There is no shame in admitting that I like books about spies, set in the Cold War. There is no shame because some of those books are so well written that they put some so-called literary authors to shame. I have long had a particular fondness for the books of John Le Carré. His plots are invariably intricate, interesting, involved and involving, and his characters real, well-drawn and convincing, so much so that I find they linger, chattering away in my head, long after I have finished the book. He accurately captures speech and speech patterns, accents and idiosyncrasies, regional- and caste dialect so that you are fair deafened by the ring of truth. His characters also move and act in totally convincing manner, and most important of all (and that goes for all novelists, from Rushdie to Cartland) he makes you turn the page. You want to know what happens next, you have to turn the page to find out what happens. He makes you rush from one paragraph to the next, careen from sentence to sentence, devour word after word, gathering speed as the tension mounts.
Robert Littell is such an author too, and writes spy stories. The former Newsweek journalist, and author of 16 books, beguiles with wonderful words, plots and characters. More recently he wrote The Company, a novel of the CIA, a large tome that has been turned into a 6 part mini-series with none other than Ridley Scott as executive producer.
I have just finished reading Mother Russia, published in 1978, now reissued along with his entire back catalogue. Its protagonist is Robespierre Isayevich Pravdin, a wild-haired Russian- Jewish hustler, trapped in a dangerous, schizophrenic world only half –understood and apprehended, trying to do the right thing even though he knows that no good deed goes unpunished. And the right thing that he is trying to do is unmask plagiarism. I.F. Frolov stole the manuscript of a Cossack novel called The Deep Don and published it under his own name. It made him famous, and a respected Soviet author with all the privileges and accolades that entails. As a result of his heinous deed, his shameful theft and plagiarism, he becomes, in short, an Honored Artist of the Soviet Union.
I really enjoyed the book, and the enigmatic characters that inhabit it. Not only that, I enjoyed the synchronicity of it all. Of course the perspicacious among you will have recognized that the plot is based on the saga of Mikhail Sholokhov’s And Quiet Flows The Don. It has been persistently rumoured that Sholokhov acquired the manuscript from a Cossack he interrogated during the Russian Civil War. Many were suspicious that this writing, this novel, was so much better than what he produced before and after that. But for all that he was honoured as a great Soviet writer. How am I aware of all this? Well, I’m glad you asked. Way back, when I was a student, I worked in a second-hand bookshop in Rocky Street, Yeoville. As a lowly employee, over-exploited and underpaid, I had to work the unpopular night shifts. On one such night, perched behind the counter, trying to ignore the mayhem of night- time Yeoville raging just beyond the window, a man came into the shop. He was large, barrel-chested, with red cheeks and sandy red hair disheveled as though he did not care for such mundane things as appearances, and sported a large moustache. He steamed into the shop at a rate of knots, greeted me, then stopped short when he saw the copy of And Quiet Flows the Don I had just bought and was reading.
“Why are you reading that rubbish?” he demanded in a thick Russian accent.
“It’s a good book,” I countered, somewhat startled.
“He’s a charlatan,” he snorted. “Stole the whole thing. Quite despicable.” Then he turned and stalked off, mumbling in Russian. I do not speak or understand Russian, but formed the distinct impression that he was not saying nice things about gospodin Sholokov.
But back to Robert Littell. Tell me this does not blow your socks off:
“It dawns on me I never told you very much (… ) about the house in which I live. It is the (excuse the expression) cul of an L-shaped cul-de-sac. The structure as far as I can judge through my bifocals has no straight lines, no sharp edges, only worn angles and soft sexy shadows. The windows, some of which have eucalyptus branches on the sills, stare out at the alleyway like bruised eyes, which is not unreasonable considering the house has seen more than most. In winter it leans into the winds that cut through the cul-de-sac. In summer it leans into winds that aren’t blowing. Inside it smells of sandalwood and peeling wallpaper and fireplaces that don’t draw. I mustn’t forget to mention the floors creak under foot. The stairs too.”
Mother Russia
Robert Littell still writes, and I still read him, looking forward to the next book.
Robert Littell is such an author too, and writes spy stories. The former Newsweek journalist, and author of 16 books, beguiles with wonderful words, plots and characters. More recently he wrote The Company, a novel of the CIA, a large tome that has been turned into a 6 part mini-series with none other than Ridley Scott as executive producer.
I have just finished reading Mother Russia, published in 1978, now reissued along with his entire back catalogue. Its protagonist is Robespierre Isayevich Pravdin, a wild-haired Russian- Jewish hustler, trapped in a dangerous, schizophrenic world only half –understood and apprehended, trying to do the right thing even though he knows that no good deed goes unpunished. And the right thing that he is trying to do is unmask plagiarism. I.F. Frolov stole the manuscript of a Cossack novel called The Deep Don and published it under his own name. It made him famous, and a respected Soviet author with all the privileges and accolades that entails. As a result of his heinous deed, his shameful theft and plagiarism, he becomes, in short, an Honored Artist of the Soviet Union.
I really enjoyed the book, and the enigmatic characters that inhabit it. Not only that, I enjoyed the synchronicity of it all. Of course the perspicacious among you will have recognized that the plot is based on the saga of Mikhail Sholokhov’s And Quiet Flows The Don. It has been persistently rumoured that Sholokhov acquired the manuscript from a Cossack he interrogated during the Russian Civil War. Many were suspicious that this writing, this novel, was so much better than what he produced before and after that. But for all that he was honoured as a great Soviet writer. How am I aware of all this? Well, I’m glad you asked. Way back, when I was a student, I worked in a second-hand bookshop in Rocky Street, Yeoville. As a lowly employee, over-exploited and underpaid, I had to work the unpopular night shifts. On one such night, perched behind the counter, trying to ignore the mayhem of night- time Yeoville raging just beyond the window, a man came into the shop. He was large, barrel-chested, with red cheeks and sandy red hair disheveled as though he did not care for such mundane things as appearances, and sported a large moustache. He steamed into the shop at a rate of knots, greeted me, then stopped short when he saw the copy of And Quiet Flows the Don I had just bought and was reading.
“Why are you reading that rubbish?” he demanded in a thick Russian accent.
“It’s a good book,” I countered, somewhat startled.
“He’s a charlatan,” he snorted. “Stole the whole thing. Quite despicable.” Then he turned and stalked off, mumbling in Russian. I do not speak or understand Russian, but formed the distinct impression that he was not saying nice things about gospodin Sholokov.
But back to Robert Littell. Tell me this does not blow your socks off:
“It dawns on me I never told you very much (… ) about the house in which I live. It is the (excuse the expression) cul of an L-shaped cul-de-sac. The structure as far as I can judge through my bifocals has no straight lines, no sharp edges, only worn angles and soft sexy shadows. The windows, some of which have eucalyptus branches on the sills, stare out at the alleyway like bruised eyes, which is not unreasonable considering the house has seen more than most. In winter it leans into the winds that cut through the cul-de-sac. In summer it leans into winds that aren’t blowing. Inside it smells of sandalwood and peeling wallpaper and fireplaces that don’t draw. I mustn’t forget to mention the floors creak under foot. The stairs too.”
Mother Russia
Robert Littell still writes, and I still read him, looking forward to the next book.
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