED. THE OLD SCHOLASTICISM AND THE NEW. THE LIVING RUSSIAN WORD.

       Notes

       Glossary of Names

       Timeline of Works

       Film Scripts

       About the Author

       Copyright

       OTHER WORKS BY SERENA VITALE IN ENGLISH TRANSLATION

      Pushkin’s Button

      OTHER WORKS BY VIKTOR SHKLOVSKY IN ENGLISH TRANSLATION

      Literature and Cinematography

      Knight’s Move

      Sentimental Journey: Memoirs, 1917-1922

      Zoo, or Letters Not about Love

      Theory of Prose

      Third Factory

      Mayakovsky and His Circle

      Leo Tolstoy

      Bowstring

      Energy of Delusion

       Preface to the First Edition

      The winter of 1978, in Russia, was among the coldest of the century. That late December in Moscow, no one spoke of anything else—on the metro, in the offices, in the shops. Little old men and women, emerging from their capsules of frozen vapor, discussed it incessantly: when had it ever been this cold? In 1915, ’17, ’25?

      This was a question I could put to Viktor Shklovsky, to his eighty-six-year-old memory, witness to so many climates, meteorological and otherwise, as I told myself on my way to his house for the first time.

      I wait a few minutes in his book-crammed study, one of the two rooms that make up the writer’s home. On a massive walnut table, haphazardly stacked, Plato, Mayakovsky, Tolstoy, books on semiotics, on structuralism. Finally, preceded by the remarkably kind and ever attentive lady of the house, Serafima Gustavovna (Shklovsky’s second wife), the “patriarch” makes his grand entrance, swathed in a stately, impeccable robe, outfitted with a beret for the cold and a cane for support—his steps are a bit labored, but there’s a twinkle in his eye.

      We introduce ourselves. Then, the formalities: I begin reading the publisher’s contract, which Shklovsky has to sign for the interviews. He listens attentively to my translations of the usual clauses, and, with sublime naïveté, seriously considers each one. After a few minutes he begins to roar: Why should he grant rights for fifty years? Who are these alleged “heirs” it talks about? What “television or film use” would ever be made of this book? How can anyone write a book in ten days (the amount of time I had proposed)? After a while of this, his indignation draws upon the cautionary tales of literary history: this is a binding contract, like the ones Stellovsky ruined Dostoyevsky with . . . Never in a million years! A television crew that, unfortunately, has chosen this same day to film Shklovsky at work, comes in and stands frozen in the doorway. Shklovsky’s contentious temper has been unleashed, and the hapless camera crew has walked right into it. They try in vain to camouflage themselves among the books. “Young man,” Shklovsky yells, “have you read Pushkin? People need to read our classics more often . . .”

      When I finally manage to get a word in, explaining that it’s a standard contract, that he wouldn’t have to write a book but simply answer my questions, granting me two or three hours a day, the situation begins to improve. The next day, the irate patriarch is already tame, even sweet at times . . .

      After a few days, when I had told him about my work, about the authors I love and study, he was already calling me a “dear friend” and saying that he was happy about these meetings of ours

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