By Arkadii Dragomoshchenko, Evgeny Pavlov
This can be my experiment, no longer a retail book. I don't imagine there's one to be had.
Fiction. Poetry. Translated from the Russian by way of Evgeny Pavlov. Arkadii Dragomoschenko got here to us first as a samizdat/underground poet, his traces & gestures signaling a gap to new discoveries & freedoms in what were the closed global of the Soviet superstate. That freedom as a poet resided squarely within the center of his poetry--its language & shape serving because the conduits for options & realities formerly obscured. Now, in chinese language solar, he launches a clean attack, this time at the global of prose--a poet's reconfiguration (transformation) of the radical & a piece that crosses open borders as a present to all of us.
From Publishers Weekly:
"The sum overall is always perplexing," writes the narrator of Dragomoshchenko's novel, his first fiction to be translated into English. referred to as an experimental poet in his local Russia, Dragomoshchenko twists, tweaks and pummels the unconventional into an unrecognizable, yet no longer unappealing, shape within which stream-of-consciousness ramblings, semi-autobiographical vignettes and meditations on artwork, time, silence and reminiscence supersede any conventional iterations of plot. Like language poetry, this paintings self-reflexively obsesses over problems with writing and phrases whereas espousing artful aphorisms: the narrator wonders, "Do we all know that we know?" in other places, a personality describes God as taking a look "like a pronoun and all letters at once." yet different cunningly brainy dictums turn into murkier upon mirrored image: "there isn't any publication in that book." there's a publication during this novel, notwithstanding, anticipating sufferer readers to puzzle it out.
Arkadii Dragomoshchenko is a poet, essayist, and translator who was once born in Potsdam, Germany in 1946 and grew up in Vinnitsa, Ukraine. He has lived and labored in St. Petersburg (formerly Leningrad), Russia because 1969. His writing has earned him a name because the consultant determine of Language poetry in Russia.
Dragomoshchenko's poetry used to be first brought to American audiences within the volumes Description and Xenia, translated by way of Lyn Hejinian and released through sunlight & Moon Press within the Nineties. He has seeing that authored chinese language sunlight, released in 2005 by means of grotesque Duckling Presse, and the prose assortment dirt (Dalkey Archive Press, 2005).
C.D. Wright has acknowledged of his paintings, "This is poetry. conceited. Magisterial. roughly impenetrable. The relation of language is strength yet now not improvisational.” approximately dirt, Lyn Hejinian wrote, “Full of energy in addition to profundity, and resonating with anything i will be able to basically time period friendship, those meditations/memoirs belong to the nice culture of metaphysical prose, along the works of Nietzsche, Shklovsky, Kierkegaard, and Toufic.”
Ugly Duckling Presse is a 501 (c)(3) nonprofit writer established in Brooklyn, manhattan, which focuses on poetry, translation, misplaced literature, and books by way of artists.
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Additional info for Chinese Sun
But eat, drink, and be merry in your contemplation, lie with women and search for a source of moisture in their whisper, in their mouths, also don't reject my words, my brother, my husband, for there is no measure to the immeasurable, and my voice is too soft, born in fields of reeds where light itself, DRAGOMOSHCHENKO 141 despite its source, is as somber as times forever left behind. Tue world didn't fit in the book strictly because the weather was nasty and the bad glue couldn't hold the spine together.
Burdock was in bloom, the air was filled with the heat of motley grass and the ringing of grasshoppers. But eat, drink, and be merry in your contemplation, lie with women and search for a source of moisture in their whisper, in their mouths, also don't reject my words, my brother, my husband, for there is no measure to the immeasurable, and my voice is too soft, born in fields of reeds where light itself, DRAGOMOSHCHENKO 141 despite its source, is as somber as times forever left behind. Tue world didn't fit in the book strictly because the weather was nasty and the bad glue couldn't hold the spine together.
A squeaking door. During the day, a mirror propped against the wall by the door diminishes me and my time. At night, it leaves its simple tricks and breathes in barely trembling clouds caught by moonlight in the stillness: "Several lives go on inside me, but there's no place for me in any one of them. I think you know this feeling well. " On careful observation, as if penetrating the film of the eyelids, mirrors lagged by the smallest fraction of anticipation, showing that the matrix of shadows had the nature ofliquid crystal.
Chinese Sun by Arkadii Dragomoshchenko, Evgeny Pavlov