Book of the Fortnight, No.1

This year, I made a proper New Year's resolution, one I actually stand a chance of keeping, as opposed to the usual list of impossibilities (stop smoking, for instance, has never yet worked, mainly because I never start). This year, I have resolved to read one decent book- a good length, and not trash- every two weeks. I can almost hear my ten-year-old self, capable of getting through eight thick library books a week, wondering what on earth has happened, and why this "future-Catherine" is having to make that kind of a resolution. All I can say is that a history degree requires an awful lot of reading for work rather than pleasure and that, for the last five years, I have always felt guilty taking time to read anything not related, at least vaguely, to the work I should be doing.

The idea, then, is that I will read one "sensible" book per fortnight, and write about it on here- that way I will a) have the impression that people are checking up on me (extra pressure to keep resolution) and b) not try and pass off "trashy" books as ones that count. It's not that I have a problem with "trashy" books- I do read them, and they have their own merits as a means of relaxing- but somehow, I don't think they count as "serious" reading, and there's probably not much to say about them afterwards.

Anyway, the first book of the year (I'm running a bit late because I forgot to post this, not because of teething problems with the resolution, honest...) is Les Pingouins n'ont jamais froid by Andrei Kourkov. A bit of a peculiarity, this one. The author is Ukrainian and the book was originally published in Russian, which interested me- I did at one point study Russian/Soviet literature, so I have a vague idea of where Kourkov is coming from.

For me, Soviet bloc literature is divided into two parts: anything from before 1917, which I am liable to like (Tolstoy, Lermontov, Pushkin et al) and anything from after, which I don't tend to like and have only read under duress (Bulgakov, Pelevin etc.). This particular book is post-Soviet, something I don't have much experience of, so I thought I'd give it a shot.

The plot, appropriately enough for this blog, revolves around a man's attempts to find his penguin. After becoming embroiled in Ukrainian politics, Viktor- the owner of the penguin, Micha, whom he left in Kiev whilst hiding from the Mafia in Antarctica- pursues the penguin to Chechnya, where he is employed in a private crematorium. The Ukrainian Mens' Handicapped Armwrestling Team is also involved at one point, but to say any more would be to give the entire plot away. Hopefully, these few sentences should give a relatively good impression of the surreal and decidedly peculiar character of the book.

The verdict? I actually really enjoyed it- one of the most gripping books I've read in a while. The influence of Soviet authors remains visible in the surreal aspects of the book, whilst the gloom and black humour of the book fits into the broader Russian/Soviet tradition. (An aside here about Russian literature: in one of the set works for a Russian literature class I took in first year, NOBODY DIED, and this was the major point up for discussion in the seminar. This should give you a good general idea of what goes on).

I do actually have another resolution for this year: 2010 will be the year I finally finish War and Peace. Watch this (cyber)space.