Randomness

Last night after administering final exams (always somewhat frustrating, given the blatant and rampant cheating attempts of our students) we went to one of the many beer tents that have sprung up across the city with the arrival of summer, where we consumed yummy shashlik and even yummier beer. I'm going to miss the land of the beer tent.

Y, L, me, Asya

M, G, B, Vova

I would just like to mention that this new haircut of mine rocks. See, my hair is notoriously uncooperative. After most nice (or not so nice...) haircuts, the hairdresser fixes my hair and it looks great, but then when I try and fix it myself, it takes a lot of effort not to look like absolute crap. I must say that this is the first short haircut I've had that requires almost no work whatsoever. I get up and I brush it and it does what it's supposed to do. I'm quite impressed. (For anyone who might be interested in such a magical haircut, it was done by Sveta who works at the Vasilisa hair salon on Bolshaya Moscovskaya, Vladimir)

For those of you who enjoy reading mysteries and/or for those of you who are interested in Tibet, I have a book recommendation for you. As you may or may not know, I've been slowly working my way through the rather large collection of paperback mysteries in the AH library. There's one that's been sitting there for a while that I'd been ignoring due to its horribly cheezy title. I finally picked it up the other day and read the back of the book and decided to give it a try. The book is The Skull Mantra by Eliot Pattison. It's too bad that it has such a cheezy name (although after reading it, I discovered that there's a legitimate reason for this absurd title) because the book is fabulous. Not only is it a well written and engaging mystery, but it gives a clear and fascinating look into life in Tibet, life in the Tibetan prison systems, and Tibetan Buddhism. Now granted, I know remarkably little about Tibet or Tibetan Buddhism, so I have no way of knowing whether or not Pattison's depictions are accurate; however, while reading it I felt such a strong sense of place - so beautiful and magical - that I now find myself wanting to learn more about both Tibet and Tibetan Buddhism. The description on the back of the book says that it "will change the way you think about Tibet - and freedom - forever." I read that and thought what a crock of shit... but whaddyaknow. You should all definitely check it out.

Kropotkin and Thoreau

I just finished reading Peter Kropotkin’s autobiography, Memoirs of a Revolutionist, and I highly recommend it, especially to those of you with an interest in Russian history. In case you’re wondering who the hell this Kropotkin fellow might be: He was born in 1842 into a noble Russian family – he was literally Prince Kropotkin – and in his youth he was favored by the Tsar. He is known for renouncing his title and becoming an anarchist-socialist. That’s obviously the ultra-condensed version of his life story. His autobiography – four hundred and sixty some pages – is impressively well written and quite witty.

The first half of the book provides an incredibly detailed glimpse into the life of educated Russian royalty in the mid-to-late 1800s, and the book personalizes the general conflicts endemic of the time, usually symbolized by Turgenev’s Fathers and Sons, in a way that Turgenev’s work simply didn’t do for me. I have to say that I do somewhat wonder about the honesty of the work – Kropotkin writes of his youthful views of the harshness of serfdom and the plight of the masses in such as way that it seems to be the product of age and experience. I find it hard to believe that a 19th century Russian prince under the age of ten had such strong egalitarian leanings. But perhaps that’s just me.

I must admit that I found the first half of the book (Kropotkin’s childhood, youth at a military academy, and military service in Siberia) to be more interesting than the second half, which traces Kropotkin’s personal evolution into an anarchist-socialist agitator. This is probably because I don’t really agree with any of his political principles. Don’t get me wrong – I’m an absolutely horrible capitalist, and I’ve chosen (essentially) to turn my back on the capitalistic, so-called “American Dream” but that is a personal solution, which probably serves only to benefit me alone. Kropotkin’s belief in free-socialism, where the masses work together in harmony for the good of the whole without any regulating state body seems naïve. While I do not believe that capitalism is the solution to the woes of society, I believe that it is a natural state: society, if given free reign, will evolve into a capitalist system simply because humans are, by nature, greedy, selfish creatures, and capitalism rewards these traits.

Wow, that was quite a digression. As I was saying, the second half of the book was not as interesting as I do not share Kropotkin’s beliefs; however, that is not to say that I was disinterested in the second half. I found the descriptions of the Russian prison conditions (including the cells of the Peter and Paul Fortress, which I myself have entered, although only as a tourist) fascinating. I also quite agree with Kropotkin’s analysis near the end of the book of the uselessness of prison systems in general when it comes to reforming criminals or preventing crime. A pity he didn’t provide a solution!

One thing, though, that did strike me: Kropotkin renounces his title and his wealth to serve the cause of the masses as an anarchist. Yet, had Kropotkin not been born a prince, he would not have received the lessons (both the life-lessons and the educational-lessons) which led him to follow this path. Additionally, despite his renunciation of his royal lineage, his life was (indirectly) saved as a result of who he was. (While in an overcrowded prison, Kropotkin grew gravely ill. His sister, who was still in favor at the Tsar’s court, petitioned to have him moved to a hospital-prison, where he recovered from his illness, and from whence he escaped.) I wish that during the course of his autobiography, Kropotkin had addressed this dichotomy, this need to rely on his “former self” as he lived the life of an anarchist, but sadly, he did not.

Nonetheless, the book was fascinating, and I recommend it.

Moving on... I would like to mention that I finished Walden about a week ago. I must admit that the first part of the book (Economy through Solitude) was more interesting and more meaningful to me than the second. (What’s with me and the first halves of books these days?) In the first half of Walden, Thoreau outlines his rationale behind his relocation to Walden Pond, and I found it not dissimilar from my life plan. Henry David and I could definitely have had a long talk about economics. Unfortunately, the bulk of the second half of the book (excluding the concluding chapter) focused on life in the woods. I grew up in the woods. I know about this already. Descriptions of birds and fish and the sounds of nature... well, that just isn’t anything new to me. So, the second half was kind of a disappointment.... but everyone should at least read the beginning. He's got some intelligent things to say.

We The Living

B has pretty much become my own personal librarian here; she keeps giving me really fantastic things to read, and as such, I have yet another book review for you. This one actually has rather a lot to do with Russia, so I don't feel that little twinge of guilt that I sometimes feel when I write about various nonsense that has nothing to do with Russia whatsoever.

Anyhow, the most recent book-from-B was Ayn Rand's We the Living. I know tons of people hate Ayn Rand... but this book is a lot less about her political/lifestyle beliefs, and a lot more about what went on after the October Revolution, and is a really great read. The book follows the lives and relationships of three individuals and their friends and families in the period shortly following the October Revolution and the end of the Russian civil war. This was an amazing book, a completely beautiful (yet utterly terrible) tale of love, life and individuality, and the struggle of the individual against the Communist State. I often re-read books, but very rarely do I read one all the way through and immediately want to return to the beginning to start again. I finished the book last night, and if I hadn't unabashedly cried my way through the last 100 pages, I would have begun re-reading it last night as well. As it is, I think I need to give my soul a break. But this book is amazing. 

Now, I know that Ayn Rand tends to be one of those polarizing writers whom people tend to either love or hate... well, I haven't read anything by her other than We the Living, so I'm not even going to get into that debate. However, Any Rand said that We the Living "...is as close to an autobiography as I will ever write. The plot is invented but the background is not. The specific events of Kira's life were not mine; her ideas, her convictions, her values, were and are." I found myself utterly in love with the character, Kira, and I identified with her in many ways. This makes me feel like perhaps I should read some more Ayn Rand. If I do, I'll let you know what I think.

WD40ian Literature

Those of you who know me well, or who have been following my adventures in the blogosphere for a lengthy amount of time, will probably have noticed that I have a tendancy to bring up WD40 periodically and inexplicably. Well, sorry to disappoint, but you won't get an explanation from me today. In fact, as the 65+ pages of the as yet unfinished WD40 story are locked in the harddrive of a dead computer from which I may never recover them, it may very well be that you will never know what I'm talking about. Let's just say that it refers to an extremely bizarre period in my life which began almost exactly eleven years ago. Ever since, anything which yields a poignant reminder to that time has inevitably been described by me as "WD40ian."

Some WD40ian things:

ancient Egypt

Arthurian Britain

Stars, by Hum

Ghost World

Wicked: The Life and Times of the Wicked Witch of the West

The other day, my coworkers and I were discussing taxes, and Brooke said, "What's that form called that you get from your employer? All I can think of right now is 'WD40,' but I know that's not right." (Melissa, let's just say that I totally thought of you right then!) While we may have come down to Earth with Britt piping up with, "W-2!" from the other room, I feel I should bring this up, as Brooke is the person who provided me with the item most recently described be me as WD40ian: A Trip To The Stars by Nicholas Christopher.

My apologies to those of you who don't know what I mean when I say WD40ian, but that's simply the best way for me to describe A Trip To The Stars. Let's just say that the book is incredibly magical, although set in the mundane real world of the 1960s-1970s. The author all but beats you over the head with star/space-related imagery, although I for one utterly love that kind of stuff. There's a pyramid of significance, although it's not Egyptian, and there are so many coincidences that you, as the reader, will find yourself wanting to scream at the characters, "Dammit - why can't you see that it's a sign?!"

Over the past few years I have found myself developing an overly fatalistic view of life (which I must say has solidified over the past few months), and even though we never mentioned it back in the day, WD40 was pretty fatalistic. And well, A Trip To The Stars could also be summed up as a fantastical lesson in fatalism. If that intrigues you, get yourself a copy. Otherwise, well, I didn't want you on my planet anyway.

Snow, photos, xmas, and (yes) more book reviews.

Yes, yes, ladies and gents, the Russian winter has indeed arrived. It blew in on Friday morning, and continued to blow all day, depositing at least half a foot of snow, if not more, and blowing me all over the place as I stumbled about, grateful for my wonderful new winter coat. I trudged over to Grossmart around 1:00 to snag some lunch (they sell a Korean-made ramen that I've grown rather fond of), and felt totally hobbit-like as I trudged through the snow. You know that scene in The Fellowship of the Ring (either book or movie, as it was in both) where the Fellowship tries to climb Mt. Caradhras, and the hobbits especially are nearly buried in the snow? Okay, obviously the snow hasn't reached that sort of mythic depth as yet, but I felt like a hobbit. And being buffeted about by the wind didn't help matters. The walk to Grossmart and back (normally no more than 15 minutes round trip) took over half an hour.

Apparently Friday was a particularly bad winter day, even by Vladimir standards. I rather expected the locals to shrug it off as just another day in Russia, but when classes started, I realized something different was going on. My 4:00 class of mostly disinterested teens is usually packed (as their parents make sure that they come to every class). However, at the start of class, only half of the group was present. The remainder did manage to straggle in throughout the course of the class, flushed from the cold, with tales of having walked for blocks because the busses weren't running. Yes, Vladimir's public transportation ground to a halt in the midst of Friday's snowstorm. My second class had only three students; my last class had five. Y's last class had only one student.

Now, it is entirely possible to walk from my apartment to the American Home (I've done this many times) but the idea of walking home (a 30 minute walk in normal weather) in Friday's not-so-lovely weather was not all that appealing. B and I set out together in the hope of finding some sort of transportation home. We did find one trolleybus... disabled and all but buried in the snow. Sigh. But, as there were people waiting at the bus stop, we decided to wait too. Soon, along came a marshrutka (a minivan that follows the same route as the busses)... and everyone waiting at the bus stop crammed into it. The thing was seriously at least double its planned capacity, and no one (other than B and myself) seemed to think that this was in the least bit odd. But hey, at least I didn't have to walk home.

The wind had blown a layer of snow under the cracks in the windows in the second floor hallway of my apartment building.

In the morning the day was beautiful: the sun was shining, the sky was bright blue, and the world was covered in a beautiful fresh blanket of white. And it was -12C outside. I decided that -12C or not, I was going to walk to work. I took a couple of pictures of the snow banks and of the snow collecting on tree branches. The day was so beautiful and perfect. I wish I could have spent more time outside. But, as usual, I had woken up late, and since we had English Club in the afternoon, I was destined to spend the bulk of my day inside the AH as usual.

English Club is essentially AH-speak for get-students-to-come-help-plan-our-parties, and the goal of this meeting of the English Club was to plan next week's Christmas Party. (Side-note: I have weird feelings about Christmas. On one hand, it's kind of hypocritical to keep celebrating it as I'm not a Christian. But on the other hand, there are so many heathen-pagan influences in the whole modern day celebration that it is entirely possible to have a secular Christmas. Er, xmas. Besides, I am a big fan of the idea of a holiday where people get together with and give gifts to the people they care about.) Anyhow, the AH is having a Christmas party next Saturday (even with an agnostic-pseudopagan and a genetically Jewish atheist on its staff), which will probably turn out to be a lot of fun. The party will (aside from a few mentions of Jesus/Christ/etc in some carols) be a secular xmas party, involving dancing, feasting, gift exchanging, singing, and most likely an appearance by Ded Moroz (the Russian equivalent to Santa). Preparations during English Club took the form of Games Committee, Decorations Committee and Music Committee. B and I were in charge of decorations, meaning that our group made wreaths and candles and paper chains and snowflakes (all from construction paper) which will be used to decorate the place come next weekend. The caroling group, led by Y and J learned a rather comprehensive collective of carols, backed up by J on guitar. After they learned their songs, they came and serenaded the decorations committee, which turned into a rather boisterous and fun group-sing event.

After English Club, (and after attaching myself to the computer for a few hours), a group of us (accompanied by L and several Russian chaps with exceptional English of the sort which makes me embarrassed to speak in Russian in their presence) wandered over to Biblos (a Greek-ish / Middle Eastern-ish restaurant in the center) where some of the group smoked a hookah as we chatted about pointless things. Upon departing Biblos, we were accosted by two drunken Russians who hit on Y... by saying hello to her in very formal Korean (anyeonghasimnika)! This kind of threw everyone off for a couple of seconds. ("Is he so drunk that he is slurring his Russian to the point that it makes no sense whatsoever?" followed by Y and me realizing, no, that's Korean...)

After Biblos, the bulk of the group began discussing a venture to some hillside for sledding, but I decided to go home. The same weird thing that has recently occurred in my brain causing me to possess the new life goal of becoming a professional hermit has caused me to become substantially less interested in things like night-time-sledding-in-sub-zero-temperatures. I think what I mean to say is that I'm getting old, and that I am valuing comfort over excitement. And, as it had started snowing again, I rather felt that I should maneuver home lest the public transportation grind to a halt a la the previous day.

I didn't leave my house on Sunday. The weather was back to its common Russian winter state of grey, although it was several degrees warmer (albeit still below freezing) than Saturday, but I simply had no need or desire to go out. I stayed in bed until 2:00, and finished reading 1984. (This course of action was encouraged a good bit by the rather splitting sinus headache I awoke with, and which never really went away.) I am embarrassed to admit that I had never read 1984 before. I love, love, love dystopian novels (with We, Brave New World, Animal Farm and Ape and Essence being several of my all-time favorites), and I have wanted to read 1984 for many years. Really, I should have simply gone to a library somewhere and checked it out, but instead I have been waiting to find it in a thrift store or at a yardsale or something. Instead I found it a few weeks ago in L's room, and asked to borrow it. I only started it a couple days ago, as I'd been reading Middlesex (I'll get to that in a minute; don't worry. Damn, I should really have named this site From Russia With Unrelated Book Review), and I found 1984 riveting and if any of you, for whatever reason haven't yet read it, go and do it. I'm not going to bother writing any sort of review or analysis of 1984; there are plenty enough of them out there if you're interested. I will comment that reading 1984 shortly after finishing Anne Applebaum's Gulag (which I reviewed a while back) is unbelievably eerie. 1984 was first published in 1949... I wonder how much access Orwell had to the goings on in the machinery of the GULAG system in the Soviet Union - after all, it was shrouded by secrecy - for so much of what happens in Oceania very closely paralleled the Soviet system in incredibly creepy detail. And then there's the telescreen, a device in every room of every apartment, which can never be shut off, which continuously spews forth political dogma while monitoring the residents of said apartment. I believe I've mentioned before the Soviet-era radios that still remain in most Soviet-era apartments... the radios which can never be shut off. (I believe that Russian Journal even mentions the radios prompting Soviet denizens into coordinated morning exercises, just as the telescreen does at the beginning of 1984.) My apartment still has one of these annoyingly never silent radios, now owned by Radio Rossii, and sponsored heavily by some sort of Moscow-based pharmaceutical company, forever urging me to call 974-64-04 to learn how to get a good night of sleep or how to unclog my capillaries, or some other such bit of medical nonsense. I hear that phone number so many times every day that it has been forever ingrained in my mind. I can only imagine what it would be like to have that thing spewing political propaganda. I would also like to comment that the little description of 1984 on its back cover reads: ...a startlingly original and haunting novel that is completely convincing... Completely convincing, yes. Startlingly original, not exactly. I mean, even if Orwell did not intentionally base Oceania on the USSR, wasn't Zamyatin's We written first? Mmmm?

Okay, while I can easily relate 1984 to my current location of Russia, Middlesex, the tale of a Greek hermaphrodite growing up in the United States has no relation to Russia other than that I read it while living here. B lent me this book, and it was definitely interesting and weird. I thoroughly enjoyed it, although the end kind of left me wanting something more out of it. This book is not simply the story of a hermaphrodite, but it provides the historic and genetic histories of various individuals, culminating in the birth of a hermaphrodite. I found the segments on the war between Greece and Turkey and the riots in Detroit to be almost as fascinating as the tale of the hermaphrodite h/im/erself. This probably isn't the book for everyone, although if you have any of the same tastes I have, you will probably enjoy it.

Turkey Day, Azerbaijani Day, "Disney" and a book review...

Thanksgiving (or, to be more accurate, the Saturday after Thanksgiving, when Turkey Day was celebrated in the AH), was a long but fun day. I arrived around ten to find M and K both already up to their elbows in turkey (as K says). They were indeed stuffing four turkeys (imported from Moscow), as Gosha looked on eagerly. (I gave the poor kitty a turkey-heart in order to placate him, although I think all it did was whet his appetite. He was rather beside himself all day, what with the smell of turkey in the air.) I must admit that I did very little as far as the actual cooking. I made corn, which came out of a can... but hey, each to his own skill level. But I did help with the cleaning and the setting up and the running to the store and the looking up of ounces to grams and baking soda to baking powder conversions on the internet. Despite the rather terrifyingly uncooperative oven (which burnt what should have been our gravy out from around the turkeys, necessitating the need to remove the batteries from the fire alarms), the turkeys and all the trimmings turned out to be delicious, delicious, delicious. It didn't taste quite like home-cooked, American Thanksgiving fare, simply because a lot of the ingredients were Russian, but it was close enough. The dinner was a fantabulous success, which fed close to thirty people until they were stuffed. Turkey, stuffing, cranberry sauce (made by Y from fresh cranberries), corn, mashed potatoes, glazed carrots, [insert a brief pre-dessert musical performance by Male B and J], apple crisp, brownies and fresh-baked chocolate chip cookies... We were, as one is supposed to be on Thanksgiving, stuffed to the point of immobility. Then we got to clean up the remains of the dinner-for-thirty. Sigh. Following that, the Americans, as well as Galya and Alexei descended to the AH basement for a few rounds of Russian karaoke, before we all stumbled home for a nice tryptophan-induced sleep.

Sunday, I slept until almost noon. I take great joy from sleep. Anyway, after a quick stop at the AH (ostensibly to plan lessons, but in reality to check my email), B, Y, J, M and I met up with L, who took us to her home out to Dobroye (the "suburbs" of Vladimir, where the ice-skating rink is located) for an Azerbaijani feast, prepared by her mother (L's mother is from Azerbaijan). We had deliciously spicy plov (a rice dish) and dolma (stuffed grape leaves) in a rich and yummy sauce. Spicy food!! L's Mom was the hero of the day.

Following our second feast in as many days, we watched the most beautiful and wonderful movie in the world: the French film, Amelie. If you have not seen this film, you need to do so. It was so incredibly perfect and made me feel all warm and fuzzy. (I would have called it incredibly perfect if it hadn't had a Ghost Train... but the addition of a GT into the tale simply made the film perfect in the surreal way that Ghost World was perfect, although this movie was far happier. Not that being happier didn't mean it didn't cause a twinge or more of sadness, but...)

Changing topics entirely: Posters such as the one below are plastered all over the city. For those of you who don't read any Russian, this poster advertises an upcoming musical-theater show called "Shrek and the Heroes of Disney" (featuring, among other things, "giant puppets" and a "grandiose laser show"). How many things can you find wrong with this? I'm guessing you're smart enough to figure it out on your own.

And lastly, yes, another book review. A few days ago, I finished reading The Russian Debutante's Handbook, by Gary Shteyngart. It took me a while to decide whether or not I would write about it, and obviously I came to the decision that yes, I would. This book was recommended to me by my coworker, M. The first thing that I noticed was that the first eight pages of the book consisted of lengthy and glowing reviews. I admit that this kind of turned me off. Does a genuinely good book really need to have eight pages touting its goodness? Or can the reader simply find out for himself? Anyhow, TRDH is the tale of one Vladimir Girshkin, a Russian Jew who immigrated to the United States as a child, and who returns to Eastern Europe halfway through the book. As M moved to the US as a child (from Ukraine) and is currently embarking on his first trip back to Eastern Europe, I can certainly see how he might understand Vladimir Girshkin on a level which I simply cannot. The book was interesting, and it did hold my attention, although my level of incredulity rose at the turn of every page. A lot of the tale takes place in a fictional Eastern European country; I'm fine with that (someone who loves fantasies and who recently waxed ecstatic over Wicked is obviously not going to scoff at a fictional country). The places were wholly believable. The characters (to me) were not. As the plot followed its arc, the main character somehow changed from a shy, bumbling, socially-awkward, self-conscious fellow into a high-powered gangster. To me it didn't make sense. I cannot at all understand how the Vladimir of the first half of the tale became the Vladimir of the second half of the tale. And to be honest, neither Vlad appealed to me as a person; he was rather an ass, and not someone I could find an affinity with. I also kind of think this book is to blame for the fact that so many people, upon hearing that I was moving to Russia, asked in all seriousness, "But aren't you worried about the mafia?" Has anyone else read this book? Obviously, many people (M included) have read and loved it, as it's a "national bestseller" and a "New York Times Notable Book," in addition to those eight pages of glowing reviews... If you've read it, let me know; I'm looking forward to your opinions.

Absolutely Wicked.

My apologies. This post has nothing to do with Russia, other than that I am in Russia as I write it. Last Thursday I received a package from a friend, containing (among other things) a copy of Wicked: The Life and Times of the Wicked Witch of the West by Gregory Maguire. I started it Friday night, and finished it Sunday evening. Over four-hundred pages, and they just flew by. This book was incredible, and I now count it among one of my favorites.

I had never heard of this book before Thursday, although somewhere in the back of my mind lurked the knowledge that there was some sort of Broadway musical by that name (apparently based on the novel, surprise, surprise). When I pulled it out of the package, B and K were watching intently. The receipt of packages at the AH is definitely a communal affair. Is there something in there that can be shared? Oooh, candy. Mmmm, macaroni and cheese. Aha - a book. We can read it when she's done with it. K was disappointed to discover that the book in my package was Wicked. She immediately told me that she had read it and had disliked it thoroughly. She said her boyfriend, with whom she shares tastes in literature, hadn't even finished the thing. But she also mentioned that Wicked seems to be the sort of book that people either love or hate, and perhaps I would love it. Later that day, when I looked up Wicked in amazon.com so that I could link to it over here, I scrolled down and took a peep at the customer reviews. K was right; the book seemed to either score 1 star or 5 stars, love or hate.

When I was young I read all of L. Frank Baum's Oz books (or at least I think I read all of them; I read all that I could get my hands on). Yes, in case you don't know, there's more to the story of Oz than the tale of Dorothy and the Wizard. It has been ages and ages since I've read an Oz book, and my memories are vague, but they're there: images of the Nome King, tales of Ozma, the workings of Tiktok, and of course the classic tale of Dorothy and the Wizard that everyone knows thanks to the wonders of Technicolor. Maguire is definitely a connoisseur of Oz, and the culture thereof that he creates is deftly interwoven with the Oz of Baum. I would like to reread Baum's works in conjunction with Wicked, simply because I am certain there's a lot more reference to Baum than I was able to pick up on.

A simplistic summary of Wicked can be found within its title, for it truly is the tale of the life and times of the Wicked Witch of the West. When you read (or watch) The Wizard of Oz, the WWOTW is the archetype of evil, there solely to thwart the innocent heroine Dorothy. The reader/viewer never really thinks about *why* the WWOTW is so evil, she just is, and evil has to be fought, resisted, destroyed. But Elfaba, the WWOTW of Wicked is far from evil. She's, well, a green-skinned human... and we humans all have the capacity for good and for evil. She defies rules and regulations, attempts to commit murder, joins a secretive terrorist cell in a plot to overthrow the government, practices witchcraft, and commits adultery. But she's also a champion of the rights of minorities, she fights to defend her friends and family, she works for seven years in a religious hospital, she goes above and beyond to atone for her sins, and she attempts to befriend the one person who has been sent to kill her. This passage, taken from roughly the middle of the book, makes for a nice summary of the point it seems Maguire is trying to make:

"Surely there is a handful of nursery marchen that start, 'Once in the middle of a forest lived an old witch' or 'The Devil was out walking one day and met a child,'" said Oatsie, showing that she had some education as well as grit. "To the grim poor there need be no pour quoi tale about where evil arises; it just arises; it always is. One never learns how the witch became wicked, or whether that was the right choice for her - is it ever the right choice? Does the devil ever struggle to be good again, or if so is he not a devil? It is at the very least a question of definitions."

Now let's look at this love-it-or-hate-it dichotomy. Obviously, I love it, but I can understand why there are people who avidly dislike it. For starters, it's a fantasy novel. True, it's an educated, allegorical fantasy, geared towards an adult readership, but many people simply do not do well with fantasy stories. These are people require a "real world" setting in order for a tale to be believable. As my favorite books include The Lord of the Rings, The Silmarillion, The Mists of Avalon and The Master and Margarita, I've already firmly established myself in the fantasy camp, and thereby am somewhat predisposed to like this novel. Then there's the sex and religion. Yes, the book has sex scenes. They are not particularly graphic, but they are frank. There's also a bit of discussion about genitalia. There's a lot (a *lot*) of discussion about religion(s) - and of course these religions are Oz religions, not Christianity, although the religion of Elfaba's father definitely contains some similarities to the Christian faith. Essentially, I see this book turning off a lot of closed-minded Christian conservatives. And lastly, there's the terrorism factor. Wicked was published in 1995, long before September 11th, Bush Jr administration, or its need to refer to people/entities/countries as "evil." As mentioned above, Elfaba joins a secretive terrorist cell in a plot to overthrow the government of Oz (yes, the Wizard). I remember numerous discussions in PolySci classes back in college about how and why some groups are classified as "terrorists" while others are considered "freedom fighters." If you support the actions of the group, you consider them to be brave heroes, while if they are targeting you and or the people/society which you hold dear, then they are the Enemy and they are Evil. I can see how this segment of the book could be a turn-off to certain readers (quite possibly the same group turned off by the sex and religion talk...).

I haven't yet decided how I feel about the sequel to Wicked, Son of a Witch, which came out this month. For one thing, I can't remember if there's anything in Baum's Oz lore pertaining to progeny of the WWOTW. I'm not sure why that's important to me, but for some reason it is. Then I worry about the inevitable disappointment of sequels: think about Star Wars or The Matrix, where they really should have just left well enough alone. However, I flew through this book in little over two days, and would have gladly continued reading had the story not been so inconsiderate as to end. So we shall see.

"People always did like to talk, didn't they? That's why I call myself a witch now: The Wicked Witch of the West, if you want the full glory of it. As long as people are going to call you a lunatic anyway, why not get the benefit of it? It liberates you from convention."

Green on, Elphie!

The Russian Bookworm

I finally finished reading Anne Applebaum's Gulag, and I must say that it is one of the best - if not the best - nonfiction work I have ever read. It is certainly the best nonfiction book concerning Russia that I have read. I recommend this book to everyone. It is fascinating, incredibly detailed and well-researched, and it is well written. If you think that you already know a lot about the Russian Gulag system, and therefore don't need to read this work, I'd advise you to think again. I studied Russian history and politics in college, and I certainly knew more about the Gulag system than the average American; however, what I knew would not have filled half of a chapter of this book. Everyone should read it. Everyone. I had meant to write something about this book: what I had learned, what opinions I had formed, what quotes I felt were poignant enough to repeat, but I simply cannot. Anything I could say would merely serve to lessen the impact of Applebaum's text. Buy it, go to the library and borrow it, something, but read this book.

Moving on, but still on the topic of books: Now that I've finished with the Gulag, it seems that I've exhausted the AH Library's supply of Russian-history books. (It's chock full of books about the US to benefit the Russians, but that's not really what I'm after here.) I snagged two escapist thrillers from the library - a Sue Grafton and a Robert Ludlum - but while they'll entertain me, they won't really hold my attention for an extended period, nor will I learn much of anything from them. So if any of you feel, for some reason, like sending me a book off of my wishlist, I would be most ever grateful. Okay, so I don't actually expect anyone to send me anything, but it's worth a shot, right? But in all seriousness, if any of you have any suggestions as to Russia/USSR/Eastern Europe books that you think I might find interesting, please drop me a line and let me know.

And speaking of books, I haven't done too much with the one I'm writing since coming over here; it's hard to get into the mind of a sixteen year old north Florida country girl from a Soviet-era apartment in provincial Russia. However, I have started translating it into Russian as part of my Russian class. Let's just say that's easier said than done. I've managed to translate what amounts to less than one full page (single spaced) of a tale that is, in English, currently hovering right around fifty pages. Today I got to play Stump the Russian Teacher. Any of you ever tried explaining the concept of a Band Geek to a Russian? Well, you should try it some time. It's definitely an experience.

And now for something totally unrelated: Tonight, after leaving the factory, I rode home on the trolleybus, seated next to one of my students. We were talking about the weather (what else? Russians *love* to talk about the weather), and she asked me if I thought it was cold. I told her that it is as cold as a north Florida winter right now, and then I moved on to explain how unnerving it was to fly out of Florida in February and land in St. Petersburg in February, which is obviously vastly different, climate-wise. She laughed and said, "Here in Russia we say, in St. Petersburg, they haven't winter. It is much colder here in Vladimir." Maybe Nina M. was right in giving me that coat after all.

Trial Run

I finished reading (or I suppose I should say re-reading, even though it's been years) Trial Run a couple of days ago. It definitely does a good job of describing the features of Moscow, although it is set back in the days of the USSR (shortly before the Moscow Olympics), and obviously life in Moscow has changed substantially changed since then. Having never been to the Soviet Union, I cannot comment on how accurate Francis's descriptions of life in that era were; however, the physical descriptions of the city of Moscow are pretty spot-on. I wonder if Francis actually visited the city while researching this novel? Unfortunately, the one thing that I was certain was referenced in this book, the Soviet-era, state-run radios which never shut off (one of which lives in my kitchen and currently broadcasts Radio Rossiya 24/7), was not in this book. I'm thinking now that it might have been in Russian Journal, a non-fictional account of life in Russia from a foreigner's perspective, set during the same time frame. Damn. Nonetheless, Trial Run is great (a nice, fast-paced, well-written Dick Francis mystery), and if you enjoy mysteries and are interested in Moscow/Russia/USSR/CCCP/etc, I definitely recommend this book.

Anyhow, I would like to quote this one passage, simply for that woman who didn't believe me when I when I was unable to produce a last name for my former roommate, Alyosha:

"Alyosha is a man's name. A diminutive. Like Dickie for Richard. Alyosha is a familiar version of Alexei."
["...."]
"How many Alyoshas in Moscow?"
"How many Dickies in London? The two cities are roughly the same size."

The Modern Gulag?

I am almost halfway through the roughly 600 page "Gulag" by Anne Applebaum. This is an amazing book, and I will definitely try to write more on it once I am finished. The history of the Russian Gulag system is unbelievable, as is the fact that the average educated American knows so little about it. (I actually thought I knew a good bit about the Gulag before I began reading this book; however, the knowledge I had of the Gulag system barely scrapes the surface of what is in this book.) Anyhow, last night I came across a passage that I found particularly striking, as it reminded me very much of an experience I had during my last trip to Russia. Here is the passage:

"General Gorbatov also describes how he sent an uncensored letter to his wife from inside a [gulag] transport train, using a method mentioned by many others. First he bought a pencil stub from one of the criminal prisoners:

'I gave the convict the tobacco, took the pencil from him and, as the train moved off again, wrote a letter on the cigarette paper, numbering each sheet. Next I made an envelope of the makhorka wrapper, and stuck it down with moistened bread. So that my letter should not be carried by the wind into the bushes beside the railway, I weighted it with a crust of bread which I tied on with threads pulled from my towel. Between the envelope and the crust, I slipped a ruble note and four cigarette papers, each with the message: would the finder of this envelope please stick on a stamp and post it. I sidled up to the window of our truck just as we were going through a big station and let the letter drop...'

Not long afterward, his wife received it."
Back in June 2005, I wrote a little on my other blog about the Kresty Prison in St. Petersburg. (I apologize to those of you who may have already read this segment.) This passage recounts an experience I had during my second trip to Russia back in 2000. Granted, this information is five years old, but there is definitely a similarity here:

My friends Alyosha (Russian) and Shannon (American) and I were walking along the Neva embankment (for those of you who don't know, the Neva is the river upon whose delta the city of St. Petersburg was built) when we walked past the Kresty Prison. I'd had no idea it was even there before that day. Alyosha explained a bit about the prison and its history... He said that this was the prison where alleged criminals were kept while they awaited trial... and that friends/family were not allowed to visit. He also said that the prison was incredibly overcrowded, and that tuberculosis was rampant within the facility. I don't know if that information is true or not though, but what really struck me was the people I witnessed standing outside of the prison along the embankment of the Neva. They were picking through what looked like trash along the sidewalk. We took a look ourselves, and discovered that the "trash" consisted of crude, homemade projectiles, sealed and weighted with a small chunk of bread, containing small notes to family members wedged inside, which had been launched from the tiny prison windows in the hopes that they would be found by loved ones. Some of the people found notes addressed to them, and were very excited. Others searched in vain, and wept. Some waved their arms towards the prison, spelling out Cyrillic letters in a charade-like form of communication; arms reached out through the tiny windows of the prison, spelling replies. The emotions I witnessed on that day were so incredibly strong, and this is one of the most poignant memories of my seven months in Russia.

Sleeping With The Gulag

Thus far, I have not graded the tests from my second set of classes, so I do not yet know if they have caught on as successfully as my VEMZ class. (As the success of my students reflects on my success as a teacher, I cannot yet fully evaluate my performance.) I can say that the White Stripes did not work so well in the classroom. I only used the first few lines from Red Rain (I wanted to emphasize the phrase "in the morning") but I do not know if it served to do anything other than confuse my students. Up until yesterday, I had been making my students sing along with each song, but I did not bother with this one. Did I really expect them to keep up with Jack White? What was I thinking? And only one of the students seemed to appreciate the style of music. (This is too bad, as Get Behind Me Satan is starting to compete with In The Aeroplane Over The Sea for first place in my CD collection.) I only used Red Rain in my ZII (lower level) class. In the other classes I used the Dionne Warwick song, "Do you know the way to San Jose?" We were discussing how to ask polite questions, and the song led up perfectly to the lesson. And the students all seemed to appreciate the meaning of the song, and we got to talk about pollution in Los Angeles and how so many people go to L.A. to become movie stars and end up getting their dreams shattered. (Cheery, I know.)

I have finished reading Alexandra: The Last Tsarina by Carrolly Erickson. I have mixed feelings about this book. When I blogged about the Anastasia book, I said it read like a novel. Let me clarify. The Anastasia book was a well researched work, written in a literary style that made for good bedtime reading. Alexandra, reads like a Danielle Steele novel. It's an entertaining book, but not exactly profound. And a tad over-flowery with the prose. Erickson seems to have essentially taken the already researched story of the last Tsarina, and prettied it up for consumption by the layman. But while the flowery style of the book irritated me nearly every page along the way, I do feel that I learned a good bit about Alexandra and Tsar Nicholas, and the goings on during their reign. If I were still in college, working on a paper, this would not be the book to use, but if you are simply interested in some light historical reading, go for it.

One of the most interesting things in to book (to me) was this one sentence: "The vast blue and white Catherine Palace at Tsarskoe Selo was made into a hospital for officers, its beautiful amber-, lapis-, and malachite-decorated reception rooms filled with beds, its ornate ballroom converted to an operating theater." See, I have toured the Catherine Palace at Tsarskoe Selo, and I have seen the "beautiful amber-, lapis-, and malachite-decorated reception rooms" and the gorgeous formal ballroom. I had no idea that during WWI the palace had served as a hospital. (Was I not paying attention, or did the guides leave this info out of the tour for some reason?) It is also interesting to note that Erickson states unequivocally that all four daughters of Alexandra (yes, including Anastasia), were killed in Ekaterinburg in 1917. She does not mention a hint of controversy on the subject. Hmm.

On a different, although slightly related note, I rummaged through the AH library looking for the next book to occupy me in my free time. The AH has a fairly large library, although since its purpose is to educate Russians about America, there are very few books in the library about Russia. (The ones that are there have, for the most part, been donated by previous teachers; I have donated Anastasia.) I did find another book on Russian history, although I can't imagine it will be very cheery: Gulag by Anne Applebaum. Is this really the book I want to curl up to every night before I fall asleep? Well, I have to admit I snagged some fiction too. There was one Dick Francis book in the library, and I have not read it before!! Dick Francis is one of my favorite mystery authors (all his books involve horse-racing to some extent, and most are set in Britain), and I was sure I had read all of them. The book is entitled Forfeit, and its discovery was quite a pleasant surprise. So, I'm off to bed, and I shall be curling up with Mr. Francis. I can sleep with the Gulag another day.

Going Postal with Anastasia

Part I: Going Postal

I went to the Post Office yesterday. There were two different windows, behind which sat two different women. There was a long line in front of one window. I, lemming that I am, got in the line. I had been waiting in said line about five minutes, when I noticed that the woman behind the lineless window was staring at me and at the letters in my hand. I began to have a sneaking suspicion that I needed to go to her, but as she made no move to wave me over, I remained where I was. After a full ten minutes, when I finally reached the head of my line, I was told that I needed to go to the other window. Hmmm. Nope, I was not surprised. Neither was the woman who had been watching me. She knew all along that I needed to be in her line. You have got to love customer service in this country.

I returned to the Post Office again today. There was a chair blocking the entrance to the facility. The door was wide open, and there were no signs saying the place was closed or anything, so I climbed past the chair and went inside. No one was behind either window. I stood there for about a minute, and a woman walked into view behind the windows and said: We are having lunch. Well, I did not have anywhere to be for several hours, and as I had gone rather out of my way to get to the Post Office, I figured I would simply wait for their lunch to finish. About ten minutes passed, during which time various women poked their heads out and stared at me. Finally one gave an audible sigh and asked if I wanted to buy something. I told her I wanted to mail some letters. She sighed again, then agreed to sell me some stamps. Hah! I win.

The moral of this story is that I have started sending cards and letters and such to all of YOU (while braving the Russian Post Office to do so), therefore feel free to send me things in return (especially since the USPS is a lot more customer service oriented). Hint, hint.

Part II: Anastasia

Before I left the US, my mom gave me a book entitled Anastasia, the Riddle of Anna Anderson by Peter Kurth. I have been working my way through it ever since my arrival in Russia. It is the tale of Anna Anderson, one of the many women who claimed to be the daughter of Tsar Nicholas II. I (as many of you, I am sure) had heard the speculation that perhaps Anastasia had somehow escaped the execution of the royal family in Ekaterinburg in 1917, although I never gave much credence to the rumor. (I mean, they made it into a Disney movie, which of all improbable things cast Rasputin as the villain. How serious of a theory could this be?) Anyhow, Kurth’s book is well written (it reads like a novel, albeit a scholarly novel) and very well researched (although he is obviously biased in favor of Anna Anderson's claim). After finishing this book, I would say that it is QUITE likely that Anna Anderson was in fact Anastasia Nicolaevna, daughter of the Tsar. If any of you can get a copy of this book, I highly recommend it. Whether or not you believe that AA is Anastasia, you will be entertained, and it will give you a lot to think about. The next book I am reading is a biography of Anastasia’s mother: Alexandra, the Last Tsarina by Carolly Erickson which I picked up at the AH. I will let you know my thoughts on it when I am finished.