Gorky’s paragraphs are stark photographs of horror and hope.
A new, vigorous translation of the first installment of Gorky’s three-volume autobiography, first published in 1914.
Hettlinger, who directs international study programs at Georgetown University and translated The Collected Stories of Ivan Bunin (2007), begins with a swift summary of Gorky’s life (1868–1936), from his impoverished childhood (“Dickensian” is far too feeble a term) to his disturbing late-life pro-Soviet positions. (Gorky is a pen name; he was born Aleksey Peshkov.) The first volume of his autobiography is a stunning work—intense, violent, loving, wrenching, funny and frightening. It begins with the little boy viewing the body of his dead father. Soon after, another horrific scene—his mother giving birth on the floor to a little brother who quickly died—and then his father’s burial in the rain. All of this occurs in the first five pages. Gorky eventually moved in with his grandparents. His grandfather was explosively violent (beatings were routine), while his grandmother was more compassionate and protective. The grandmother was also an engaging storyteller, and Gorky distributes throughout the memoir a number of her affecting tales—verbatim. As his boyhood advanced, his living situation deteriorated, with the family moving into a series of increasingly dilapidated lodgings. Nonetheless, the author found himself drawn to a number of boarders and neighbors. Among the first is “Gypsy,” who helped out with their dyeing business, but soon died after doing a heavy-lifting chore for the family. Another boarder they all called “A Fine Business” (one of the man’s default phrases). Though he was a loner, Gorky befriended him, a relationship the family did not tolerate, and they eventually expelled the man from the house. The volume ends with the death of his mother, and the author, 11 years old and homeless, adrift on poverty’s sluggish river.
Gorky’s paragraphs are stark photographs of horror and hope.Pub Date: Feb. 1, 2011
ISBN: 978-1-56663-840-1
Page Count: 228
Publisher: Ivan Dee/Rowman & Littlefield
Review Posted Online: Dec. 2, 2010
Kirkus Reviews Issue: Dec. 1, 2010
The book begins in Sri Lanka with the tsunami of 2004—a horror the author saw firsthand, and the aftermath of which he...
The latest from French writer/filmmaker Carrère (My Life as a Russian Novel, 2010, etc.) is an awkward but intermittently touching hybrid of novel and autobiography.
The book begins in Sri Lanka with the tsunami of 2004—a horror the author saw firsthand, and the aftermath of which he describes powerfully. Carrère and his partner, Hélène, then return to Paris—and do so with a mutual devotion that's been renewed and deepened by all they've witnessed. Back in France, Hélène's sister Juliette, a magistrate and mother of three small daughters, has suffered a recurrence of the cancer that crippled her in adolescence. After her death, Carrère decides to write an oblique tribute and an investigation into the ravages of grief. He focuses first on Juliette's colleague and intimate friend Étienne, himself an amputee and survivor of childhood cancer, and a man in whose talkativeness and strength Carrère sees parallels to himself ("He liked to talk about himself. It's my way, he said, of talking to and about others, and he remarked astutely that it was my way, too”). Étienne is a perceptive, dignified person and a loyal, loving friend, and Carrère's portrait of him—including an unexpectedly fascinating foray into Étienne and Juliette's chief professional accomplishment, which was to tap the new European courts for help in overturning longtime French precedents that advantaged credit-card companies over small borrowers—is impressive. Less successful is Carrère's account of Juliette's widower, Patrice, an unworldly cartoonist whom he admires for his fortitude but seems to consider something of a simpleton. Now and again, especially in the Étienne sections, Carrère's meditations pay off in fresh, pungent insights, and his account of Juliette's last days and of the aftermath (especially for her daughters) is quietly harrowing.Pub Date: Sept. 13, 2011
ISBN: 978-0-8050-9261-5
Page Count: 256
Publisher: Metropolitan/Henry Holt
Review Posted Online: Aug. 10, 2011
Kirkus Reviews Issue: Sept. 1, 2011
A potent depiction of grief, but also a book lacking the originality and acerbic prose that distinguished Didion’s earlier...
A moving record of Didion’s effort to survive the death of her husband and the near-fatal illness of her only daughter.
In late December 2003, Didion (Where I Was From, 2003, etc.) saw her daughter, Quintana Roo Dunne, hospitalized with a severe case of pneumonia, the lingering effects of which would threaten the young woman’s life for several months to come. As her daughter struggled in a New York ICU, Didion’s husband, John Gregory Dunne, suffered a massive heart attack and died on the night of December 30, 2003. For 40 years, Didion and Dunne shared their lives and work in a marriage of remarkable intimacy and endurance. In the wake of Dunne’s death, Didion found herself unable to accept her loss. By “magical thinking,” Didion refers to the ruses of self-deception through which the bereaved seek to shield themselves from grief—being unwilling, for example, to donate a dead husband’s clothes because of the tacit awareness that it would mean acknowledging his final departure. As a poignant and ultimately doomed effort to deny reality through fiction, that magical thinking has much in common with the delusions Didion has chronicled in her several previous collections of essays. But perhaps because it is a work of such intense personal emotion, this memoir lacks the mordant bite of her earlier work. In the classics Slouching Toward Bethlehem (1968) and The White Album (1979), Didion linked her personal anxieties to her withering dissection of a misguided culture prey to its own self-gratifying fantasies. This latest work concentrates almost entirely on the author’s personal suffering and confusion—even her husband and daughter make but fleeting appearances—without connecting them to the larger public delusions that have been her special terrain.
A potent depiction of grief, but also a book lacking the originality and acerbic prose that distinguished Didion’s earlier writing.Pub Date: Oct. 19, 2005
ISBN: 1-4000-4314-X
Page Count: 192
Publisher: Knopf
Review Posted Online: May 19, 2010
Kirkus Reviews Issue: July 15, 2005
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