Vanya Bagaev's Blog, page 4

An exercise in literary ventriloquism between Chekhov and Tolstoy

When Anton Chekhov died on 15 July 1904 in the distant German town of Badenweiler at the age of 44, having suffered from tuberculosis his entire life, the 76-year-old Tolstoy was profoundly shocked. In his diary, he wrote of an irreplaceable loss to Russian literature, and in conversations with those close to him, he confessed to feeling a "physical emptiness" after the departure of his younger colleague. It is said that Chekhov's final words, spoken in German to his doctor, were: "Ich sterbe" (...

Chekhov's Romantic Escapades

Author’s note:

This piece today is another biographical note on Anton Chekhov to continue the series I started last week with this post. It isn’t a part II, for there’s no order to it, in fact, chronologically, we’re going backwards, but I’d still recommend to check out the previous post whenever you feel like it!

If I were to pick a single phrase, Chekhov’s own words, from that piece to build a natural link between that and this, it’d be “In Paris, I saw naked woman.” Apparently, it wasn’t the fi...

The Art of Chekhovian Eurotrip

If Chekhov had a social media account, he would've been by far the best in the world at platitudes, aphorisms, etm. and would surely get thousands of likes under each post. I noticed that somehow in the English-speaking circles he's known more for short stories, while for me, even though I love the stories, too, his more important and influential works are undoubtedly plays and his letters. In the letters, you can see his real character, or the one he seemed to prefer to play—not just a serious ...

What Dostoevsky and Turgenev promised each other

The relationships between great writers are always interesting to explore, for from them we don’t just learn more about their personalities but about the struggles they went through in their personal life, and, frankly, we just like gossip. I don’t enjoy reading biographies as much as I enjoy reading letters because they are written in an author’s voice and have personal quirks you wouldn’t encounter elsewhere. Although it’s easy to find letters online, it’s often hard to piece them together—you...

On the Miracle Problem

Example 1: the miracle-maker1

We ought (or rather, we must) talk about the miracle-maker who could perform any miracle imaginable. You might consider that he possessed all possible divine, supernatural and superheroic abilities and could, at his own will, alter reality, matter, non-matter, time, space—anything at all. He was not, however, a god, a creator, or any such entity, but merely a human who suddenly (whilst still at a tender age) discovered that he could work miracles. He did not know whe...

Dostoevsky on AI (probably)

"Denatured alcohol, as one of the strongest and most unpalatable drinks, is perceived as one of the most 'true/authentic' ones.
— V. V. Erofeev's poem “Moscow to Petushki”

“Hail to the True, intense vampires.”
— Darkthrone’s "Transilvanian Hunger"

The way Trü1 Literature is timeless and timely at the same time is often being interpreted from a utilitarian angle in which timelessness equals to big brain philosophy and timeliness equals to journalism; both are, of course, wrong. I hate definitions tho...

Literature is pure metaphysics

I don’t like the process of reading; there’s nothing more boring than staring at letters. I do, however, love what happens in my head in the process and hate when nothing happens. If the text fails to make my brain go brrr1, its existence falls victim to my selective solipsism2. Yet I can’t listen to audiobooks because my mind always slips somewhere else, which happens when I read a book, too, but it’s easier to get back, reread, pause, etm. if it’s letters and not sounds. Yet behind the letters...

Twisted Lullaby

Dear reader,

This story is my submission to the Soaring Twenties Social Club’s Symposium on the topic “Drafts”, for which we all decided to dig out our old drafts and finish them, which I did.

“Consoler of monsters” by Kazimierz Stabrowski

I run after the clouds, and they run after me. We run together, neither falling behind. The sun must be hiding behind them, the sun loves to hide, it's quite good at hiding, it hides every night. Night and day are alike now. They're just like litle brother and li...

Microcosmos and Microchaos

Editor’s note:

Another chapter from my upcoming book “Tulubaikaporia” that hasn’t been shared here before. In this chapter, the Lyrical I finds oneself in the city and in the village at the same time, yearning to see the truest images of both. Will the Lyrical I succeed? That’s a bad question, actually, very bad, fuck that question.

There’s a lot of sound work done on it to make it lively when read aloud. I would do that, but not with my accent and pronounciation. Alas!

It was, in fact, meant as a ...

Selves Without Owners

Editor’s note:

, a good friend and a source of endless inspiration of yours truly, well-known to few, obscure to many, has blessed us with his new creation in the literary realm. He’s been on a personal development journey, both intensively and extensively, and seems to have transcended the mere categories of forms and has become a form in itself. Yours truly hopes this post will elucidate his innermost self further for those who have genuine interest in his persona.

Forsooth!

His mind is engaged i...