Somehow I made it through two thirds of this book, but ultimately I felt so disrespected by the author that I couldn't bear to read any more.
If you want an engaging and well written book about Ukraine, please do not read this. Choose any number of Ukrainian fiction writers whose books are available in English translation. The list is growing. For example, I would highly recommend The Museum of Abandoned Secrets (Zabuzhko) or Grey Bees (Kurkov) or even Voroshilovgrad (Zhadan) instead of wasting your time on this.
It's not the first time, but I'm seriously disappointed in the reviewers, journals and awards committees that rewarded this novel and its author.
The first third of the book was more or less interesting, as the key characters were sketched in the context of the drama of Maidan. "Sketched" unfortunately remained Pickhart's dominant method. The style of short chapters and the choice to combine a variety of literary forms to tell the story at first seemed potentially fresh and perhaps uniquely fitting to the confusing experience of Maidan specifically and the disparate strands of Ukraine's history that underpin those events.
But by about page 100, I encountered something very disappointing that began to ruin the book for me. In the chapter consisting of a newspaper wedding announcement for Aleksandr, the text revealed very starkly how little familiarity the author has for the cultural context she is writing about. Pickhart has no feel for the most basic way people's names work in Russian or Ukrainian. There are several examples all crowded into this one mess of a chapter that then are threaded through the book and continue to annoy the reader who has even a superficial understanding of the region.
I could list the mistakes - first names confused, patronymic forms completely misunderstood, clear signs the author doesn't know how basic common names sound or are spelled - but the point is not that Pickhart gets these details wrong so much as that she didn't understand how sparse her knowledge was and that she (and her publisher, Two Dollar Radio) had the temerity to publish this without engaging a good proofreader with local knowledge that could help correct such errors. It's frankly appalling and insulting that they did.
And I would be (was, for two hundred pages) willing to forgive these mistakes for the sake of a good novel, but the plot and characters and dialogue are all quite poor, and never go anywhere. I finally realized that the text is formatted in bursts of lines separated by blank spaces because Pickhart can't actually write dialogue; she only seems capable of writing snippets of Powerful, Enigmatic Text.
By the time in the course of the narrative when the Maidan protests themselves have finished, it's become very clear to the reader that Pickhart can't conceive of characters from the region who aren't broken, mournful, dealing with some terrible tragedy as the singular defining feature of how they move through life. (Nor can the author conceive of many realistic situations that her characters might find themselves in. Slava returns to her father in a slovenly *standalone house* in the city of Odesa? Aleksandr's wife picks him up from the train station upon his return from serving in the Soviet army intervention in Prague *in their own personally owned car* in Moscow 1968? Katya makes jam from freshly picked berries by mashing them with a mortar and pestle, not boiling them with sugar, and also somehow eats freshly picked mushrooms *in late March*? People in Kyiv and Donetsk go down to *the corner bar* and order "a drink" or "a vodka" to have a conversation? Really?! All of these are highly improbable, almost laughably so. That poor grasp of the atmospherics reminded me of the terrible novel A Gentleman In Moscow by Amor Towles, whose feel for the place, and particularly the time and politically violent context, was similarly tone deaf -actually, a much better written novel than Pickhart's, but the depiction of the early Soviet and Stalinist purge era in a slapstick mode was what made it disgusting.)
Pickhart does not see the people of Ukraine or of Soviet Russia or the Soviet Union more broadly as fully fledged human beings who can be depicted in a normal mode, simply living everyday, mundane lives. Again, I come back to the idea of respect, or disrespect. It feels like the author loads too much onto her characters. Each of them is colored by some exaggerated tragedy to be pitied, and ultimately that is my takeaway about Pickhart's view (and maybe everyone crowing about the book?) of the people of Ukraine and maybe more generally Eastern Europe: they are only objects for our pity, our condescension. All of the novel's characters have either lost a close loved one in a life-altering tragic situation, been trafficked, suffered the Chernobyl nuclear accident at close range, suffered domestic abuse - and none of them can have a natural conversation or interaction. I'm not trying to belittle those fictional backstories or dispute the idea that in reality many of us - likely more than we know - have been formed by traumatic experiences. I just don't find it realistic or good fiction to weigh the prose depiction of the characters down with their trauma at every moment.
I approached this book with a lot of good will toward the author, but by the end of my reading I feel honestly quite angry - partially at the author, but mainly for those who helped her publish or promoted this book. I have read or listened to enough of Pickhart's commentary about the book to know that she understands some of the ethical considerations involved in writing this book, as an American. I don't fault an American (like me) who seeks to give expression to these experiences, but I do fault a person who doesn't have the requisite knowledge or background for getting in over their head. I don't subscribe to the point of view that experience can't be depicted in fiction by someone who doesn't share the specific identity or lived experience, but I do believe it should not be undertaken lightly or without a great deal of preparation. I think it would be imperative to get help from someone who does actually share the experience or have the full background to get any attempt at this right.
Final nitpick: in the bio at the back of the book, the author says she received a research fellowship from the "U.S. Department of State Bureau of Intelligence for Eastern European and Eurasian Studies" - the bureau is of Intelligence and Research, and I really don't think they award fellowships. She may have received an award to support her research that was funded by the Dept of State, but - again - you lose my respect when you can't even properly cite the organization or mechanism that funded your work.