The Letter Killers Club

by Sigizmund Krzhizhanovsky, Joanne Turnbull (Translator), Caryl Emerson (Introduction)

A New York Review Books Original.

Writers are professional killers of conceptions. The logic of the Letter Killers Club, a secret society of “conceivers” who commit nothing to paper on principle, is strict and uncompromising. Every Saturday they meet in a fire-lit room hung with blank black bookshelves to present their “pure and unsubstantiated” conceptions: a rehearsal of Hamlet hijacked by an actor who vanishes with the role; the double life of a medieval merry cleric derailed by a costume change; a machine-run world that imprisons men’s minds while conscripting their bodies; a dead Roman scribe stranded this side of the River Acheron. The overarching scene of this short novel is set in Soviet Moscow, in the ominous 1920s. Known only by pseudonym, like Chesterton’s anarchists in fin-de-siècle London, the Letter Killers are as mistrustful of one another as they are mesmerized by their despotic president. Sigizmund Krzhizhanovsky is at his philosophical and fantastical best in this extended meditation on madness and silence, the word and the soul unbound.

Sigizmund Krzhizhanovsky (1887–1950) studied law and classical philology at Kiev University. His philosophical and satirical stories with fantastical plots ignored official injunctions to portray the new Soviet state in a positive light, and three separate efforts to print different collections were quashed by the censors, a fourth by World War II. Not until 1989 could these surreal fictions begin to be published. His collection of stories, Memories of the Future, is available from NYRB Classics.   Caryl Emerson is A. Watson Armour III Professor of Slavic Languages and Literatures at Princeton University.  

Joanne Turnbull has translated a number of books from Russian, including Sigizmund Krzhizhanovsky’s Memories of the Future, which was shortlisted for the Best Translated Book Award (available as a NYRB Classic). Editorial Reviews - The Letter Killers Club From the Publisher A New York Review Books

Genres: Fiction, Russia, Short Stories, Russian Literature, Classics, Literature, 20th Century

126 pages, Paperback

First published January 1, 1926

About the author

Сигизмунд Кржижановский

Sigizmund Dominikovich Krzhizhanovsky (Russian: Сигизму́нд Домини́кович Кржижано́вский) (February 11 [O.S. January 30] 1887, Kyiv, Russian Empire — 28 December 1950, Moscow, USSR) was a Russian and Soviet short-story writer who described himself as being "known for being unknown" and the bulk of whose writings were published posthumously.

Many details of Krzhizhanovsky's life are obscure. Judging from his works, Robert Louis Stevenson, G. K. Chesterton, Edgar Allan Poe, Nikolai Gogol, E. T. A. Hoffmann, and H. G. Wells were major influences on his style. Krzhizhanovsky was active among Moscow's literati in the 1920s, while working for Alexander Tairov's Chamber Theater. Several of Krzhizhanovsky's stories became known through private readings, and a couple of them even found their way to print. In 1929 he penned a screenplay for Yakov Protazanov's acclaimed film The Feast of St Jorgen, yet his name did not appear in the credits. One of his last novellas, "Dymchaty bokal" (The smoky beaker, 1939), tells the story of a goblet miraculously never running out of wine, sometimes interpreted as a wry allusion to the author's fondness for alcohol. He died in Moscow, but the place where he was buried is not known.

In 1976 the scholar Vadim Perelmuter discovered Krzhizhanovsky's archive and in 1989 published one of his short stories. As the five volumes of his collected works followed (the fifth volume has not yet reached publication), Krzhizhanovsky emerged from obscurity as a remarkable Soviet writer, who polished his prose to the verge of poetry. His short parables, written with an abundance of poetic detail and wonderful fertility of invention — though occasionally bordering on the whimsical — are sometimes compared to the ficciones of Jorge Luis Borges. Quadraturin (1926), the best known of such phantasmagoric stories, is a Kafkaesque novella in which allegory meets existentialism. Quadraturin is available in English translation in Russian Short Stories from Pushkin to Buida, Penguin Classics, 2005.

Reviews

[Adam Dalva · Rating 5 out of 5]

Whoa, this was really wonderful. It's an extremely slim (112 pages) volume of linked stories, all told by members of a secret club who are trying to escape physical writing, either written or read, for various reasons. Each week, one member shares a story, and the book mostly hinges on the quality of these.

The first is a meta-play about Hamlet told from the perspective of Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, but about 40 years ahead of Stoppard, and it's remarkable.

The second is just decent, a story about the Medieval Feast of the Ass. But here the advantages of the format began to become apparent; the listeners critique the story (fairly accurately) and so the plot began to modulate and shift. This was thrilling.

The third is in the Zamyatin school of sci-fi anxiety, and anticipates the Borg, and just felt thoroughly ahead of its time.

The fourth and fifth I won't spoil, but suffice it to say that the structure begins to collapse on itself - characters re-appear, members of the club have their (now-known) aesthetic views imposed on narrative, and we begin to question our narrator.

And so what we're left with is a tiny, essential mixture of Calvino and Cervantes (a direct D.Q. reference kicks things off), of Joyce and Cortazar. This makes it sounds keyed up, but what I like BEST about it is that it is decidedly unpretentious and takes on it's meta-experimentalism with ease and (believe it or not) modesty. There's a romance and a joy here to forms that you might most associate with chilly writers, and it almost seems easier than realism. That's a good and rare thing.

[Seemita · Rating 5 out of 5]

Stop!
Yes, You!
Stop!
Don’t Read Any Further!
No, I’m serious! Like SERIOUS!
STOP!
I’m not going to repeat!
STOP, RIGHT, HERE!

Ha, you didn’t listen, did you? Well then, be prepared to sever ties with only ever thing that made your enriching circle of reading, comprehending, reflecting, retrieving and disseminating complete (and) visible to the world : Words .

Writers, in essence, are professional word tamers; if the words walking down the lines were living creatures, they would surely fear and hate the pen’s nib as tamed animals do the raised whip.

You are at the entry gate of “The Letter Killers Club”, C/o Sigizmund Krzhizhanovsky, Perception Lane, PO: Floating Ideation, Wanderers District. Now, shed your pompous lexis at the phantasm rug and remove your premium-leather vocabulary shoes by its side. Ease the creases on your expressive forehead lest they still throb of your age ol’ garrulously decorative tremors. Done? Good. With this sterilization of words, we are qualified now to enter his club. Let’s step in.

This room we have stepped into is a white inflated lattice of skeletal black bookshelves that have been robbed off their spines. But did you think they are empty? Not quite. They are teeming with life like a new born; what they hold within their bosoms are a thousand thoughts that run amok the most creative mountains in the deepest allegorical whims but alas, not visible and thus, not comprehensible to the regular eye.

Here we meet 7 members, aptly known as ‘conceivers’, who shun everything from the word’s womb since

A thought or conception, in its quest for creative life, must separate itself from the written word, which traps it like a zoological specimen on the printed page.

They meet every Saturday and on the behest of Zez, their president, Rar, Tyd, Das, Fev, Hig and Mov take turn to present a story every week which upon completion, serves as the fertile ground for further introspection. They prod the story with their incisive eye, feel its spine in their nimble minds, toss it in diverse scenarios and having arrived at its prime theme, place it in the correct shelf on the neatly stacked conception bookshelves.

But categorizing ideas, however, revolutionary, can come under severe contradictions since anything without definitive structure tantamounts to splintered interpretations and sensing this tide taking rather alarming proportions in the club, Zez brings an outsider, our narrator, one fine Saturday and directs him to simply be a part of the proceedings for the next few weeks, albeit keeping his faculties at full throttle.

So, for the next four Saturdays, we embark on a somewhat perplexing but undeniably thrilling journey. While in Rar’s ‘Actus Morbi', we experience the quixotic dilemma of a theatrical actor when the ROLE refuses to accept him as his master, Tyd invokes a prickly, tingling sensation when a young, happy bride in ‘The Feast of the Ass’ is abruptly revealed the truth of ass in a dark, dense forest by a unnervingly calm priest. Having received lukewarm response to his idea, when Tyd tries to reform his story around the priest as a rather funny goliard who doubles up as jester in ‘The Goliard’s Sack’, Das savagely embosses his own with the very peculiar ‘Exes’ – a debatable idea of human brain being infected by artificially generated ’vibrophags’ to isolate the nervous consciousness from the musculature system, especially in the madmen. Fev tries to rein in the eccentricity by his own delineating thought, ‘Tale of Three Mouths’ where three friends transcend villages and towns to get the inscrutable answer to the purpose of a mouth. The stories are a series of veiled satire on the political and societal fabric of the Russia of 1920s. Krzhizhanovsky, a vocal detractor of the Russian tombs, was, thus, suppressed in print and almost all his works found widespread publication long after his death.

Getting repeatedly slapped by these whirlwind stories, our narrator is swarmed with more diminutive summaries than sunny clarities. But the power of idea has many silver linings and he tries to decode one by establishing an acquaintance with the unique Rar.

I tried to prove that we are not conceivers but eccentrics, harmless only owing to our self-isolation. A conception without a line of text, I argued, is like a needle without thread: it pricks, but does not sew.

But does Rar oblige under the rarified air of Zez’ authority and the stronghold of invisible manuscripts? Should we allow the avalanche of thoughts to bury us in knee deep snow of cryptic wisdom that may repeal a proven wit if plowed at too hard and restore a balmy intellect if excavated a tad swift?

A riddle is always made up of its answer; answers—so it has always been and will be—are older than questions.

[Nate D · Rating 3 out of 5]

In cases of stories with presented as a novel via a narrative frame the two most common cases are:

1. stories are stronger than frame, and really don't need it around at all. Possibly narrative frame undermines stories altogether.
2. Narrative frame intrigues, but is strained by effort to hold disconnected stories together.

Typically, either of these cases are the result of the stories written previously without inhernet connection finding themselves shoe-horned together for publication at a later date. Much better, usually, are cases like the one I suspect here: stories concieved as units of a whole from the very start.

K's deft work here sees the whole subtly informed by the parts and vice versa. Bits of the stories even cross over between themesleves, which especially astonishes since these range so widely in tone and subject, from greek myth to dystopian future as chilling as Zamyatin's contemoraneous version in We. Still, K's best language and formal strengths are somewhat side-lined here by its oral-tradition style of telling, but it's also impressive evidence of his flexability as a writer. And I'm thrilled that this, and hopefully more future K. is getting translated.

[Ben Winch · Rating 4 out of 5]

Then I told them about experiments in cultivating flowers without light: the result, curiously, is always an exceedingly tall branching plant, but put that gloom-grown specimen next to ordinary plants used to night and day and you will find it fragile, withered, and pale.

I’ve read this – an early-mid example of K’s work, written when he was new to Moscow and hadn’t yet sampled the failure that was to be his experience of publishing – twice now, and find it to be immune to the above description, maybe ‘gloom-grown’, but unlike the later work I’ve read (NYRB’s Memories of the Future) not tall, fragile, whithered or pale. Branching, yes: five stories, which could stand independently, fused to the central conceit of the Letter Killers Club, a Saturday evening ritual conducted by authors dedicated to non-publication, in which they narrate, discuss, improvise and re-contort their conceptions. Ingenious, meticulous, solidly crafted, the branches of this bansai balance beautifully, yet the result is some hybrid which baffles as it inspires. The workmanship, now that is inspired. And the stories taken alone – they (mostly) are too. But what madness or genius fused them together, and why? I’m made to view them as one, yet they want to fracture, to part. The result: a kind of two-tiered hologram; it’s one, it’s many. BAM! K’s super-finely wrought miniature explodes; the tensile strength of its joins is what explodes it. Because make no mistake, this is seamless. Yet nothing can hold a story like the central one (scientists sever brains from bodies en masse and use the resultant slave-labour to create an anti-human utopia); no frame can help but fade to grey in its shadow. Borges, Poe, Walser; K – slightly arch as he may be – is not out of place in their company. But I suspect after The Letter Killer’s Club he cultivated increasingly in darkness. Memories..., while strong in parts, has that over-reach of the too-branching specimen. But whatever he writes, the flavour is so exotic, even when subtle, it’s irresistable.

[Sasha · Rating 5 out of 5]

"The Russian Borges" will do well enough to describe Krzhizhanovsky, although Ficciones was written twenty years after this book. Aggressively meta and weird, he comes by way of Gogol and Zamyatin, and (so I've heard) Kafka - although that influence doesn't show here. Either it appears in his other works, or lazy people just like to throw around the word "Kafkaesque" because it sounds cool. (Joanne Turnbull claims that Krzhizhanovsky didn't read Kafka until over a decade after writing this.) Anyway: at his best he's such a stunner that he gets five stars despite the fact that two out of four stories in this book don't really make any sense.

But let's talk about the ones that do. Krzhizhanovsky starts with a shotgun blast of a story in which Stern - half of the Hamlet character Guildenstern, who is dead, and don't ask - visits the Land of Roles and is doppelganged by Richard Burbage, Shakespeare's original Hamlet. Krzhizhanovsky is talking about the way we inhabit roles, and to what extent the role becomes the person. It's crafty and funny and a terrific commentary on Shakespeare's tendency to write in dialogue: even his monologues, Krzhizhanovsky* points out, are a debate between two sides of the speaker.

Then there's some sort of Chauceresque thing about an ass.

The centerpiece of Letter Killers Club is the lengthy middle story, which continues a theme begun a few years earlier in Capek's R.U.R. by way of Zamyatin's dystopia. A bacteria to control men's bodies is invented, so that they can all become useful cogs in the state machine while their minds are trapped inside their automaton shells. It was a nice coincidence that I was simultaneously revisiting Philip K Dick's paranoia; they make good bedfellows. It's a smashing story and a scathing indictment of communism, or religion, or conformity in general - whatever your thing is. In any case, you can see why this dude wasn't published during his lifetime.

The book's framing device is a group of assholes who meet to tell stories without writing them down (in what I assume is a comment on the censorship that squelched this book - look, meta!), and the teller of the last one refuses to finish; the rest of the group argue over what the end should have been, and another guy is assigned to finish it but also fails, and I don't know what this whole thing was about.

The introduction to this edition, by Caryl Emerson, is absolute claptrap. "A pure conceiver is matterphobic. To be communicated at all, a thought must retain a recognizable contour." That doesn't mean anything and you can skip that shit.

Emerson makes the claim that Krzhizhanovsky "couldn't have read" Zamyatin, but I'm not sure where he's getting that idea. True, We wasn't published in Russia at the time, but Krzhizhanovsky was a member of a literary circle in Moscow during the 20s, who presumably might have gotten their hands on it - and besides, I think Krzhizhanovsky spoke English, and We was published in English five years before Letter Killers Club was written. I think there's a kinship here; it could be coincidental, but I wish Emerson would back his claims up.

If you like Borges, this is a book for you. And if you don't, this isn't.

* Seems like I'm typing the dude's name a lot, right? I'm trying to drill it into my brain. Here's how you pronounce this: Cur-zhi-zha-nov-ski. Like it looks. Say it with me. I looked up how to pronounce it and found like fifty people all "Lol I can't pronounce this" and a phonetic pronunciation right on his Wikipedia page. It's not actually that hard.

[Ian "Marvin" Graye · Rating 3 out of 5]

CRITIQUE:

The Ephemerality of Conceptions

The framing story of this novel is that a club consisting of seven authors (called "conceivers" rather than writers) meets every Saturday, to present or perform what they have conceived or created. They are prohibited, by the almost Oulipean rules of the club, from reducing anything to writing, because this will compromise the purity of what they have conceived. Converting conceptions into letters focuses attention on the script or print, and detracts from the authenticity of the conceptions themselves. The conceptions are meant to be ephemeral, except to the extent that they have been preserved, fleetingly, in the memory of any of the conceivers.

The narrator is not one of the conceivers, but seems to have been invited to attend the meetings as part of the audience. Paradoxically, his account of what happens at the meetings (i.e., the presentation of the conceptions) creates a written record (i.e., the novel that we're reading) of what takes place, and defies the rule against writing.

Only five of the conceivers get to present their conception in a separate chapter of the novel (as if they or the author simply ran out of steam). The conceptions vary in literary quality. The club doesn't survive, ultimately proving to be as ephemeral as its conceptions. The novel, being an act of non-compliance or non-conformity, remains the only evidence that the club or any of the conceptions ever existed.


THE SEKRET SEKRET LITERARY CLUB
(AN HOMAGE)

Soon after the death of Queen Lizzie, she was succeeded by her oldest son, who would initially be known as the New King Jack.

Because Queen Lizzie had survived so long, New King Jack was quite old by the time of his coronation, and it coincided with a revival of interest in making Britain a republic. This was before Scotland had gained its independence.

Many of the supporters of the republican cause thought that, like independence, it could be achieved by a referendum of the people followed by a vote of parliament. However, many republicans wanted to achieve their goal immediately, by violence, if necessary.

MI5 and New Scotland Yard quickly mobilised to identify who might be planning any such violence, and forestall it.

The republican movement emerged in a time of decline in social media. It had learned that the security forces could access everything that was published on social media, no matter how encrypted or restricted its publication was.

MI5 soon returned to human surveillance, and I was recruited to participate in its scheme. I had been involved in covert counter-terrorism operations before the days of social media.

In the early days of counter-terrorism, we focussed our attention on universities, trade unions, left-wing political parties, and left-wing causes (like nuclear disarmament and climate change). Once we identified a target, their bookshelves and online publications would usually give them away. They had a voracious appetite for books and publications. What they read and wrote would reveal what they were up to.

Now, their bookshelves were empty. They didn't even maintain digital libraries. Everything they knew or believed was stored in their heads. There was no material evidence any more. They didn't even talk on their phones or message each other on apps. Everything was communicated orally in small groups or cabals, from two to eight in number.

Our first strategy was to seek out and attend book clubs, poetry readings, and stand up comedy performances. What the attendees shared was a desire and ability to memorise their thoughts. They all had to surrender their phones on their entry, so there were rarely any recordings of the performances, no mixing desk or bootleg recordings.

We learned about these performances by collecting posters on telegraph poles or photographing chalk drawings on the street. Once a performance had occurred (usually early on a Saturday night), a smaller or more select sub-group would generally meet somewhere more private, like a home or apartment.

The first performance we learned about was one of about six. It was a group analysis of a Russian novel called "The Letter Killers Club". It wasn't rated as a high priority. Because it was a relatively obscure novel, it was assumed that it was genuinely literary, rather than political in nature. The other performances were allocated to other, higher-ranking agents in groups of two, and "The Letter Killers Club" was assigned to me alone.

Before I attended the meeting, I made a mental note of my objectives: I would try to ascertain the date and place of the next meeting, I would try to determine who would be invited to attend the meeting, and I would try to ensure that I was among the invitees.

There were seven in the group initially: three men, and four women. One woman introduced herself as Gyp, and seemed to assume that she was entitled to appoint herself as the chair-being of the group. For the first hour, we actually discussed literary aspects of the book. By the end of the hour, two women and two men had decided to leave, perhaps because the discussion was too analytical for them.

I had decided not to take any notes of the discussion. I was determined not to draw attention to myself. Instead, I intended to mentally record everything that had been said. This had been a major part of our re-training.

The chair-being suggested that she would wind up the meeting after an additional 30 minutes.

When the meeting concluded, she took some mini-posters out of her handbag, and handed them around to the other attendees. The posters had the date and place of the next meeting, the topic of which was a political essay by the author of "The Letter Killers Club".

It seemed as if there would only be three attendees at the next meeting: Gyp, one male (me), and one female (I hadn't learned her name yet, but at the next meeting she revealed her name was Dor; I used the name Jig).

It wasn't clear whether the other woman was a regular attendee, or, like me, a new recruit. Strangely, the following Saturday, two of the original attendees (both male) turned up. There were now three men and two women (including Gyp).

The meeting place was a modest apartment in a six-storey building.

At the second meeting, Gyp explained that the author had, for a short time, been a low-ranking official in the bureaucracy of the Soviet Union. His essay concerned the democratic and republican characteristics of the Soviet Socialist Republic. If she was going to discuss the republican cause in the UK, this might be her pretext.

Gyp started by saying that you couldn't understand the Soviet Union, without understanding the February and October Revolutions in 1917 and the treaty between the constituent republics in 1922. For completeness, she proposed to raise the Russian Civil War which occurred between 1917 and 1923. So Gyp was going to speak about revolutionary activity and its consequences, if not that day, then on the following Saturday.

Although we hadn't had this discussion yet, I decided that I would recommend to my superiors at MI5 that we raid the third meeting after it had ended. By this point, I would have a clear idea of what their intentions were, the role of each attendee, and the intended timeframe.

Between the second and third meetings, my boss asked me whether I had taken any notes of the meetings I had attended. I said that I hadn't, but that I had tried to memorise everything. He asked me to record all of the details I could remember (i.e., what I had intentionally memorised, and not yet forgotten).

He seemed to be in two minds about the notes. If I had taken notes, it would have drawn attention to me, and presumably compromised me. If I hadn't taken any notes, it could raise the legal argument that I had fabricated my notes afterwards. He was worried that, from an evidentiary point of view, my notes mightn't be viewed as contemporaneous notes in any legal proceedings.

As it turned out, the Judge convicted the other attendees on the basis of my notes, which she described as exemplary. The attendees were convicted not by what they had done (or perhaps what, at worst, they might have conspired to do), but by what each of them had imagined. I still feel guilty to this day, although I was only doing my job (taking care of the palace).


SOUNDTRACK:

Sekret Sekret - "New King Jack"

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DyoHM...

"Take care of the palace,
You know it's worth a lot.
Meet a wild,
Wild widow,
She's going home."

[Aravindakshan Narasimhan · Rating 4 out of 5]

Just an update.
As on 2.11.2018

As i read Manguel's A History of Reading recently and it has been some time since, that I have allowed it to sink in, I am wondering if The Letter killers club by Krzhizhanovsky - apart from its meta fictional layer, is "also" a homage to tradition of ancient oral narration --- an anti-text, an anti-reading and writing tradition.


The line of this interpretation is of course flickered by reading Socrates advise about futility of reading a written text. Comparing a muted painting to a lifeless text, given life by imagination of a reader's "own knowledge". In short --- nothing gained in the process.

"A reader must be singularly simple minded to believe that written words can do anything more than remind one of what one already knows"

Socrates to Phaedrus. Quoted from Alberto Manguel's A history of Reading.

Though I had already decided to re-read certain parts of most of the books that I read this year, this book will demand a closer reading.
Let me try to write a review after doing it.


I read two stories from this book yesterday.

Before talking about those stories, let me say a few things about the general idea of the work. It is about a group of conceivers (as they call themselves), who have stopped writing stories and have turned themselves into a more like narrators (if one could use that term). Each week they meet once and engage themselves in a story telling sessions.
The protagonist of the book is an outsider, who is let into this secret anti-letter society, and he takes part as a listener in the tales narrated by these members.

The first story is a play within a play conceived as a play taking place in their room.
Taking the Shakespeare's Hamlet as the subject, we have an actor who struggles to get into the role of Hamlet and engages in lamenting within himself, and is later led into the land of roles (hall of fame sort), where there are the past Hamlets - that is, who have earned themselves a place for being great actors who performed the role of Hamlet in the past, and he ends up swapping the place with a role. There are many references to other plays of Shakespeare too, so I couldn't get few of those.


From the book:

STERN: But then how can we … straighten this out?
ROLE: Again, very simply. I’ll take you to Hamletburg, and you can look for the one you want.
STERN (confused): But where is that? And how do you get there?
ROLE: Where? In the Land of Roles. There is such a place. As for how you get there, that can be neither told, nor shown. I think the audience will forgive us if we … ring down the curtain.
Rar calmly surveyed us. “The Role, in essence, is right. If you’ll allow me, I’ll say: Curtain.

You would have noted the play-within-a play quality in the above excerpt!


But there happens an act of treason, on the same similar fashion as the above Socrates-Phaedrus incident. The narrator of this play in the name of Rar ( the nomenclature of this group as its own peculiarity) who in the middle of the narration takes a piece of paper which he had concealed till then, and the president of the group snatches away the paper to throw it into the fire.
The narrator without his concealed paper "describes" the future scenes of the play and ends abruptly!

From the book:

Rar reached into an inside pocket: something rustled under his black frockcoat. He fell suddenly silent and looked at us with wide eyes. Necks craned nervously. Chairs edged closer. Zez jumped up and motioned for the noise to stop. “Rar,” he snapped. “Did you smuggle letters in here? Hiding them from us? Give me the manuscript. Right now!”
Rar seemed to hesitate. Then, amid the silence, his hand darted out from under his frockcoat: in his fingers, which were trembling slightly, a notebook folded in four showed white. Zez grabbed it and ran his eyes over the symbols: he held the manuscript almost at arm’s length, by one corner, as though afraid to sully himself with its inky lines. Then he spun around to the fire: it was almost out, only a few coals slowly turning violet continued to blaze above the fender.
“As per Article 5 of the Regulations, this manuscript is committed to death: without spilling ink. Objections?”
No one moved.
With a quick flick, the president tossed the notebook onto the coals. As though alive, white leaves writhing in agony, it set up a soft thin hiss; the spiral of smoke turned blue; then, from underneath, a flame leapt up. Three minutes later, having reduced to ashes with staccato blows of the tongs what so recently was a play, Zez replaced the tongs, turned to Rar and muttered, “Go on.”


Interestingly, the narrator at one point, becomes the Hamlet himself and at another point becomes the director.

From the book (Narrator as the To be Hamlet) :

Stern (To be Hamlet, but not to be one) : I am only a conceiver, you see, I cannot complete anything: the letters hidden inside your book---O great image---shall remain forever unread by me.

Now as the Director:

Timer (Director) : I don't recognize you, Stern: you've always seemed to avoid playing--- even with words. Well then, two actors for one role? Why not? Attention: I'm taking the role and breaking it in two.

Many things happen above- Rar before narrating the story informs that he is breaking Guildenstern into Guilden and Stern; narrator introduces the director as a lookalike of himself; "You've always avoided playing, even with words" is a reference to himself, though it fits Hamlet equally, pretty well.

I feel it is more like two mirrors reflecting each other - the conceiver reflecting himself in the play, the play in turn reflecting themselves to the creator, and that too being a play, which again is a reference to the creator. This all makes it a complete round shaped structure - a sort of ouroboros - feeding and completing the cycle of creation.

The second story was difficult for me! I am not a sci-fi guy, but the story can be taken as a political allegory of the communist dictatorship, a warning of science obsessed or technology ridden world, or critic of the future capitalism. It depends on the person, as to what they read in it. But it is surely Way ahead of its time!

[Shashank · Rating 4 out of 5]

Wow! a collection of stories which are imaginative with a brilliant backdrop. Loved the stories on Hamlet , the story on death and the one with the three men who travelled around the land to get answers to their questions. The story on exes did my head in though

[Sini · Rating 4 out of 5]

Onlangs las ik jubelend de verhalenbundel "Autobiografie van een lijk" van de mij onbekende Rus Sigizmoend Krzjizjanovski (1887-1950). Meteen daarna las ik "De letterdodersclub" van dezelfde schrijver, en jubelde ik nog een paar decibellen harder. Ook deze korte roman is weer voorbeeldig uitgegeven door Uitgeverij Vleugels, en prima vertaald en geannoteerd (en met een mooi nawoord verhelderd) door Annelies de hertogh en Els de Roon Hertoge. Ik hoop dat zij op vergelijkbare wijze nog meer Krzjizjanovski's gaan verzorgen, liefst bij Uitgeverij Vleugels, want deze twee waren echt schitterend. Vooral "De letterdodersclub" vond ik enorm inspirerend: zelden heb ik een boek gelezen waarin zulke aanstekelijke en originele fantasieën en zulke uitdagende en originele gedachte- experimenten zo fraai samengaan, zelden las ik proza dat zo artistiek en tegelijk zo filosofisch is.

"De Letterdodersclub" draait om een geheim genootschap van zeven schrijvers die zichzelf hebben veranderd in "bedenkers" van zuivere ideeën en pure concepten, omdat zij geen enkele letter en geen enkel woord meer op papier zetten. Geen van die concepten wordt geconcretiseerd in opgeschreven woorden, geen enkel idee word uitgewerkt in een boek: alle concretisering en uitwerking in de werkelijkheid wordt opgegeven, om de puurheid en zuiverheid te bewaren van de ideeën en concepten. De oprichter en voorzitter van dit genootschap nam ooit een besluit: "ik zou het deksel van mijn inktpot dichtklappen en terugkeren naar het rijk der zuivere, ongematerialiseerde, vrije concepties". En: "[ik] besloot - ik hoop dat u het niet vreemd zal vinden- in afzondering mijn eigen tuin aan te leggen en die met stilzwijgen en geheimzinnigheid te beschermen, zodat mijn concepties, mijn meest beschermde fantasmen en meest monstrueuze bedenksels ver van vreemde ogen konden groeien en bloeien: louter voor zichzelf." Daarom verafschuwt hij het geschreven, en publiek toegankelijke woord, net als de overige letterdoders. En niet alleen vanwege het publieke karakter daarvan, maar ook vanwege het definitieve karakter ervan. En door helemaal af te zien van letters en geschreven woorden streven de letterdoders naar een permante staat van schepping, herinterpretatie en voortdurend begin. Hun concepties zullen nooit met inkt in een definitieve grofstoffelijke variant gefixeerd worden, maar blijven altijd hun zuiverheid houden, hun karakter van pure mogelijkheid en van oneindige belofte. Dus mijmeren en spreken zij over ongeschreven boeken, die een passend plekje vinden in de zwarte leegte van de boekenplanken, ergens in een onbestaande bibliotheek... Elke zaterdag spreekt een van hen over zijn "meest beschermde fantasmen en meest monstrueuze bedenksels", die dan steeds tot "het rijk der zuivere, ongematerialiseerde, vrije concepties" blijven behoren, en niet worden geknecht door definitieve en grofstoffelijke fixering in letters en boeken.

De betekenis van dit alles lijkt mij meerledig. Er is zeker een satirische of weemoedig- bedroefde betekenislaag: dit boek, geschreven in 1926, werd wegens de Sovjet- censuur nooit gepubliceerd, en al het andere dat Krzjizjanovski schreef ook niet. Hij, en veel van zijn collega's, waren dus zelf bijna letterdoders, zij het tegen wil en dank. Bovendien heeft de voorzitter van de letterdodersclub soms wel wat despotische trekken, en ook dat verwijst wellicht naar de Sovjet- Russische werkelijkheid van toen. Daarnaast raakt het motief van het vrije concept (en de gedode letter) nogal aan Krzjizjanovski's fascinatie voor het vacuüm, de leegte en het niets, die ook in "Autobiografie van een lijk" nogal naar voren trad: het "niet- zijn" dat negatieve associaties oproept met de dood en het wegvallen van elke zinvolle vorm en betekenis, maar ook met het "niet- iets- concreets- zijn". Dus met de pure mogelijkheid die nog niet de grijpbare vorm en inhoud heeft zoals de fysieke werkelijkheid die heeft, en die dus ook niet de teleurstellende onvolkomenheden heeft van die werkelijkheid. Bovendien kan de pure mogelijkheid zich nog op vele verschillende manieren doorontwikkelen, en dat kan de gefixeerde en in schrift vastgelegde werkelijkheid juist niet. In "Autobiografie van een lijk" overwegen volgens mij vooral die negatieve associaties, in "De letterdoders" daarentegen staan volgens mij die positieve associaties meer op de voorgrond. Bovendien meen ik gelijkenissen te zien met Franse symbolisten als Mallarmé en Valéry (al denk ik niet dat Krzjizjanovski hen gekend heeft): dichters die de leegte bezongen en het nog ongedefinieerde wit op de pagina, en die de ambiguïteit en ongrijpbaarheid van hun taal tot het maximale opvoerden om zo aan de begrenzingen van de taal te ontsnappen. En die ook de rijkdom van het onvoltooide en onbepaalde bezongen, een rijkdom die groter was dan die van het concrete en grijpbare ding of die van het voor iedereen duidelijke woord. Of de roos, maar dan niet als concrete in verzen te beschrijven bloem, maar als ongrijpbaar symbool aan gene zijde van alle verzen. Zoals ook de Platoonse idee, juist vanwege zijn ondefinieerbaarheid en ongrijpbaarheid, voor hen soms waardevoller was dan de werkelijkheid. Al zochten ze eigenlijk naar ideeen die nog ongrijpbaarder, onwerkelijker en dus rijker waren aan puur potentiele betekenis dan de Platoonse idee. Gedachten als deze komen trouwens ook vaak naar voren bij Borges, mijn grote held met wie Krzjizjanovski vaak vergeleken wordt: de man die in enkele gedichten jubelend een nooit geschilderd schilderij bezong, omdat dit nooit geschilderde schilderij een pure belofte bleef en een betekenispotentieel bleef behouden dat geen enkel geschilderd schilderij ooit heeft.

Naar mijn idee staat vooral die rijkdom van de pure concepties (en van de leegte, de onvoltooidheid, het niets) in "De letterdodersclub" voorop. Met alle problematische en paradoxale kanten die deze rijkdom heeft. Want iets dat puur conceptueel blijft, komt ook niet concreet tot leven in een boek: de rijkdom van de pure conceptie heeft dus - ook voor sommige van de letterdoders- iets onbevredigends, iets steriels, iets doods. Niet voor niets wordt meteen op de eerste pagina al van "luchtbellen boven de drenkeling" gesproken: zo onwerkelijk, vluchtig en levenloos zijn eigenlijk de pure concepties. Bovendien, je kunt de pure concepties niet benaderen zonder woorden: het woord stilte is reeds een geluid, het woord leegte bezoedelt reeds het zuiver witte papier. De symbolisten probeerden dat laatste dan deels op te lossen door de ambiguïteit van hun taal maximaal te ontplooien, en de onbepaaldheid van hun woorden maximaal uit te buiten, om zodoende dan "iets" op te roepen dat althans zo dicht mogelijk in de buurt komt van dat zo ongrijpbare, zuivere idee voorbij de taal. Welnu, naar mijn idee probeert Krzjizjanovski iets vergelijkbaars. Wat hem, tot mijn verbazing en ongeloof, nog heel goed lukt ook. Zonder dat het boek daar saai of droog of al te steriel van wordt, en dat vind ik misschien nog het meest ongelofelijke.

"De letterdodersclub" is een raamvertelling: in de meeste hoofdstukken is een van de letterdoders aan het woord, die dan zijn zuivere concepties (zijn niet geschreven fantasmen, ideeën, monstrueuze bedenksels) presenteert. Wat een aantal zeer verschillende, ongehoord originele, breinbrekend ongrijpbare, maar TOCH heel meeslepende verhalen oplevert. Verhalen die ik bovendien soms ongelofelijk knap in elkaar vond zitten. Zo is er bijvoorbeeld een variant op "Hamlet", een toneelstuk dat door een van de lettterdoders treffend wordt aangeduid als "in essentie een conflict tussen ja en nee" en dat ook in zijn originele versie al redelijk uitpuilt van dubbele bodems (bijvoorbeeld door een toneelstuk in het toneelstuk dat dilemma's en thema's van het toneelstuk "Hamlet" op verwarrende wijze verdubbelt), reflecties op zijn en niet- zijn, waanzin en andere dubbelzinnigheden. Precies vanwege die ambiguïteit en dubbele bodems was Hamlet trouwens ook een inspiratiebron voor de eerder genoemde Franse symbolisten. En Krzjizjanovski vergroot die ambiguïteit nog aanzienlijk, op even hilarische als meeslepende wijze. Om te beginnen lees je als lezer een opgeschreven toneelstuk, in een bladspiegel die je bij toneelteksten bent gewend, terwijl je tegelijk moet bedenken dat dit toneelstuk helemaal niet opgeschreven IS: het gaat immers om de niet- opgeschreven concepties en ideeën van een van de letterdoders. Wat je leest, lees je dus tegelijk ook niet, en dat is tamelijk hallucinant. Wat nog versterkt wordt door reflecties van de letterdoder op zijn Hamlet- variant: die reflecties onderstrepen dat het alleen nog gaat om heel voorlopige versies en partituren, die nog heel andere vormen kunnen krijgen. Bovendien splitst die letterdoder allerlei Hamlet- personages in meerdere gedaanten. Na eerst gezegd te hebben dat de personages Rosencrantz en Guildenstern bij Shakespeare eigenlijk één persoon zijn splitst hij beide personages in twee personen (die vervolgens ook weer andere rollen aannemen en zich in meerdere sub- gedaanten opsplitsen); Ophelia splitst hij in de grappige Felia en de tragische Phelia; Hamlet wordt in meerdere Hamlets gesplitst; en op het (niet bestaande, zuiver conceptuele) toneel lopen ook "rollen" rond die acteurs imiteren. Ook dode acteurs, die niettemin rond spoken op dit (niet- bestaande) toneel. Bij dat alles zijn er soms zwermen van applaus, komend uit het niets, van een niet bestaand publiek. Voorts zijn er op dat toneel ook lege fauteuils, die, althans volgens "de rol", bedoeld zijn voor toekomstige Hamlets. Want: "Als u mij zou spelen, zou ik hier ook een plekje krijgen, nu ja, misschien niet hier, maar daar ergens opzij, op een krukje aan de rand. Maar nu mogen we staan, terwijl we zo'n reuze- eind hebben afgelegd van de ene naar de andere wereld. Weet u wat, we verlaten het Land der Verwezenlijkingen en gaan naar het Land der Concepties: daar zijn meer dan voldoende zitplaatsen". Aldus "de rol", een van de onbestaanbare personages in het niet geschreven toneelstuk Hamlet, of misschien een repetitie daarvan, zoals gepresenteerd in de leegte van de onbestaande bibliotheek.....

Ook de andere ingebedde verhalen zijn heel vernuftig, bijzonder onderhoudend, en tegelijk opmerkelijk trefzeker in het oproepen van de sfeer van ongrijpbaar- vrije concepties. Een van die ingebedde verhalen splitst zichzelf op in drie varianten, waarvan eentje gaat over het Feest van de Ezel (wat gepaard gaat met carnavaleske parodie op de Bijbelse waarheid), terwijl een andere variant draait om het opmerkelijk smakelijke verhaal van een Middeleeuwse monnik, die tegelijk ook een middeleeuwse nar is en een vleesgeworden ongerijmdheid die alles overhoop haalt. De personificatie van religie en orde, en tegelijk van de thuisloze lach.... Dubbelzinnigheid is dus troef, en dat wordt door de splitsing in drie varianten nog verder vergroot. En in een van de varianten duikt er dan een nieuw evangelie op, dat alles doet eindigen in stilte: "in de aan elkaar plakkende vergeelde marges van het eeuwenoude boekwerk waarin de vier evangelisten zich hadden uitgesproken, werd een vijfde evangelie verteld dat geen behoefte had aan woorden, maar zich vanaf de lege marges openbaarde: het Evangelie volgens de Stilte". Mooi beeld: een nieuw, woordloos en dus onmogelijk evangelie dat ontstaat in de marges van het wel in de werkelijkheid bestaande Heilige Boek. En dat als climax van een verhaal dat zich in drie varianten splitst, die bovendien alle drie uit hun voegen barsten van dubbelzinnigheid. Hamlet concludeert op enig moment "de rest is zwijgen", dit ingebedde verhaal eindigt met een evangelie van de Stilte. Dat soort gedachte- experimenten en fantasmen, en dat soort zoektochten naar zuivere concepties aan gene zijde van de woorden, staan dus in het genootschap van de letterdoders voorop.

Het naar mijn smaak allermooiste ingebedde verhaal is echter een bijna geniaal-duizelingwekkende dystopische gedachte-oefening. In die gedachte- oefening ontwerpen Faustiaanse geleerden fantastische machines, waarmee de binnenwereld van de buitenwereld kan worden gescheiden, de geest van het lichaam, de puurheid van de ingeboren concepten van het innerlijk leven dat door indrukken van buitenaf is beïnvloed, enzovoort. Machines dus die redelijk in staat zijn om zuivere en vrije concepties te scheiden van de werkelijkheid. Wat leidt tot fraaie passages over "het probleem van een gedemasculeerde psyche, de geest die beroofd is van zijn handelen". Of: "[M]aar of dit hen gelukkig maakte is niet bekend. Hun psyche, afgesneden van de buitenwereld, geïsoleerd in hun van hun spieren losgekoppelde hersenen, liet op geen enkele manier merken dat ze bestond". Of: "[E]n toch ziet hij zijn eigen handelingen als iets externs, zoals voor ons de voorwerpen en lichamen van de ons omringende wereld dat zijn. In zijn beleving is zijn eigen lichaam verwijderd van het bewustzijn en er op geen enkele manier mee verbonden. Kortom, de werking van de machine, die aan de basis ligt van alle objectieve gebeurtenissen, manifesteert zich voor hem als een soort derde kantiaanse vorm van zintuiglijke ervaring, naast tijd en ruimte". Dit ingebedde verhaal lijkt mij zonder meer leesbaar als een satire op het beklemmende Sovjet- tijdperk van toen. Of op allerlei gevaren van machthebbers die met technologie controle proberen te krijgen op onze geest. Maar het is tegelijk ook een naar mijn smaak reteknappe reflectie op de mysterieuze verbanden tussen lichaam en geest, en op wat er zou kunnen gebeuren als je lichaam en geest (of binnenwereld) van elkaar loskoppelt. Het is dus naar mijn idee een heel mooie poging om bij benadering een beeld te geven van hoe een vrije en zuivere conceptie, die losgekoppeld is van de fysieke werkelijkheid en ons eigen fysieke bestaan, er uit zou kunnen zien. En dat beeld, hoe ongrijpbaar ook, vind ik erg fascinerend. Plus dat ik die "derde kantiaanse vorm van zintuiglijke ervaring", een nieuwe dimensie dus die voorafgaat aan ons denken en verstand en aan onze ervaringen, werkelijk geweldig bedacht vind. Want naast tijd en ruimte, de twee zuivere (dus: niet- empirische, a- priorische) vormen van aanschouwing die volgens Kant structuur geven aan onze waarneming en onze ervaring van de wereld, is er dan ook de structurerende en kennelijk eveneens a-priorische werking van die via concepties opererende machine..... Wat een inspirerende hersenkraker! Dus ja, ik voel de beklemming bij het lezen van dit dystopische ingebedde verhaal. Maar ik bewonder hoe knap het is opgebouwd, en ik raak helemaal geïnspireerd door de originele invalshoeken die het opent op onze geest en op de concepties die wellicht rondzweven binnen onze geest.

En zo kan ik blijven jubelen, over alle ingebedde verhalen in het boek (ook de verhalen die ik nu niet besproken heb) en over het boek als geheel. Ik bewonder hoe Krzjizjanovski de ongrijpbare wereld van pure concepties voelbaar maakt, met inzet van al zijn artistieke vermogens en filosofische denkkracht. Ik sta paf van de originaliteit van zijn voortdurend verrassende proza. Ik duizel nog steeds van zijn vele ongehoord ongewone en bloedmooie zinnen. Kortom: ik ben heel tevreden, en met Krzjizjanovski ben ik nog niet klaar!

[Declan · Rating 2 out of 5]

For me reading this novel was like trying to set wet timber alight. All the materials I needed were present, and there were a few sparks, but I just couldn't get a flame to take hold. The framework of the book reminded me of If on a Winter's Night a Traveler - a series of unconnected (or very slightly connected)stories linked by a sequential narrative - but it lacked all of the fun and much of the invention of that wonderful book. I think I understood some of the author's intentions (the slipperiness of identity; the mutability and malleability of our projected selves and the sense we have of our overall physical selves etc.), but I found few of the stories sustained my interest and one in particular, about humans being transformed into automatons, was just far too familiar (although it may have been very original in 1926). The tale that links each story is also less than compelling.

There were a couple of parts of the book that intrigued me, the diversion around the figure of Notker the Stammerer was of interest because he is an important figure in early polyphonic chant (something I like very much) and the 'Tale of Three Mouths' was enjoyable, although the riddle that is central to the story is not resolved with the wit that might be expected from such a medieval yarn.

It is quite possible that I missed something about the nature of this book and I have wavered between three and two stars but when I see that three means "liked it" and two means "it was okay", I have to admit that the latter is closer to how I felt.

[Jesse · Rating 5 out of 5]

The Letter Killer’s Club is a collection of interconnected stories, with a powerful frame-tale, that ends up challenging and usurping the wondrous works created in the freestyle storytelling of the titular group. The group explores roles and role-playing in many of their stories. In the first story Richard Burbage plays the role of Stern (who in turn, along with Guilden, represents the twinning of Guildenstern), this is further complicated with the Role itself being a character. Or, more specifically, an actors version of a role (this is where Burbage comes in). We see this again in the second story, which is a traditional idea of sacred and profane coexisting (or really being two ends of the same spectrum) with neutral actors taking on different roles of sacred (the priest), and profane (the jester). He achieves this by a simple change of clothing. Yet this story is the second version of the story Father Paulin, who attempts to marry Françoise and Pierre during the Feast of the Ass. Of course here we have a sacred ceremony being attempted in the middle of a debauched festival. And the two sides of the spectrum are achieved through custom and tradition and not raiment. And yet the details here are insignificant, as Sigizmund’s stories are what one of the storytellers refers to as “people-themes” as opposed to “people-plots”. And what ties these masterful stories together is thematic, and not plot-driven. Even the characters themselves are hardly important, and this is shown, by character names being reversed in different version of the two stories of the priest (Father Paulin marries Pierre and Francoise, then Father Francois attempts to marry Pierre and Pauline. Another cool touch is the father wandering into a later story by a different storyteller). Also the storytellers themselves are given nonsense names such as: Das, Tyd, Zez, etc.

But if character and plot are subjugated to the importance of the theme, what is the theme? Largely the theme is philosophical and linguistic. How do words hold power: through thought? through speech? through composition? And is speech itself a form of corruption, an act of destruction? And are pure ideas misshapen in order to fit into our pre-shaped words? Or as Sigizmund puts it: “Can one speak about silence without destroying it?” Of course you can read 500 page books on the questions asked here, but Sigizmund tends to limit the query to ideas surrounding stories, and how the telling of stories in many ways limits and defines the truth of the true objective truth of the story. In telling a story we sacrifice accuracy and truth, at the altar of communication and theme.

And Sigizmund’s real question here is whether this sacrifice is a worthy one. Should writers create these worlds for themselves and thus retain full accuracy and, more importantly, control; or should writers share their works with the world. The book itself starts out with a beautiful metaphor of a drowning man leaving a trail of bubbles rising to the surface; and just like this drowning man, Sigizmund was relegated to the dark watery depths of Soviet ignorance and intransigence. Or even worse, Sigizmund was stuck on the shores of the Styx, begging Charon for a ride across to the other side, begging for a resolution, which he has only received posthumously. And thus now, Sigizmund is this drowned man, whose bubbles are fragile, meaningful creations carrying ideas inside - like oxygen - forcing them to the surface of the literary world. So for all you readers suffocated by re-tread, copy-cat fiction. Pick up Sigizmund’s work, pop his bubbles, and breathe.

[Derek · Rating 5 out of 5]

One of the smartest people ever to apply his intellect to fiction. Shades of Borges.

[Nati Korn · Rating 5 out of 5]

סיגיזמוֹנד קרְזִ'יזָ'נוֹבסקי הוא סופר רוסי ממוצא פולני שכתב במחצית הראשונה של המאה העשרים, שאת שמו, כמאמר הגששים, קצת קשה לי לבטא. קרז'יז'נובסקי לא הצליח כמעט לפרסם את יצירותיו בימי חייו. בתחילה לא אישרה אותן הצנזורה הסובייטית, בעיקר בשל סגנונן הספקולטיבי פנטסטי שלא טעם את אמות המידה של הסוציאליזם הריאליסטי ומאוחר יותר פרצה מלחמת העולם השנייה ואיש כבר לא התעניין בסיפוריו – ואז מת. לא ידוע עליו הרבה חוץ מכך שנאלץ להתפרנס מעבודה כפקיד וביים קצת לתיאטרון. בדרך נס שרדו סיפוריו. לפני מספר שנים החלה הוצאת NYRB הניו-יורקית לתרגם אותו ולפרסם קבצי סיפורים משלו שזכו להצלחה. (בעברית מצאתי סיפור מתורגם שלו בפרויקט הסיפור הקצר https://www.shortstoryproject.com/he/...). זוהי ביקורת על אחד מקובצי הסיפורים הקרוי "מועדון רוצחי האותיות".

כתיבתו של קרז'יז'נובסקי מזכירה באופי הספקולטיבי פילוסופי שלה את כתיבתו של בורחס ובחיקוי של סגנונות שונים את כתיבתו של קאלווינו. גם הספר הזה מזכיר במשהו את "אם בלילה חורפי עובר אורח" של קאלווינו, בריבוי סגנונות הכתיבה שבו הנתונים בסיפור מסגרת כללי, ובעיסוק הפילוסופי ברעיון הכתיבה עצמו. סיפור המסגרת כאן הוא של אגודה סודית של יוצרים הנפגשת בסתר אחת לשבוע. החברים בה שכללו עד אבסורד את ההבחנה שבין העלאה של רעיונות טהורים לבין ביטויים בפועל בצורה סיפורית. בפרט הם מתנגדים לכל ניסיון להעלות סיפורים על הכתב. בכל פגישה מעלה אחד המשתתפים רעיון, הנוגע בהבחנה הזאת ממש ומפתח אותו לכדי סיפור אפשרי או מספר סיפורים, אך הוא עושה זאת בעל-פה, תוך שחברי הקבוצה מנסים לגלות את נקודות התורפה המקבעות את הסיפור ומנסים להכריח אותו לשנותו. אם תרצו זהו ספר שעצם כתיבתו היא פרדוקס. יתכן וגלומה כאן גם ביקורת על הפחד להתבטא במסגרת החברה הסובייטית (למרות ש קרז'יז'נובסקי לא היה ידוע כמתנגד למשטר הקומוניסטי) או ביטוי לתסכוליו של אמן שלא הצליח לפרסם את רעיונותיו.

כל סיפור הוא פרודיה על סגנון אחר וכל סיפור מבטא באופן שונה את ההבחנה שבין רעיון טהור לבעייתיות שבמימושו. תמצאו כאן סיפור העוסק בתיאטרון, בהבחנה שבין תפקיד כתוב (המלט) לביצועו בידי השחקן; סיפורי קדושה, זימה ומוות בסגנון ספרות צרפתית או איטלקית של ימי הביניים; סיפור מד"ב בסגנון סובייטי המתאר מדענים המבקשים לבטל את השפעת המוח על הגוף הגשמי; משל עתיק בסגנון לאטיני-יווני העוסק במסע הנשמות לשאול; ומעשיה רנסאנסית שהיא דיון בלתי כלה בשאלה הפילוסופית בדבר תפקידיו של הפה.

נהניתי מהספר, הן מסיפור המסגרת הפילוסופי וביטויו בסיפורים השונים באופן מעורר מחשבה והן מרוחב ידיעותיו של קרז'יז'נובסקי ושליטתו בסוגי כתיבה שונים ומשונים. באשר לסיפורים עצמם, חלקם מחוכמים יותר וחלקם פשוטים ורק מבטאים רעיונות פילוסופיים. שניים מהם טובים ממש – הסיפור המנתח בצורה פנטסטית ומקורית את המלט והסיפור בדבר שלושת הפיות. לספר צורפו גם הערות ומבוא קצר מעיר עיניים. אשתדל לדגום עוד קבצים שלו בעתיד. כ4.5 כוכבים.

[Fransien Vandeweghe · Rating 1 out of 5]

Iemand erin geslaagd om "De letterdodersclub" van Sigizmoend Krzjizjanovski te lezen en vooral: te begrijpen? Ondanks mijn liefde voor "de Rus", halverwege opgegeven....

[Marc Kozak · Rating 4 out of 5]

CTRL + F "Borges" = did not disappoint.
Or CTRL + F "Борхес" I guess.

Because, as many have pointed out, this is the Russian Borges. If you know me, you know two things: I love Borges, and I love Russian lit. So this should be my jammiest of jams.

And it pretty much was! In this short little 100-page gem, some old writer-type dudes get together and decide that they aren't going to write any of their awesome ideas down anymore. Just aren't gonna do it! They are just gonna tell each other narratives in a sort of story-slam style. Writing things down ruins the very nature of a concept! They won't do it!

In what is surely a commentary on the censorship and fear of committing ideas to paper back in the era of Russian craziness, Krzhihzhzhiahzhanovsky uses this backdrop to tell a few really crazy short stories, ranging from the super meta to the super ??????????

For instance: A man is playing Hamlet in a play. He is super into it, really getting into the role. He then is visited by a spirit-like version of himself as the role, who takes him to a land inhabited by every version of how Hamlet has ever been portrayed throughout history. One of the roles, who happens to be Richard Burbage, the first Hamlet, tricks him and goes back to the "real world" to have his version of the role be in the play, while the "real world" actor is stuck back in the Land of Roles. And then there's an Inception-style ambiguous ending, where maybe none of it happened at all. Minus it being part of a book, of course.

So there's that kind of stuff going on. It's all extremely clever and even provides wonderful subtext and commentary and such, told in a very concise way, with running meta-commentary by the grouchy old dudes who are actually "telling" the story.

I was absolutely gobsmacked by the second story -- it was told in a much more modern, almost technical sci-fi manner -- it just seemed so ahead of it's time, I couldn't even believe it. In an awesome commentary on conformity, the populace is infected with a kind of bacteria that allows a small group of government to essentially control the bodies and actions of everyone, even though all of their minds remain painfully intact, uselessly struggling to break free. The quasi-neurological speak and terrifying dystopian feel really came together pefectly to create one hell of a gripping story. It is also very apparent why this book was not published in the author's time. Not a very subtle social commentary, but a damn good one.

The first two stories were so good, the other few were almost disappointing by comparison, told in mere fable-style -- still interesting, but nowhere near the creative heights of the first two (hence the 4 and not 5 stars).

All in all, way cool stuff. I'm glad this material escaped deletion and made it's way to paper, because this is an author with a tremendous imagination.

[Michael Kuehn · Rating 4 out of 5]

My decision to take a short break from the door-stopper-mega-novels that I’ve been reading led me to this concise little volume from Russian author Sigizmund Krzhizhanovsky. Truth be told, I’d never heard of him, and it was only while browsing the Short Fiction display at the public library that I found it. The back-cover blurb got my attention immediately: “The Letter Killers Club is a secret society of self-described ‘conceivers’ who, to preserve the purity of their conceptions, will commit nothing to paper. (What, after all, is your run-of-the-mill scribbler of stories if not an accomplished corruptor of conceptions?).”

At a mere 112 pages it seemed the perfect interlude for my current 1000+ page reading project, the novel THE INSTRUCTIONS, by Adam Levin.

In a sort of Canterbury Tales fashion, we hear four tales by members of the Letter Killers Club. Meeting every Saturday evening in a room with seven chairs and a wall of empty black bookshelves, they engage in their extemporaneous story telling, sans paper or pen. The tales range from a strange retelling of Hamlet where plot and theme become characters themselves and the lead actor meets a room full of Hamlets (actors who played Hamlet) from the past 200 years; to a dystopian world prefiguring Orwell and Huxley where the government has unleashed a virus which separates the brain from the muscular system, and by way of special transmitted waves the government controls their movements. Free will is eradicated.

The tales are well done, and stand on their own as excellent short stories. However it is Krzhizhanovsky’s framework that pulls it all together, the creation of the Letter Killers Club. The novella is very meta-fictional -- fiction about fiction about fiction. During the told tales, various members interrupt with their own suggestions on how the tale should proceed, how it should end. Debates and arguments ensue. Subsequent tales sometimes use elements from previous tales, and so stories take different turns, sometimes counter to the original teller’s designs.

Do these stories have some underlying meaning? Is there even more to this grouping of tales?

That is something I’d have to think about. But that’s the beauty of this novella -- its strange world doesn’t leave your mind after you’ve closed the cover. I do know that the author wrote these during the repressive Stalinist regime, and that atmosphere of dread and isolation permeates the stories. Few if any of Krzhizhanovsky’s writings were published during his lifetime.

This novella was quite a surprise. I’m glad I happened to walk up to that Short Fiction display to discover this gem. I intend to seek out more of Krzhizhanovsky’s work.

[Justin Evans · Rating 3 out of 5]

An interesting conceit, but I suspect the whole thing went over my head: are the stories meant to be related in any way? Are the story-tellers being characterized by their stories, or not? Exactly where is the irony here? The introduction tells us that K was deeply concerned with the idea of the literary concept, and the tension between the purity of the concept and the fact that literature is only literature once it has been exuded into the world, usually in book form. That's interesting, and while the Letter Killers Club is obviously tied to this, I had a great deal of trouble working out what the individual stories-- meta-theatricality, a medievalist novella, early dystopia, extended fable, and Roman fable--have to do with this theme.

In fact, the more I think about it, the happier I am with the idea that the individual stories (all very entertaining and interesting) really don't have much to do with the interesting but not entertaining frame. I'd love for someone to convince me otherwise.

[Jose Carlos · Rating 4 out of 5]

Sigismund Krzyzanowski: el Gran Anónimo o el arte de morir en la cama

Gracias a la editorial Ediciones del Subsuelo he descubierto a uno de esos autores que marcan un antes y un después de su lectura. En los tiempos literarios que corren, eso no resulta sencillo, y ante deslumbramientos así hay que felicitarse. Ediciones del Subsuelo había publicado en 2012 la novela El club de los asesinos de letras de Sigismund Krzyzanowski, el autor al que me refiero, que me ha resultado como la apertura de un cofrecillo que contuviera platino narrativo. Sin embargo, no he llegado hasta él con la lectura de esa novela. Primero, me leí un libro de relatos, también editado por Subsuelo, y que es novedad de este mismo 2019: Biografía de una idea y otros relatos. Tal fue la fascinación que, rápidamente, eché mano de la novela antes citada. Krzyzanowski, impronunciable para nosotros. ¿Quién es este autor desconocido en España? En este Odradek de hoy vamos a intentar desentrañarlo.
Krzyzanowski es un autor imposible, un autor que no existió, que casi nunca, o casi nada, publicó en vida. Dejó escritas más de tres mil páginas inéditas que tardaron 40 años en ver la luz. El feliz suceso ocurrió cuando en 1989 el investigador literario ruso Vadim Perelmouter comenzó a publicar su obra, que había descubierto en 1976. Y menuda obra: gran maestro del relato breve, Krzyzanowski trasvasa a sus textos la sólida formación cultural que posee, casi renacentista.
A la búsqueda de Sigismund Krzyzanowski
Porque Krzyzanowski, licenciado en derecho, también era un experto en filosofía, lingüística, matemáticas y astronomía, lo que marca su discurso narrativo con una erudición divertida y metatextual que, muchas veces, le ha llevado a ser bautizado por los críticos como el Borges ruso. O tal vez como el eslabón literario perdido entre Kafka y Borges.
Nacido en Kiev en 1887, falleció en Moscú en 1950, dos fechas y lugares que marcan cualquier biografía de un escritor: insertado de pleno en la Unión Soviética más convulsa y represiva de la historia. Zarandeado por los brutales tiempos del estalinismo. ¿Qué hizo para sobrevivir en esos tiempos? Pues trabajó de abogado en un bufete, escribió algunos artículos de filosofía para revistas especializadas y dio forma a algunos guiones de cine. Y como mayor ejercicio de supervivencia dentro del estalinismo, escribió, escribió mucho, pero no publicó. Sin duda, eso le salvó. Fue un Gran Anónimo. Y de esa forma se proyectó, decenas de años después, como un gran escritor.
Otros que no fueron en absoluto anónimos cayeron a su alrededor, purgados: Krzyzanowski tuvo la suerte de no compartir el destino de Ósip Mandelshtam —deportado a Kolymá, murió en un campo de tránsito—, Isaac Bábel, Borís Pilniak y Vsevolod Meyerhold —todos ellos fusilados—, y otras grandes figuras de las letras rusas trituradas por el rodillo totalitario estalinista.
Gran parte de todo esto que he contado hasta ahora se iba desarrollando mientras Krzyzanowski vivía en la habitación de un apartamento de apenas ocho metros cuadrados ubicado en el moscovita barrio del Arbat, en donde se instaló en 1922 y que apenas abandonó hasta su muerte en 1950. Fue un ermitaño de la literatura, sin casi recursos, luchando cada día por conseguir ganarse la vida. Un héroe de nuestro tiempo.
Lo que escribía jamás era bien visto por las revisiones del Comité del Partido. Unos textos plagados de cierto realismo mágico filosófico, tan alejado del realismo socialista obligatorio. Con protagonistas extraños —una idea como personaje, hombrecillos que se alojan en la pupila de una mujer—, distantes del héroe positivo y de la principal idea de Stalin en relación con la función de los escritores soviéticos: debían ser ingenieros del alma humana. Desde luego, Krzyzanowski es muchas cosas, entre otras un narrador de un talento descomunal, pero está muy apartado de las ideas socialistas que asfixiaron la literatura rusa durante décadas.
Al parecer, fue durante los años 20 cuando mayor actividad y reconocimiento literario obtuvo, con algunas lecturas de relatos en círculos privados e, incluso la edición de algunos textos breves en revistas de la época. Uno de sus mayores triunfos fue el guion cinematográfico para la película La festividad de San Jorge (1930), del cineasta Yakov Protazanov, pero se obvió hacer cualquier referencia a su autoría en los títulos de crédito, al igual que le ocurrió con El nuevo Gulliver, de 1935, celebrado largometraje de animación de Aleksandr Ptushko, y en donde tampoco figuró como autor del guión.
Parece que el sino de Krzyzanowski era el anonimato. Por varias ocasiones, textos dados a imprenta y listos para ser publicados acabaron frustrados por repentinas quiebras o problemas económicos que imposibilitaron esas ediciones. Sin contar con la fulminante acción de la censura que no admitía sus narraciones. Y cuando no, la única edición lista para ser publicada en 1941, se topó con la Segunda Guerra Mundial. La colección de sus cuentos no era oportuna ante el esfuerzo bélico que exigía la lucha contra el nazismo.
Cualquier escritor terminaría amargado ante semejante destino, y Krzyzanowski no pudo soportarlo. Se dio a la bebida, terminó alcoholizado, fue víctima de un ictus que le afectó gravemente. Corría una mañana de mayo de 1950 cuando le advirtió a su mujer que “un cuervo negro le impedía leer nada”. La disfunción provocada, como casi todo en la vida de este hombre, resultó peculiar y extraña: podía escribir, pero ahora no podía leer lo que escribía.
Poco después, en octubre, sufrió un infarto. El 28 de diciembre, con 63 años, fallecía y era enterrado en el día de Año Nuevo tan anónimamente como había vivido. He buscado información en las redes, he preguntado a expertos: es cierto lo que parece imposible, ni tan siquiera se sabe dónde está enterrado.
Esto es algo que no puedo creerme. Para mí la tumba de un escritor siempre será la tumba de un escritor, y he peregrinado a muchas. ¿Cómo es posible que no se sepa dónde fue enterrado? Lo primero que hago es recurrir al inmenso mamotreto Historia de las literaturas eslavas, editado por Cátedra y coordinado por Fernando Presa. Un mamotreto adorable e hipnótico, que compré hace años cuando cursaba la carrera de Teoría de la Literatura y asistía a una clase de literaturas eslavas que aglutinaba a la búlgara, la eslovaca y la checa, junto a otra curso de literatura polaca.
Este inmenso ladrillo de 1520 páginas en formato biblia y letra de pulga, en el que participan algunos de los mejores profesores que he tenido en la Universidad, como Grzegorz Bak para lo polaco, Alejandro Hermida para lo checo y lo eslovaco, entre otros muchos, y que recoge en capítulos la historia de todas las literaturas eslavas: rusa, polaca, búlgara, checa, eslovaca, serbia, croata, eslovena, macedonia, ucraniana, bielorrusa y serbolusaciana. Incluye, también, dos apéndices sobre las literaturas apócrifa eslava y yiddish en los países eslavos. Es un volumen que adoro, soy así de friki, y al que recurro constantemente.
Por eso, y ante un trabajo tan prolijo, la idea de que no figurase Krzyzanowski no podía caberme en la cabeza. Pues ni rastro. Me vuelvo loco en Internet. Necesito saber, ver al menos una imagen de la tumba de este hombre. Nada de nada, pero me topo con una información decisiva al respecto. Francisco Javier Irazoki escribía el 29 de abril de 2011 para El cultural:
“Fue enterrado bajo una nieve densa que borraba los caminos y nadie sabe ahora dónde se encuentra su tumba”.
Y el propio descubridor de Krzyzanowski, Vadim Perelmouter, apostilla:
“Fue enterrado el día de Año Nuevo. Fue un día frío en el infierno ese día. Quizás es por esto por lo que los pocos sobrevivientes de esta procesión no recuerdan el camino que lleva al cementerio. La tumba del escritor hasta el día de hoy no ha sido encontrada”.
¿Algún valiente se atreve a buscarlo? Es un escritor que merece mantener un lugar, más allá de sus libros, en donde podamos honrarlo.
En 1976, Perelmouter se topó en los Archivos del Estado de Rusia con una anotación en el cuaderno del poeta Georgij Šengeli. Pertenecía al 28 de diciembre de 1950 y decía:
“Hoy Sigizmund Dominikovich Krzhizhanovsky murió, un escritor visionario, un genio desconocido cuya obra es comparable con la de Edgar Allan Poe y la de los mejores escritores de la literatura mundial. Ninguna de sus obras ha sido publicada”.
Esta nota fue un acicate para la curiosidad de Perelmouter, que acabó encontrando la obra deKrzyzanowski. Gracias a la editorial francesa Éditions Verdier, a principios de los años 90, el trabajo de Krzyzanowski vio la luz. Editó El marcapáginas (1991), El club de los asesinos de letras (1993) y Matasellos: Moscú (1996). New York Review Books adquirió los derechos en inglés para publicarlo en ese idioma.
La recepción de Krzyzanowski en España es breve y sencilla. En 2009 la editorial Siruela publicó el volumen titulado La nieve roja, que reúne siete relatos escritos entre 1922 y 1939. La lista es la siguiente: Los dedos fugitivos, Autobiografía de un cadáver, Cuadraturín —para la crítica uno de sus mejores textos—, El marcapáginas, El codo sin morder, La nieve roja y La hulla amarilla. A los paratextos de esta edición debemos el conocimiento de la forma correcta de la pronunciación del apellido de nuestro escritor, “Yiyanoski”, tras recomendación del traductor del volumen, un ilustre eslavista como Jesús García Gabaldón.
Y después, las dos publicaciones llevadas a cabo por Ediciones del Subsuelo. La primera, en 2012, la novela El club de los asesinos de letras, en traducción de Rafael Cañete. La segunda, de este 2019, Biografía de una idea y otros relatos, traducida por Marta Sánchez-Nieves.
El club de los asesinos de letras

Me llama poderosamente la atención que la crítica no se haya percatado de la influencia de Boccaccioen esta novela compuesta de pequeños cuadros narrativos independientes insertados dentro de una historia marco. A menudo se menciona a Swift, Poe, o Kafka cuando se busca un rastro de influencias en Krzyzanowski, pero no se hace referencia alguna a esa estructura de matrioskas (no podía ser de otra manera) que en El club de los asesinos de letras sostiene la narración.
Pues sí. Es boccacciano, porque el libro, enmarcado en las reuniones que sostienen los escritores frente a una estantería vacía porque se han visto obligados a liquidar sus bibliotecas, se alimenta de las historias que van contando. Festival de oralidad pura, de historietas que se entrelazan, cada una más sorprendente y eficaz, para un libro que bebe directamente de la mística de lo narrado al estilo de El Decamerón o de Las Mil y una noches, por ejemplo.
Cuando la madre de Krzyzanowski murió, el escritor se vio obligado a vender su biblioteca para poder acudir al entierro en Kiev. Este suceso también es el eje vertebrador de El club de los asesinos de letras. Krzyzanowski nunca recuperó sus libros, que prácticamente parecía saberse de memoria. Igual que el protagonista de la novela, si necesitaba realizar alguna consulta de la biblioteca desaparecida, recordaba los pasajes que buscaba o bien los rellenaba gracias a su imaginación desbordante Lo sé: es todo muy raro…
Los relatos que aparecen en el cuerpo de la novela son sobresalientes, pero hay algunos que destacan por encima de los demás, y en concreto una obra maestra: el relato que podemos bautizar como de los éxteres, unas máquinas ideadas para llevar a cabo un completo control mental sobre la población y que aparece bajo sus efectos completamente zombificada.
Solo por este relato ya merece la pena la novela El club de los asesinos de letras. La pieza muy bien le podría haber costado la vida a su autor de haber visto la luz en esos momentos. Es un texto absolutamente decisivo a la hora de hablar sobre literatura distópica, una construcción fundamental que cualquier estudioso de la materia debe conocer y colocar a la altura de Orwell, Bradbury, o cualquier otro escritor embarcado en el quehacer distópico. Insisto: forma parte de ese corpus y ya no puede obviarse. Es un texto de referencia.
Además, otros relatos desarrollados en el libro resultan deliciosos: el cuento medieval de los tres amigos que recorren la comarca discutiendo sobre cuál de las funciones de la boca es más importante: hablar, comer o besar, o el relato de una esclava que le roba a su amo fallecido el óbolo que necesitará para cruzar el Aqueronte.
Siempre en la línea del autor, son todos ellos relatos extraños, de una notable carga filosófica, que se inscriben dentro del libro para conformar esta originalisima novela. Un pequeño ejemplo de este festival de ideas notables:
“Si en el estante de una biblioteca hay un libro de más es porque en la vida hay un hombre de menos. Y puestos a escoger entre un estante y el mundo, yo prefiero el mundo (…) La excentricidad es el único derecho que poseen los poetas medio muertos de hambre (….) Los escritores no somos mas que unos domadores profesionales de palabras (…) somos sus fabricantes y sus asesinos al mismo tiempo (…) El jardín de las ideas no es para cualquiera”.

[Ed Erwin · Rating 3 out of 5]

Four or five short stories loosely connected by the idea that they are being created and read aloud with no intention of ever being published. (This resonates with the fact that
Krzhizhanovsky was unable to publish his stories in 1920s Moscow, and in most cases didn't even try.)

One fascinating story explored an interesting twist on the concept of the "Robot". Human bodies were disconnected from their brains and were controlled externally. That is a wonderful way to create an army or a society that never rebels against the tasks it is given, but it is horrifying to think about what it would feel like to be alive and conscious but have no control over what your body is doing. I'm surprised I haven't seen this idea in later horror stories.

The other stories were all too concerned with abstract philosophical concepts for me to find them interesting. I do recommend the collection "Memories of the Future" for anyone who likes unusual Kafka-like short stories.

(My spell-checker is convinced I must have misspelled Krzhizhanovsky....)

[Annette · Rating 5 out of 5]

4.5 - delightful mediations of ideation - how conceptions are formed and have material meaning. fun connections with r.u.r., pirate who does not know the value of pi, and rosencrantz & guildenstern as well. And a great introduction in the nyrb edition.

[Nicholas During · Rating 4 out of 5]

A very Borgesian little book, concerned with testing the limits of narrative and the creative process that produces it. I really liked this book a lot. It has very interesting things to say about what fiction is, particularly on the idea of inspiration and derivation from novels that have come before, or should I say responses to fiction that comes before. I think it is trying to say something like: "all narrative comes from sources, whether books that were written before or experiences by the author. What would a narrative be like if it came completely from the isolated imagination of the author." The answer of course is that this is impossible, and in fact this book has many sources. Borges can't be one since it was written in 1926; but Shakespeare (obviously from the first story and from the "mirroring" that Emerson discusses in the intro) and Chaucer are the big ones I saw.

The other theme here is censorship, and indirectly political will exerting itself on the individual. Not surprising when one thinks of the world this book was written in. Krizizhanovsky was relentlessly censored, and so you can see the exploration of the theme of what happens to a writer how can't write (or publish), and the inverse, what happens to a book that can't be written (or published). The ending with the suicide of Rar, does remind me of the life of Sergei Yesenin (and perhaps Aleksander Blok?), and I can imagine K. in a sort of discussion of the things that brought him to commit such a terrible act. Because you can't get published, really? And as Emerson points out in the intro this book is somewhat skeptical of the power of literature. And at the same time, interested in the way that literature can explore and redefine real matter (not to get too materialist). On the other hand the story of the "exes" is a more common, but very good, sci-fi treatment of the dangers of totalitarianism.

There's probably a lot more to say on this small book, which just goes to show how good it is. Anyone who is interested in the metaphysics of fiction and the rebellious modernist writers of the early Soviet era, will really enjoy this book.

[Benino · Rating 5 out of 5]

In The Letter Killers Club Krzhizhanovsky addresses one of his main concerns: the figure of the author trying to reconcile his imagination with the concrete world.

It is a series of short stories presented to a secret society of writers that reflect the precarious balance between the author and his concepts, and the respective survival of either in early Soviet culture. As non-people, the authors try to preserve the purity of their concepts focusing on its means of expression. In so doing, they gradually turn in on themselves as they strive to refine a concept through its constant retelling in genre-bending plays, stories and sci-fi, miniature works that refract their concepts through artistry and philosophy. Krzhizhanovsky thus draws on Descartes, Kant and Shakespeare to address the writer's existence, how he should write, think, and address the world. Occasionally the individual stories slow and tire the reader with their continual reformulation, and yet they demand engagement. His work therefore does not always satisfy the reader, sate our hunger for answers, but its framework, binaries, and internal discourses propel us to continually return from narrator to narrator, from story to story, along surprising and intertwining routes of thought that dazzle and disturb.

Well worth the effort, the rereading, and even then the book still remains far from exhausted.

[Daniel Polansky]

Regarding a group of brilliant novelists who have forsaken their craft to devote their energy to weekly meetings of the eponymous society, during which each tells a story that is meant to in some way upend traditional narrative conventions. The short stories themselves are peculiar but broadly entertaining, most containing a speculative element of some kind – probably the most memorable is about a government-engineered virus which eliminates free will, a clear predecessor to Orwell and Huxley, though coming out more than a generation earlier (roughly coterminous with Zamyatin's We). I dug them mostly, and the meta-narrative engenders a sort of growing horror, though I confess I could make neither hide or hair of the club's guiding philosophy, indeed am not altogether clear if I was supposed to. Krzhizhanovsky is odd and brilliant and doesn't read like any other Russian writer of the age, let alone any of his occidental counterparts, and his hits make up for his misses. I think I would probably still recommend his collection of short stories, but this is worth a view.

[Jan Moens]

8,5/10

[Bbrown · Rating 3 out of 5]

The best story from Sigizmund Krzhizhanovsky’s collection Memories of the Future is The Bookmark, wherein an author recounts and summarizes a variety of stories for a chance listener. The Letter Killers Club sounded like an expanded version of that concept, with a group discussing story concepts instead of a lone creator, and so I picked it up with excitement and high expectations. This work unfortunately didn’t quite live up to those expectations, however, with some of the stories it contains being quite good and others being forgettable. The best of the lot is probably the science-fiction story of exes and inits that portrays a dystopia of government control and bureaucracy more terrifying than nearly anything I’ve come across before.

The main framework tying the stories of The Letter Killers Club together, the meetings of avowed non-writers, is at times used to interesting effect, such as when the audience requires a storyteller to reimagine a work, but it’s ultimately more of a curiosity than a substantive addition to the story. It has a payoff, but not that fully justifies the time put into the setup. The best pieces of writing, like a character discussing having to sell his books to pay for a trip home to attend his mother’s funeral, and then having to deal with the absence of those books, are directly taken from or inspired by Krzhizhanovsky’s life.

It’s clear to me that The Bookmark wasn’t an aberration, and that Krzhizhanovsky has real talent. The Letter Killers Club, however, is a work with flaws, and never quite hits the highs reached by certain stories in Memories of the Future. I’ll likely tackle the intriguingly named Autobiography of a Corpse when I next turn to Krzhizhanovsky.

[Uriel Perez · Rating 4 out of 5]

‘The Letter Killers Club’ was my heady and fantastical introduction to the work of Sigizmund Krzhizhanovsky (try saying that one fast three times). It centers around a group of storytellers who refuse to put their words on to paper (for they fear that the world of literature and words cramps people’s heads with every idea but their own) and elect to have weekly meetings where they allow their own original ‘themes’ to flourish. The stories that follow are outrageous fables that range from a rehashing of Hamlet to an imagined dystopia run by machines. This slim book was full of ideas (some flew over my head, I’m sure), darkly comic and morbid, too.

Krzhizhanovsky reads like the Bolaño of Stalinist Russia and I’m all about it.

[Susu · Rating 3 out of 5]

Eine verwickelte Geschichte, voller Geschichten, die sich die Protagonisten erzählen - interessant, aber nicht leicht zugänglich

[B. · Rating 2 out of 5]

Magnificently conceived, though somewhat poorly executed, and the stories themselves (with the exception of the dystopian tale) were not really good at all and felt dated.

I would have preferred Krzhizhanovsky to ditch wearisome Shakespeare and the theatre, but explore the same theme with an original story and set it in the nascent cinema. The Ancient Greek and Decameronian stories, while also being throwbacks, could have done with more modern stories and ideas as well.

In sum, even though some of the parts effectively relate to the whole, this is a case of the whole suffering because of the parts.

[Richard · Rating 4 out of 5]

The Letter Killers is a fascinating novella about a group of "conceivers" who believe that ideas shouldn't be written down - that putting words on paper, into circulation, destroys the purity of the ideas behind them. The narrator happens upon the club, and sits in with them on their Saturday meetings where they take turns telling stories that will never see the light of day, and never leave the room. There is tension in the group as they directly, and indirectly through their stories, debate the central premise of their club and the need to give words and ideas a physical presence.

So, we know how this all turns out - we have the book, drawn from the narrator's experiences with the club. But the fun is in the getting there, in the tales and in the sparring of the club members. This is one of the few collections of linked short stories I've read where the overarching linking story is as or more interesting than the individual tales. And those aren't too shabby. There's an amazing story based on Krzhizhanovsky's thoughts about twinning and splitting of characters in Shakespeare. An actor not feeling up to the task of Hamlet, finds himself in an imaginary realm of roles, filled with countless personified actors' interpretations of Hamlet from the last few hundred years. He switches with one of these actual historical versions of Hamlet, who immediately sets to work taking over his life and the pursuit of the girl he has a crush on - it made me think of Grant Morrison's writing where the boundary of imaginary and "actual" reality is often breaking down. My other favorite involved a dystopia where scientists and ruling capitalists/politicians expose free thinkers (and eventually pretty much everyone) to an automatonizing virus.

The introduction downplays the effects that the political climate had on Krzhizhanovsky's writing but it's hard to deny how his themes must have been shaped or at least informed by his almost complete inability to get anything published in the 1920s and 30s Soviet Union, not to mention the repression, paranoia, and increasingly imaginary reality promoted by Stalinist Russia. The end of the book is fitting as the concepts of the club are finally loosed into the world -an inversion of Krzhizhanovsky's struggle - constantly writing and trying to get his ideas out into the world, his books remained mostly unpublished in his lifetime.

[Maryna · Rating 5 out of 5]

Право на замысел принадлежит всем: и профессионалу, и дилетанту.

Я очень сильно не люблю поэзию - текучесть текста вызывает у меня сонливость и я отвлекаюсь на собственные мысли. Но другое дело проза Кржижановского, которая настолько поэтична! - та же текучесть смысла накладывается на четкость прозы, превращаясь в нечто настолько красивое, тонкое, вычурное... Грустно, что такие гении слова, как Кржижановский, совсем не известные даже на родине.

Идея повести очень... Очень, так сказать, многогранна. Каждый ее воспримет в силу собственного склада ума, творческого или аналитического. Я - более творческий, поэтому восприняла повесть через призму собственных профессионально-этических проблем.
По Кржижановскому, Идея - это высшее создание, но если принести, выпустить ее в обычный мир, Замысел может разорваться от резонанса с нашим простецким миром. Герои решают выпускать свои идеи исключительно в темной небольшой комнате с пустыми книжными полками, заполняя их своими сырыми зародышами великих Идей. Эти четыре истории, каждая моральное продолжение предыдущей, заслуживают отдельного внимания к автору - по мне, если бы Кржижановский развил свою антиутопию в отдельное произведение, Хаксли, Замятин и Оруэлл были бы немного позади никому не известного ныне Кржижановского.

Вторая грань книги - это читатели. Люди, которые захвачены Идеями других людей, и погружаясь в них, теряют свою способность к такому же рождению великих Мыслей. Палка о двух концах... Кто из ярых любителей чтения хотя бы раз не задумывался о том, что он тоже может писать? А сколько действительно пыталось писать и с гордостью думает, про ту маленькую повесть, стихи, зачаток романа в столе, про которые никто не должен узнать? Главный герой, не писатель, в конце так же, насытившись Мыслями, пишет эту самую повесть, понимая, что

Слова злы и живучи, - и всякий, кто покусится на них, скорее будет убит ими, чем убьет их.

Потому что любой творческий человек понимает, что долго держать в себе свои Идеи очень чревато, потом они хлынут как вода во время потопа, и убьют все на своем пути. Невозможно не творить, если мысли и идеи сидят в твоей голове - это такая же зависимость, но только от холста, от карандаша.