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The Slynx by Tatyana Tolstaya
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The Slynx (original 2000; edition 2000)

by Tatyana Tolstaya

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3872127,743 (3.74)56
Member:owen1218
Title:The Slynx
Authors:Tatyana Tolstaya
Info:New York Review (2003), Paperback
Collections:Your library
Rating:***1/2
Tags:novel, post-civilization, dystopia, books

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The Slynx by Tatyana Tolstaya (2000)

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» See also 56 mentions

Showing 1-5 of 21 (next | show all)
Well, there's nothing more dystopian than a Russian dystopia, I guess. If there's a grimmer and more gruesome future world in fiction, I haven't found it yet. Yet the story's told in a jokey and boisterous style, full of exclamation points and metaphorical elbow-nudges. This must have been a tough book to translate, and much of the satire is simply irreproducible. But the Russian love of poetry shines through, haunting this bleak tale, even as the cited poems themselves are only pale versions of their originals. I couldn't love it the way a Russian could, probably, but I did my best. ( )
  CSRodgers | May 3, 2014 |
Your standard dystopian fare with a focus on social stratification and the information that is available to the higher classes. The book makes several interesting points about the differences in being able to read and the ability to understand and put what you've read into context. I think this book is most likely a much better story read in the original Russian, there seemed to be hints of playing with language and the alphabet,that was lost in translation to me. ( )
  bethanyinthetaiga | Apr 8, 2014 |
[The Slynx] by Татьяна Толстая

"Ah, what a day! The night’s storm had passed, the snow gleamed all white and fancy, the sky was turning blue, and the high elfir trees stood still. Black rabbits flitted from treetop to treetop."

Fyodor- Kuzmichsk (Moscow) after the blast, freethinking is banned and books are transcribed and sold as the beloved leader’s own words. Benedikt, has a pretty nice job as a scribe, but still has to trudge home to his hovel to have watery mouse soup.

This is a book that didn't really fit its reader. It’s a rich satire and fine dystopian world building. The plot, well this is not an adventure novel. Split in a way into two parts, the 1st enjoyable world building and tale of the proles, the second X shifts into wealth and power and becomes obsessed with reading and taking books with (off) the poor

It’s just that after an exuberant start my interest started to wane. It is very clearly not a book for me, not only
because I am unfamiliar with Russian literature/politics, nor because though the translation works hard I suspect all those word puns are better in the original. No really it’s that the absurdist humour is not my own and it just grated.

But I must stress I think is still hugely accessible to anyone, even if like me you are ignorant of Pushkin. It’s well sign posted I suspect most of the time and all readers will enjoy the insatiable hunger for books or be amused by the books highly that are highly prized, yes the detritus and trash of the pot boiler left unloved and un-transcribed.

So I can't recommend it but I am aware I am probably not doing it justice. Go seek out other reviews

Benedikt coughed politely to interrupt.
“My life is spiritual”
“In what sense”
“I don’t eat mice”
( )
  clfisha | Aug 8, 2013 |

Around the same time that I was reading Murakami's nonfiction work, Underground, I also felt I could tackle a post-apocalyptic Russian novel. (I mean, what are summers for if not for some light reading, right?)

So, I have read a novella and short story collection by Tatyana Tolstaya called Sleepwalker in a Fog that I still need to get around to reviewing and I saw this novel used at Myopic Books in Chicago and picked it up. Contrary to what one might think, though, it's really not as bleak as it could be. The novel itself recalls a few fables and a more fable like writing style at some points and I really loved how the protagonist was driven mad with his incessant need to just devour books when at one point he is absolutely consumed with literature.

The whole premise of the book is that there was a blast and the survivors or "oldeners" live for hundreds of years and those born after are born with mutations or "consequences." There's a daily life of grunt work for many who live terrified of running into The Slynx and becoming ill from old books that may still contain radiation and trying to catch mice for eating and trading as well. There are ideas of both poetry and revolution and some unconventional humor as well. There were definitely passages that didn't strike me as funny while I read them but much more amusing in retrospect. It could be that Tolstaya planned for this to be taken as much more bleak than I actually took it but compared to other novels with similar topics, I found it to be much more whimsical overall than I had prepared myself for.

Memorable quotes:

pg. 7 "They said that in the south there's an azure sea, and in that sea there's an island, and on that island there's a tower, and in that tower there's a golden stove bed. On that bed there's a girl with long hair-one hair is gold, the next is silver, one is gold, and the next is silver. She lies there braiding her tresses, just braiding her long tresses, and as soon as she finishes the world will come to an end."

...

"There's a great river, three years' walk from here. In that river there's a fish-Blue Fin. It talks with a human voice, cries and laughs, and swims back and forth across that river. When it swims to one side and laughs, the dawn starts playing, the sun rises up in the sky, and the day comes. When it goes back, it cries, drags the darkness with it, and hauls the moon by its tail. All the stars in the sky are Blue Fin's scales."

pg. 13 "Two hundred and thirty-three years Mother lived on this earth. And she didn't grow old. They laid her in the grave just as black-haired and pink-cheeked as ever. That's the way it is: Whoever didn't croak when the Blast happened doesn't grow old after that. That's the Consequence they have. Like something in them got stuck."

pg. 77 "It's dark in winter-like someone poked your eyes out."

pg. 85 "But sometimes you don't feel like getting mad. It's like there's a sadness inside. Like you feel sorry for someone. Must be feelosophy."

pg, 89 "Something sour rose in his chest and he felt weak. IT was already dark. The middle of the day and it was evening; that's winter for you. The pale sunsetting sky, tree branches etched against it like you drew them with coals. The nests looked like tangles of hair. A rabbit flitted by. Below, the sad blue of the snow ridges, hillocks, drifts. The dilapidated black pickets of the fence sticking up like an old comb. It was still visible, but whent he sunset went out you wouldn't be able to see anything at all in the pitch dark. The stars would come out, their milky, feeble light would pour across the vault of the sky as though someone were mocking him, or didn't care, or these heavenly lights weren't meant for us...

"Benedikt signed deeply. He even heard his own sigh. There it goes again. A kind of spitting in the head again. Everything was fine: simple, clear, happy, he was full of all kinds of nice dreams, and then suddenly it was like someone came up behind him and scooped all the happiness out of his head...Like they plucked it out with a claw."

pg. 146 "And the moon in its insanity
Is reflected in your eyes, I see."

pg. 148 "You smoke, sigh, gaze off into the distance, and your head is empty. But once again visions fill it."

...

"...up above the sky shone even and yellow, smoldering its last; every now and then a swipe of pink would tint the yellow, or a gray cloud would stretch like a spindle, hang there a bit until its top would stain raspberry, flare, and be gone. Like someone was rubbing the sunset, smearing it with his fingers."

...

"Her eyes took up half her face, from under the eyebrows to the temples on the sides, dark eyes, but they sparkled like water in a barrel at midnight. And she looks straight through you with those eyes, looks like she wants to say something but never will, not for anything. She never takes her eyes off you. seems like she's going to laugh, or is waiting for a question, or like she'll start singing with her mouth closed."

pg. 171 "Why are our eyes on our forehead and not on our rear ends, right? Nature is giving us directions."

pg. 204 "You, Book! You are the only one who won't deceive, won't attack, won't insult, won't abandon! You're quiet-but you laugh, shout , and sing; you're obedient-but you amaze, tease, and entice; you're small but you contain countless peoples. Nothing but a handful of letters, that's all, but if you feel like it, you can turn heads, confuse, spin. cloud, make tears spring to the eyes, take away the breath, the entire soul will stir in the wind like a canvas, will rise in waves and flap its wings! Sometimes a kind of wordless feeling tosses and turns in the chest, pounds its fists on the door, the walls: I'm suffocating! Let me out! How can you let that feeling out, all fuzzy and naked? What words can you dress it in? We don't have any words, we don't know! Just like wild animals, or a blindlie bird, or a mermaid-no words, just a bellowing. But you open a book and there they are, fabulous flying words..."

pg. 211 "...why is it that everything keeps mutating, everything ? people, well, all right, but the language, concepts, meaning! Huh? Russia! Everything gets twisted up in knots."

pg. 238 "He grew heavier. Not even so much from food as from heavy thoughts."

pg. 249 "It's hard to stay mad when you're singing: if you open your mouth the wrong way, you'll ruin the song."

pg. 264 "From the tower you could see far away. Far away...There wasn't even a word in the language to say how far you could see from the tower! And if there was a word like that, you'd be scared to say it out loud. Oooooh, so far away! To the farthest of far, the edge to the edge, to the limit of limits, all the way to death! The round pancake of the earth, the whole heavenly vault, the entire cold December, the whole city with all its settlements, with its dark , lopsided izbas-empty and wide open, gone over with the fine-tooth comb of the Saniturions' hooks and still inhabited, still swarming with scared, senseless, stubborn life!"

pg. 273 "No more tyranny allowed! It was getting too darn fashionable!"
( )
  kirstiecat | Mar 31, 2013 |
One of the best post-apocalyptic (or fantasy) books I've ever read. Disturbing. If I understood Russian history better, I would have gotten more out of it -- but even I could tell how ingeniously she drew on centuries of Russian history & literature. ( )
  kgib | Mar 31, 2013 |
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Tatyana Tolstayaprimary authorall editionsconfirmed
Gambrell, JameyTranslatorsecondary authorsome editionsconfirmed
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Benedikt pulled on his felt boots, stomped his feet to get the fit right, checked the damper on the stove, brushed the bread crumbs onto the floor — for the mice — wedged a rag in the window to keep out the cold, stepped out the door, and breathed the pure, frosty air in through his nostrils. Ah, what a day!
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Amazon.com Product Description (ISBN 0618124977, Hardcover)

In what remains of Moscow some two hundred years after the “Blast,” a community persists in primitive, ridiculous, and often brutal circumstances. Mice are the current source of food, clothes, and commerce, as well as a source of humor for Tatyana Tolstaya. Owning books in this society is prohibited by the tyrant, who plagiarizes the old masters, becoming his people’s sole writer. One of the tyrant’s scribes, Benedikt, is the main narrator of The Slynx. He is in love with books as objects but is unable to derive any meaning or moral benefit from them. Like the imagined, feared animal of this rollicking satirical novel’s title, Benedikt represents lust, cruelty, egotism, and ignorance. The Slynx and Benedikt are one.
As Pearl K. Bell wrote of Tolstaya’s stories on the cover of the New York Times Book Review, “The blazing vitality of [her] imagination, the high-spirited playfulness . . . place her in that uniquely Russian line of satirists and surrealists.” David Remnick has called her “the most promising of all the ‘post-Soviet’ writers . . . She sounds like no one else.”

(retrieved from Amazon Mon, 30 Sep 2013 13:48:54 -0400)

"In what remains of Moscow some two hundred years after "the Blast," a community persists in primitive, ridiculous, and often brutal circumstances. Mice are the current source of food, clothes, and commerce as well as humor. Owning books in this society is prohibited by the tyrant, who plagiarizes the old masters, becoming his people's sole writer." "One of the tyrant's scribes, Benedikt, is the main narrator of The Slynx. He is in love with books as objects but is unable to derive any meaning or moral benefit from them. In the dystopian world of her satirical first novel, Tatyana Tolstaya addresses lust, cruelty, egotism, and ignorance through Benedikt's distorted eyes. Throughout the novel lurks the Slynx, the imagined catlike creature whose fearsome, shadowy presence threatens the mice and the humans alike."--BOOK JACKET.… (more)

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