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Boris Dralyuk

1917

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An exciting new collection of responses to the Revolution, by some of Russia's greatest writers of the twentieth century
'This is the last of you, old word — soon we'll smash you to bits.'
The passionate voices of radicals, dreamers, workers, aristocrats, satirists and romantics fill these electrifying poems and prose pieces, written between 1917 and 1919 in the full tumult of the Russian Revolution.
From apocalyptic visions to heartfelt calls for freedom, from depictions of bloody carnage to an acerbic portrait of Lenin, the writings brought together here are by turns fervent, absurd, disorienting and tragic.
Some writers — Bulgakov, Pasternak, Mayakovsky, Akhmatova — are well-known, others all but forgotten; many would not survive what was to come. All speak to us a century later, re-creating the whirlwind of euphoria and terror, hopes and betrayals of that exhilarating, brutal time.
Boris Dralyuk is an award-winning translator and the Executive Editor of the Los Angeles Review of Books. He holds a PhD in Slavic Languages and Literatures from UCLA, where he taught Russian literature for a number of years. He is a co-editor of the Penguin Book of Russian Poetry, and has translated Isaac Babel's Red Cavalry/em> and Odessa Stories, both of which are published by Pushkin Press.
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202 afgedrukte pagina’s
Auteursrechteigenaar
Bookwire
Oorspronkelijke uitgave
2016
Jaar van uitgave
2016
Uitgeverij
Pushkin Press
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Citaten

  • Kanerva Cederströmciteerde uit4 jaar geleden
    which calls to mind the fair-haired image
    of Northern man.
    But Northern skalds are crude,
    don’t know the joy of games,
    and Northern warriors are fond
    of amber, feasts and flames.
    They’ll never taste the Southern air—
    enchanted foreign skies—
    and so the stubborn maiden
    will refuse their wine.
    DECEMBER 1917
    (Translated by Boris Dralyuk)
  • Kanerva Cederströmciteerde uit4 jaar geleden
    which calls to mind the fair-haired image
    of Northern man.
    But Northern skalds are crude,
    don’t know the joy of games,
    and Northern warriors are fond
    of amber, feasts and flames.
    They’ll never taste the Southern air—
    enchanted foreign skies—
    and so the stubborn maiden
    will refuse their wine.
    DECEMBER 1917
    (Translated by Boris Dralyuk)
  • Kanerva Cederströmciteerde uit4 jaar geleden
    In public and behind closed doors we slowly
    lose our minds,
    and then the brutal winter offers us
    clean, cold Rhine wine.
    The chill extends to us, in silver buckets,
    Valhalla’s wine,

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