The Lazarus Project

by Aleksandar Hemon

On 2 March 1908, Lazarus Averbuch, a young Russian Jewish immigrant to Chicago, tried to deliver a letter to the city’s Chief of Police. He was shot dead. After the shooting, it was claimed he was an anarchist assassin and an agent of foreign operatives who wanted to bring the United States to its knees. His sister, Olga, was left alone and bereft in a city seething with tension. A century later, two friends become obsessed with the truth about Lazarus and decide to travel to his birthplace. As the stories intertwine, a world emerges in which everything and nothing has changed . . . 'Prose this powerful could wake the dead' Observer 'This is easily Hemon’s best work to date, an intricately tessellated portrait of flight, emigration, and the meaning of home' Evening Standard

Genres: Fiction, Historical Fiction, Mystery, Jewish, Literary Fiction, Book Club, Novels

304 pages, Paperback

First published May 1, 2008

About the author

Aleksandar Hemon is a Bosnian American writer known for his short stories and novels that explore issues of exile, identity, and home through characters drawn from Hemon’s own experience as an immigrant.

Hemon was raised in Sarajevo, where his father was an engineer and his mother was an accountant. After graduating from the University of Sarajevo with a degree in literature in 1990, he worked as a journalist with the Sarajevan youth press. In 1992 he participated in a journalist exchange program that took him to Chicago. Hemon intended to stay in the United States only briefly, for the duration of the program, but, when war broke out in his home country, he applied for and was granted status as a political refugee in the United States.

In Chicago Hemon worked a series of jobs, including as a bike messenger and a door-to-door canvasser, while improving his knowledge of English and pursuing a graduate degree at Northwestern University. Three years after arriving in the United States, he wrote his first short story in English, “The Sorge Spy Ring.” Together with several other short stories and the novella “Blind Jozef Pronek & Dead Souls,” it was published in the collection The Question of Bruno in 2000, the same year Hemon became an American citizen. Like much of Hemon’s published work, these stories were largely informed by Hemon’s own immigrant experience in Chicago. Hemon brought back Jozef Pronek, the protagonist from his earlier novella, with Nowhere Man: The Pronek Fantasies (2002), the story of a young man growing up in Sarajevo who later attempts to navigate a new life in Chicago while working minimum-wage jobs. The book, like the rest of Hemon’s work, was notable for the author’s inventive use of the English language. He was awarded a MacArthur Foundation “genius grant” in 2004.

The Lazarus Project (2008) intertwined two stories of eastern European immigrants to Chicago. Vladimir Brik, a Bosnian immigrant writer and the novel’s narrator, becomes obsessed with a murder case from nearly a century earlier in which Lazarus Averbuch, a young Russian Jew, was shot and killed by Chicago’s police chief. Hemon received much critical acclaim for the novel, which was a finalist for a National Book Award. He followed this with Love and Obstacles (2009), a collection of short stories narrated by a young man who leaves Sarajevo for the United States when war breaks out in his home country. The Making of Zombie Wars (2015) chronicles the quotidian difficulties of a workaday writer attempting to finish a screenplay about a zombie invasion.

Hemon also cowrote the screenplay for The Matrix Resurrections (2021), the fourth installment in the popular sci-fi Matrix series. His other works included the memoirs The Book of My Lives (2013) and My Parents: An Introduction/This Does Not Belong to You (2019). The latter book consists of two volumes.

Reviews

[Duke Haney]

It's hot as hell at the moment, and I just got home after finishing this book while riding on the bus. A dull-eyed, fat kid at the back of the bus kept tapping on his seat with drumsticks, while his equally dull-eyed, fat (though not equally fat) girlfriend stared into space beside him. The incessant, arhythmic patter of the drumsticks drove me mad. I wanted to break them over that kid's head. That was, in fact, the least of what I wanted to do.

All of this has nothing to do with The Lazarus Project, of course, but it may say something about my present state of mind.

I began The Lazarus Project at the start of the year, after reading Love and Obstacles, also by Hemon. I had previously read Hemon's The Question of Bruno. Both Love and Bruno are collections of short pieces. Both contain marvelous writing. I would even say, at times, the writing is brilliant, except that I often felt a sense of detachment from it. I'm sure I was intended to feel a sense of detachment.

There's no questioning Hemon's skill. He's a very careful writer, and he famously chooses words that most writers wouldn't. (This is usually attributed to the fact that English isn't his native language.) He's a keen observer, and his work is filled with telling detail: the objects in a room and the way they're arranged, for instance. Much of his work also deliberately fuses bits taken from Hemon's life, or what the well-informed reader knows of his life, with protagonists who may or may not be Hemon's alter egos. "Meta" is the term we use of late. To be meta is to be clever, I suppose; and Hemon is, without a doubt, clever. It's hard, if not impossible, to read him glibly.

This has all worked, to a greater or lesser degree, in the two story collections I've read, but The Lazarus Project, Hemon's first published novel, didn't work for me. There are stories within stories within stories, often involving characters we barely know or don't know at all, except through the eyes of the characters telling the stories within stories within stories. This is, I'm sure, the point. Life works that way, I can hear a grad-school type (or perhaps Hemon himself) telling me. Literature works that way -- and what are stories anyway? What's fact? What's fiction? What's history? And so on.

Questions like these are, for me at this stage, a pain in the ass. They're sophomoric, unless the writer can find a way to enjoyably play with them, but Hemon's honorable but overly cautious sense of craft, of style, all but precludes that kind of play. Reading this book was like being lost in a hall of mirrors, like opening a box that frustratingly contains another and so on.

My similes are trite, aren't they? I'm displaying my lack of sophistication. And you know what? I don't give a fuck. It's hot as hell, and I can still hear that fat kid tapping on his seat with drumsticks, all the way home from work.

I didn't, and don't, hate The Lazarus Project. Undeniably, there's value in it. There are many wonderful bits. But it's my prejudice that a good novel has to have breeziness, for want of a better term, interspersed with density, and this one doesn't. Of course, the problem with a great many novels is that there's too much breeziness, but too much density can be a problem, too. It's not a problem with short fiction -- density is the raison d'etre of short fiction -- but with a novel I need, or anyway want, to breathe every once in a while. Yes, I'll climb another hill, Sarge, and I'll do it gladly if you let me take off this backpack and rest for a few minutes. No? Got to keep going? Got to climb another hill? Well, okay. I knew when I signed up for the army this is what I was in for, but that doesn't mean I like it.

I think Hemon should stick with story collections, but I'm so burned out on him at the moment that I don't know that I'll ever get around to reading Nowhere Man, his third collection. (It's his second, chronologically.)

So that's what I think, but I'm not going to rate this book, or any other, with stars. I never did believe in rating works of art with stars, or with thumbs up or thumbs down or any of the rest of that shit. I did it reflexively in the past because I gathered that it was Goodreads protocol, but I think it's reductive. So there.

I'm going to take a bath. I'm going to take an aspirin. I'm not going to take a drink, even though I deserve one.

Damn, it's hot.

[aPriL does feral sometimes · Rating 3 out of 5]

'The Lazarus Project' by Aleksandar Hemon is a subtle book about loss of place. In one’s memories where home/family/friends/history usually lives on, usually a place of fuzzy warmth in the heart similar to that of being hugged by Mother, remembrances of being a child free from responsibilities, instead Vladimir Brik, the main character, feels survivor's guilt and a feeling of having been cut loose, belonging nowhere.

Brik was in America attending college when the war started among the remnant territories of Yugoslavia. I think because Brik feels a sense of failure in not having been able to do something to help the people of Sarajevo during the Bosnian war, his previous home, he gloomily tries to resume a life of meaning as a refugee in America. (As this novel is literary, none of this is spelled out in words.) He feels oddly guilty at having been safe in America while Bosnians suffered war deprivations and death. He meets Mary, a neurosurgeon at Northwestern Hospital and they marry. While she cuts into brains seeking the source of physical problems, Brik teaches an English-as-a-second-language class trying to overcome his feelings of inadequacy. When he loses that job, Mary becomes the breadwinner.

Brik has always wanted to write a biography on an immigrant, Lazarus Averbuch, a Jewish refugee in America. Lazarus had left his Russian home Kishinev, now a town in Moldavia, because he was fleeing from a pogram. Lazarus moved to Chicago to live with his sister Olga. He was nineteen years old. Lazarus attended meetings given by people considered anarchists by the American establishment of 1908. One day when Lazarus arrived at the house of the George Shippy, Chicago Chief of Police, to deliver a letter, Shippy suddenly shot him dead. Shippy thought Lazarus looked Jewish and foreign, so he thought Lazarus came to kill him and fired his gun immediately, no questions asked. Chicago was very tense at the time, full of rumors about anarchist plots against Chicago leaders. The police painted Lazarus as an assassin. He probably wasn't.

Brik is obsessed with this story. When he meets an old friend from Sarajevo, a photographer called Rora who did stay in Sarajevo during the war, Brik goes with him on a fact-finding journey to trace the family and life of Lazarus. Brik begins in Lviv, Ukraine, near where Brik's paternal grandfather lived in a small village. Brik is not very focused on his investigation of Lazarus, but instead wanders about Eastern Europe for the rest of the book. He is clearly feeling lost, especially as he sees Sarajevo and Moldavia are run down, and everything is changed. Many stories, especially those of his friend Rora about his wartime adventures, cannot be substantiated.

Brik is discovering only echoes and remains of a dead history. In trying to find a coherent past from the embellished fairy tales of war survivors, he finds nothing historically definite other than silent gravestones in a cemetery. He feels numb and unmoored.

Why oh why do most Eastern European writers write of characters who feel vaguely morose without any insight? Why do they write only books which hint sideways at deep angsty moral uncertainties without much clarity or conclusions? Hemon, the author, has a real history similar to his character Brik. The book must be somewhat autobiographical. The novel is incredibly stuffed with subtle well-done symbolism and double meanings. But like in most Eastern European literary novels I've read, the characters have no idea of what is wrong with them. They vaguely feel motivated to solve their inner unresolved pangs through the chasing of shadows which, inexplicably to them but not to readers, draw them like moths to a light. Nothing ever resolves by the end of the book. At least the internal miseries still exist, and no enlightenment occurs for the main character. He (almost always a man) is as mystified by his vague sense of failure and unresolved angst by the end of whatever story the author has concocted up. These novels often are lauded and acclaimed by Western Europe and the Eastern Establishment elites of the United States. Awards are dully awarded.

Sigh. The writing and construction of 'The Lazarus Project' is superb. A+. If you are an admirer of literary prowess in the writing of oblique misery, I recommend this novel.

However. But. Again. I feel a full-blown rant coming on!

Personally, I am full of exasperation and wonder at the literary Eastern European and Russian culture of consistently writing novels that use characters who feel dead inside and don’t know why and never know why, although readers see the answers. I am also a little exasperated about the literary culture of Japanese writers who write about characters who similarly also feel vaguely an unknown inner mysterious angsty sense of nothing really matters, or that nothing can be resolved, for eternity! For readers, the reasons for the characters deadened feelings are LOUD AND OBVIOUS. At least Japanese writers often include bizarre ghosts and interesting delusions that reference Japanese myths in their stories of angsty existential gloom. Eastern Europeans and Russians are just sad and don’t know why. The authors and their deadened, never-to-be-enlightened characters are male in these types of literary books like ‘The Lazarus Project’ - correlation?

I am finding myself becoming more and more irritated by a number of types of books the literary critic-establishment recommends for reading. These particular types of literary novels in these long decades of supremely literary and deep triple-layered symbolic books, which leave protagonists on deserted bleak islands of no rescue, no answers, no spiritual redemptions or self-discovery by the protagonists, speak to an inability of characters ‘to know thyself’. It seems to me these novels come from primarily cultures of historically overwhelming public social rigidity and conformity. The books often are written by authors who escaped or live within a government which forbids knowledge of their real past history, which I think is or was common to Eastern Europe, Russia and Japan, which so very much prints books with constipated characters. These environments seem to produce writers who write these subtle symbolic novels of quiet internal desperation which never resolve for the main protagonist. Most of the other characters in these novels do not appear to be haunted at all, but instead they pursue lives of surface and concrete interests which the main protagonist can never fathom. These same types of novels also occur from authors writing within the upper-class literary circles of England, and to a lesser degree, of elite American Eastern coast literary milieus.

The writing of these kind of elite high-end literary novels mystify me as endlessly as the hapless, emotionally inept and depressed characters the books highlight are mystified by the people and events in their fictional lives. Why are they written by literary-establishment authors who apparently are screaming soundlessly into fictional pillows, why do they all follow this obvious definable pattern, and why do they consistently win awards from the literary Establishment? They are maybe a clue to the manner of language of the 'self' of literary elites in the major Art centers of elite literary publishers and Art circles?

I keep trying to grok this elite literary I-Belong-In-This Literary-Upper-Crust Artist Mindset and the elite literary Establishment which loves these oblique and bleak quiet novels of unresolved and unspoken desperation of a main character. I do understand why Eastern European writers wrote obliquely in the 1950’s and 1960’s and 1970’s, and why other writers wrote using symbolic or mythological references in the earlier centuries. Telling obviously anti-establishment stories got writers killed. Today, though, these particular certain types of high-end novels strike me as, well, elitist. Writers are maybe writing in code about their own angst in being part of a current high-end literary critical society with not enough interesting or important things to write or feel deep feelings about, so they create drifting searching characters who don’t know why they feel lost to express their own ennui in their own real life? Being male literary writers, are we readers getting characters who resist examining their feelings or they are unable to express anything at all about their unexamined lives because the author is feeling too shy to come out with his own more vivid feelings in his actual real literary milieu of friends and critics? Or is it simply the current fad most likely to win a literary award?

I end up feeling all of these elite "I am a high-end literary Artist, too sensitive to live" guys of this type of novel need to go see the kind of psychologist which encourages frank and open conversations. The tragedies and repressions of inner and outer personal social expressions caused by horrific historical events and governmental brutality are now openly written about and discussed, if that is the cause of an author’s reticence. I am beginning to respect the modern Irish writers a lot more who are openly revisiting the social horrors of their culture and history, and exposing the Ireland which was repressed dreadfully and horrifically by the Catholic Church.

Just saying, personal opinion. However, if you enjoy these novels, may I also recommend The Sense of an Ending, Warlight, The Unbearable Lightness of Being, A Doubter's Almanac, Stone Arabia, The Paris Wife, The Japanese Lover, A Separation, and a non-fiction, The Argonauts.

[Karen · Rating 3 out of 5]

Jeremy gave this book three stars and said that if he'd picked it up before reading Hemon's other stuff, he might have given it more. I feel exactly the same way. This book certainly isn't bad, and I think Hemon has a lot of potential as a writer. But it seems like the whole world has been telling him (in the form of grant upon million-dollar genius grant and over-the-top praise such as "this guy = Nabokov" and "this writer is not only good, he's NECESSARY") that we're all really friggin fascinated by his immigrant experience story, which he keeps writing again and again. And it's a decent story, as a jumping off point - but after reading a bunch of his short stories, a couple of columns, his previous novel, and now this, I've lost interest. And I get the feeling that he's lost interest, too, but doesn't know what to do about it. (I mean, he got this grant to write about being from Bosnia, right? He has to give the Guggenheims and the MacArthurs what they want!) I hope that at some point Hemon stops trying to mold himself in the mediocre image that his adoring critics are imposing on him, and starts working on something that really interests him.

[Ana · Rating 4 out of 5]

I really liked this. It's all over the place and written in a style that's pretty different from what you usually expect from a book about eastern Europe, jewish pogroms in Chisinau, the Bosnian genocide, human trafficking across the Romanian border and a character, Lazarus, that bizarely unites this all together. Some of the passages are exquisitely written. As a Eastern-European myself, I can confirm to the absolute truth of some of the descriptions of slavic people and customs, they are beautifully captured.

[Maral · Rating 4 out of 5]

Leer con el estomago encogido, no queriendo parar pero necesitandolo al mismo tiempo, para digerir cada frase cada párrafo... Porque aquí hay mucho que digerir. Dos historias con un siglo de diferencia entre ellas, dos angustias, una fruto de los abusos de la autoridad sobre alguien cuyo delito es haber nacido, otra, esa depresión que fluctúa en una vida aparentemente confortable pero que no llega a hacer feliz al narrador del presente.
En la historia de lázaro se siente el horror de las persecuciones por el simple hecho de haber nacido, la angustia por ser la hermana de una víctima inocente, el nauseabundo olor descrito en esa historia se percibe a través de las frases de Olga. Imposible no empatizar con ella.
En la historia de Brick, ese protagonista aspirante a escritor, deprimido, no conforme con lo que tiene que se va detrás del rastro de aquel Lázaro qué será protagonista de su libro. Ese camino que compartirá con Rora, su amigo, personaje seguro de si mismo y con determinación, frente al dubitativo, inseguro y reflexivo Brick. Ese viaje que lo será tanto a través del mapa de sus orígenes como de sus emociones, investigará en esa relación, en ese matrimonio que tanta protección le ofrece.

Un libro escrito magistralmente con ciertas frases repetidas que si bien al principio creí que era un error, pienso que el autor lo ha hecho aposta. Dos historias llenas de paralelismos hasta en ciertos nombres. Que es realidad, que es ficción... Me encantan los libros en los que estas dos se mezclan y lucho por descubrir que hay de cada una de ellas.

Pasado y presente se alternan en una narración enlazada por frases que terminan dando pie a la siguiente con la que nada o poco tiene que ver. Me ha encantado ese recurso del autor.

No suelo releer libros pero este posiblemente caiga. Seguro que me queda mucha meditación a lo largo de los próximos días sobre esta lectura.

[El · Rating 3 out of 5]

I've been wanting to read this book for a while because I have a thing about stories (true and fictional) involving historical anarchists. There are multiple storylines here, one taking place in the early 20th century in Chicago after Lazarus is shot by the police chief, and accused of being an anarchist. This storyline is told by his older sister, Olga, who tries to make sense of his death in a land that promised opportunity, unlike their homeland in Eastern Europe. Another storyline is told from a present-day perspective when Brik, another Eastern European immigrant, becomes fascinated by Lazarus's story and works to find out the truth as to what really happened.

It's all a fine enough book. I had trouble making any real connection to anyone, though I would say, strangely, that Olga was the closest to having any real sense of personality or emotion. In fact, the early 20th century storyline worked for me much better than the present-day stories. The stories are intertwined, but I feel the real strength worked in the historical fiction aspect. I would have liked to see more of that, removing Brik and the modern-day timeline.

I give this three stars because of the inclusion of Emma Goldman, aka Red Emma, one of my favorite anarchists from the early 20th century. More could have been done with her character and her partner's, Ben Reitman. But I suppose I should be pleased with their presence at all since it would be difficult talking about Jewish immigrants from Eastern Europe in the early 20th century in Chicago without mentioning them.

I'm not completely disappointed, but I did expect more from this. This shows up on The LA Times 61 Postmodern Reads List... and I'm not entirely sure why? Probably because I don't fully grasp what is and is not postmodern because it's all a big secret apparently (because I also don't get how The Scarlet Letter is postmodern, but it's on that list too, so...), but I keep trying with it because I refuse to let something conquer me like that. In any case, glad to be able to mark this book off that list, even if it doesn't make sense to me why it's on the list in the first place. Maybe we can discuss that at our book club meeting for which we read this book.

[robin friedman · Rating 4 out of 5]

A Challenging Novel Of The American Immigrant Experience

The acclaimed young American immigrant writer Aleksandar Hemon tells two interrelated stories of immigrant life in the United States. The first story is set in Chicago of 1908 and is based upon a historical event. A young Jewish immigrant from Eastern Europe, Lazarus Averbuch, is killed wantonly by the Chicago Chief of Police. The police department attempts to cover-up the circumstances of the murder by claiming Averbuch was an anarchist.

The story explores the murder and its aftermath, centering on Averbuch's burial. The novel further describes how Averbuch was a victim of an infamous 1903 Pogrom and came to the United States where has dreams of freedom and a new life were dashed. Averbuch's murder occurs at the outset of the novel. Thus the focus of the story is on his older sister Olga who is inconsolable upon her brother's death. As her story develops, it bears resemblances to Sophocles' play Antigone. Olga grieves because her brother has not been buried with the rites and rituals of Jewish law. As in Sopocles' play, Olga faces tension between the requirements of a religious burial and what she comes to realize she must do in order to live and find a modicum of peace. She is pitted against not only the City of Chicago but also by the more established and settled elements of the Chicago Jewish community. The characters of Olga and Lazarus are poignantly developed. In addition, the story shows a great deal of Lazarus' and Olga's friend Isadore and of Olga's efforts to protect him from the Chicago police.

The portrayal in the book is of a Chicago which is rough and tumble and corrupt. Growing and welcoming of immigrants, the city also fears them. In particular, the city and many people fear the anarchist movement led by Emma Goldman. The story develops against the background of this paranoia. The immigrant experience does not end well here for Lazarus and his sister.

The second story involves a contemporary Bosnian immigrant, Vladimir Brik. He came to Chicago just prior to the Bosnian war. He lives a rather footlose life, selling stories and articles to newspapers and teaching English as a second language. He is married to an American neurosurgeon, Mary, and feels guilty that he depends on Mary for financial support. The book makes a great deal of the tension in this marriage between a marginally employed immigrant and a highly educated, successful American. Brik becomes interested in the story of Lazarus Averbuch and wants to write a novel about him. He learns all he can find about the incident and then secures a grant to travel to his former home, Bosnia, and to Lazarus' home to see what he can learn about Lazarus' early life. He travels with an old friend from Bosnia. a photographer named Rora, who immigrated to the United States after Lazarus did and who had substantial involvement in the events of the war.

The reader learns to story of Lazarus through the eyes and research of Brik. The book also shows a great deal of Brik's own story, including his feelings of loneliness, the difficulties of his life in the United States, and the problems in his relationship with his wife. The book explores Bosnia in the aftermath of the war, and makes a great deal of Brik's reflections upon and changing attitudes towards the land of his birth.

In the portions of this book that deal with Lazarus Averbuch and his sister, Hemon has captured a great deal of the rawness of early Chicago and of the eastern Europe ghetto from which Averbuch fled. The narrator's story generally is well told but less convincing. Much of the book explores the different attitudes towards life between Brik and Rora. The photographer tends to be taciturn and matter of fact. Yet he is full of stories and snappy one-lines. The narrator is a more complex, reflective, moody individual. The stories of Rora's activities during the Bosnian War are muddled, probably deliberately so.

As the stories develop, a great deal of parallelism develops between Brik and Lazarus in terms of their reasons for leaving the land of their birth and their reactions to the United States. Possibly the parallels are too neatly done. I came to understand and sympathize with Lazarus far more than with Brik. The parallelism and interrelationship of the two stories sometimes is distracting. And the story is weakened in many places by the vacuous "metaphysical" reflections of the narrator, on large questions of life, death, and the nature of human happiness. For the most part novels succeed on these themes when they illustrate them in the characters and activities of their protagonists. At its best, Hemon's book does this. On occasion, the philosophizing was empty and forced.

On the whole, this is a good novel which captures life in a large, ungovernable early 20th Century American city. It shows the perils of immigrant life and the tragedies that befell some people who came to our shores in search of freedom. Readers interested in the vast literature by American immigrants may enjoy the recent anthology,"Becoming Americans: Four Centuries of Immigrant Writing" edited by Ilan Slavans in the Library of America.

Robin Friedman

[Debbie · Rating 1 out of 5]

I really tried to like this book. I forced myself through 150+ pages before I finally decided that it was not going to get any better. The book has 2 main subjects -- Lazarus, a 19 year old immigrant shot in 1908 by a policeman in Chicago for unknown reasons and the story of the author that is struggling to write Lazarus's story.

While the Lazarus sections are very good and engaging, the struggling writer parts are not. Basically those chapters have this format: Mujo joke, Rora story, author laments that he is a loser and his wife is going to leave him -- over and over and over.

I feel cheated. It's as if the Hemon had writers block and wrote about it (writing and the process of writing) to beef up what was essentially a short story into a novel. If I wanted to read about the tormented soul of the writer I'd read non fictional accounts of Edgar Allen Poe.

[Murtaza · Rating 4 out of 5]

Very strange and entertaining novel. Hemon's writing is charismatic, self-deprecating and funny — enough so that it overcomes the lack of a coherent plot. It is basically the story of a Bosnian-American's road trip through Eastern Europe, interspersed with the historical account of a murder of a Jewish immigrant that took place in Chicago one hundred years earlier. It's not immediately clear what connects these two stories. I read it as an extended commentary on the pain, alienation and wild hope that accompanies immigration itself. To me this is an enjoyable subject for a novel.

I'll definitely be reading more of Hemon's work. While this novel lacked something in structure, it read so well that you can get through it in a few long sittings. He is a fascinating writer.

[Matteo Stefani · Rating 4 out of 5]

In pieno blocco del lettore, dopo aver iniziato e subito accantonato due o tre libri, trovo in sconto la versione ebook sul kobo di questo libro e, per pura curiosità, inizio a leggerne l'anteprima. Vengo subito catturato dalla storia di Lazarus prima e da quella di Brik poi e lo acquisto!
Alla fine si rivela un libro molto bello, scritto bene, anche scorrevole ma soprattutto ricco di riflessioni sulla scrittura, sull'inventare storie e poi sull'identità, sul concetto di casa, sulle radici, sull'essere immigrati.
Bella la vicenda di Lazarus che fa da cornice al racconto e al viaggio di Brik; utile soprattutto a fare un parallelismo tra cos'erano gli Stati Uniti ad inizio 900 e cosa sono oggi!

Quattro stelle e mezzo!
Non cinque perché, forse, c'è un sovrabbondare di storie e aneddoti che alla fine confondono un po'... Ma è un pelo nell'uovo!

[Jeremy Allan · Rating 3 out of 5]

I probably would have rated this book higher than three stars if I'd have come to it first among Hemon's work, but after having previously read his first two books, this one lacks some lustre. Most of my problems with the book were related to where repetitive tropes from Hemon's other books seemed stale this time around. He often gets compared to Nabokov since his first language is not English (though Nabakov's Speak, Memory makes that claim a little more problematic). Both, as writers, share obsessions that can be at least partially attributed to their experiences as ex-patriots. Still, even as Nabokov returns again and again to stories about Russian emigrés, each character stands apart from the others and has a particularity that brings him or her to life. Hemon, however, seems to only have two real characters across three books, Josef Pronek and Aleksandar Hemon himself (under various guises). Both characters are Bosniak-Americans, thrust into life in Chicago after getting stranded there by the siege in Sarajevo. It makes for intensely interesting material for the first two books, but gets old by the third. Luckily, in The Lazarus Project, research starts to play a role in bringing in new fictional elements. I hope he pursues more of that angle in the future.

[Gabriela Pistol · Rating 5 out of 5]

Hemon are o voce adevarata, unica, de mare scriitor, cum rar gasesti in America. Am vazut multi scriitori care s-au americanizat (la modul comercial, de uniformizare a stilului narativ, cel care se preda dupa reteta si se consuma ca atare, tot uniform). Ma gandesc de exemplu la Shafak sau Khaled Hosseini, care incepusera intr-un stil original si aduceau un farmec al zonei din care veneau, apoi cartile lor au inceput sa mi se para foarte... editate, dupa canonul occidental de mass market. Bine, Hemon porneste din start cu o voce mult mai puternica, mai curajoasa, mai asumata. Il simti pe el in spatele povestii. Cum ziceam, ca la marii scriitori. Sper sa fie lasat in pace, cu vocea asta ragusita, dura, cu umorul lui contondent, care pare ca vin dintr-o mare framantare.

[mela✨ · Rating 5 out of 5]

Probabilmente la mia lettura preferita di quest'anno, sarà difficile trovare qualcosa che possa coinvolgermi ed appassionarmi come questo romanzo.
C'è così tanto in queste pagine che se ne potrebbe parlare per ore: "Il progetto Lazarus" è un romanzo sulla ricerca del sé, sull'identità e la frammentarietà, sulla letteratura e sul valore della scrittura, sulla memoria, sul dolore, sulla perdita, sugli Stati Uniti e le sue contraddizioni, sulle proprie radici e così via.
Ho adorato il modo in cui il romanzo è strutturato, con i continui cambi di prospettiva, i parallelismi e la quantità di microstorie che lo arricchiscono.
Bello bello bello.

[Stefan · Rating 1 out of 5]

With "The Lazarus Project," Aleksander Hemon establishes himself as a completely ignorable voice on the literary scene; a product of hype over substance; a lazy writer coasting on the unbelievable luck of winning a MacArthur grant, also known as a "genius grant." Hemon might be a genius, but he's definitely a bad writer.

The story certainly has possibilities. It simultaneously tells the story of a Jewish immigrant (Lazarus) murdered by a police chief in 1908 Chicago, and subsequently made out to be an anarchist who was planning to assassinate the chief, and a Bosnian-born writer (Brik) living in Chicago who sets out to write a book about it.

Hemon happens to be a Bosnian-born writer living in Chicago. And the book's narrator, Brik, happens to have won a grant that allows him to undertake the Lazarus project. It's obviously thinly veiled autobiography (my guess is Hemon got tired of doing research on the real events surrounding Lazarus' murder and decided to write a novel about a writer researching Lazarus' murder). But what really undercuts the book is that Hemon doesn't even bother to flesh out the character that's clearly based on himself.

There is no indication of why Brik is interested in Lazarus' story. He even mentions that the book, once written, will have no real impact on the world. So why is he bothering?

Brik nevertheless runs into a childhood friend from Sarajevo, Rora, and the two go on a trip to Eastern Europe to research Lazarus' origins, coming to America after suffering a pogrom (an anti-Jewish riot) in Kishinev, then part of the Russian Empire. Brik and Rora's trip is more a look at how a writer and his photographer friend waste grant money than it is an insight into early 20th Century Russia.

There are vague connections made between Brik and Lazarus, but they amount to nothing. Rora, a veteran of the war in Sarajevo during the mid-90s, tells stories of his experiences. And Brik deals with his dislocation as an immigrant, leaving his home country before the war and marrying an American woman who may never truly understand him and vice-versa.

All of this is littered haphazardly throughout the novel. Never mind context, background or even some kind of focal point for the narrative. Where is this all going? Who are these people? We don't find out. Brik is such a detached narrator (he witnesses and partakes in some shocking acts of violence, and then moves on as if they're nothing), we can't even infer much either. We just have to assume what this novel is about.

The New York Times book review (http://nyti.ms/bqK7kQ), which of course heaped great praise on "The Lazarus Project," tried to make the connection between Lazarus being railroaded as an anarchist and post-9/11 America. Weak! That's as lazy and half-baked as an analogy as the book itself. The 9/11 attacks or aftermath are never even mentioned in the novel and there's nothing about the narrator that would suggest he's interested in making such grand connections. Again, it's not at all clear why he cares about this Lazarus project. There's nothing in the text to suggest why it's meaningful to him or anyone else, though it certainly could have been.

I say the following not to be dramatic and with no malice intended, but Hemon is a worthless hack and this book should not have been published. I didn't hate it. There were flashes of there being something there, but not enough. Not enough to be published. Simple as that. If I was an editor or a friend or a member of a creative writing class reading this, I would say, you have some good stuff here but you need to flesh it out more. You need to add context and develop the characters. You have a lot of work to do.

At one point, late in the novel, Brik writes that Bosnia is home, "where my heart is." Home is where the heart is? That's what gets you a MacArthur grant these days? Blatant, sappy, meaningless cliche? This book, like most these days, clearly wasn't edited by an editor.

You wonder if the writer himself even gave it a second look after an initial draft. Or did he just rest on his laurels and wait for the sycophants at the New York Times and the National Book Awards to coronate him?

[Drew · Rating 4 out of 5]

What did I think? I thought it was pretty damn good. I have to confess, I had very low expectations. It appealed to me because it was on the LA Times "61 Postmodern Reads" list, a list that is guilty of being really hit-or-miss and also using 'read' as a noun, which consistently irks me. That, plus a couple of lukewarm reviews and a distressingly vague back-cover teaser, prevented me from reading it as soon as I otherwise might have.

But it's way less of a chore than all those things would lead you (or had led me) to believe. Hemon gets compared to Nabokov in some of the blurbs on my copy, and while I don't think that comparison is particularly apt, there are a few understated little Nabokovian games and jokes in between all the more straightforward prose that takes up the bulk of the novel. E.g. at one point Brik and his wife joke about naming their kid Claude or Claudette, and further joke with Cloud and Cloudette. It seems pointless, until it resurfaces later in the novel when the narrator is describing the weather and refers to clouds and cloudettes.

That might seem pretty minor, and in a way it is, but it also contributes to an unusual effect: reading The Lazarus Project is like reading two books at once: there's the text, which is as I said frillless and businesslike, and tells the parallel stories of Brik and Lazarus, two immigrants of different backgrounds but who share some important characteristics. Yet there's also what lies underneath that story, a dreamlike, impressionistic fugue that traffics in connotations and web-thin connections. This seems mostly to be done by the clever repetition exactly twice in the novel of a word or phrase (like clouds and cloudettes), one that's insignificant enough to fly mostly under the radar the first time you read it, but the second time makes you wonder "did I read that in this book? or elsewhere? or not at all?" When done correctly, as it is here, it can be very unsettling.

One quote, although it isn't exactly representative: (one character is telling a joke to another)

Mujo left Sarajevo and went to America, to Chicago. He wrote regularly to Suljo, trying to convince him to come, but Suljo did not want to, reluctant to leave his friends and his kafana. Finally, after a few years, Mujo convinces him and Suljo flies over the ocean and Mujo waits for him at the airport with a huge Cadillac. They drive downtown from the airport and Mujo says, See that building, a hundred stories high?
I see it, Suljo says.
Well, that's my building.
Nice, Suljo says.
And see that bank at the bottom floor?
I see it.
That's my bank. And see that silver Rolls-Royce parked in front?
I see it.
That's my Rolls-Royce.
Congratulations, Suljo says. You've done well for yourself.
They drive to the suburbs and Mujo points at the house, as big and white as a hospital.
See that house? That's my house, Mujo says. And see the pool, Olympic size, by the house? That's my pool.

There is a gorgeous, curvaceous woman sunbathing by the pool, and there are three healthy children happily swimming in it.

See that woman? That's my wife. And those children are my children.
Very nice, Suljo says. But who is that brawny, suntanned young man massaging your wife?
Well, Mujo says, that's me.

A little heavy-handed, maybe, but damned if that isn't the best symbolic encapsulation of the immigrant experience in America that I've seen in some time. Sometimes the American dream can only be a dream.

[Leanna · Rating 4 out of 5]

In 1908, Lazarus Averbuch, an immigrant from Eastern Europe, is shot dead by the Chicago Chief of Police. Almost a century later, fictional Vladimir Brik, an immigrant from Bosnia, decides to write a book about Lazarus. Aleksandar Hemon’s latest novel, The Lazarus Project, imagines Averbuch's life and Brik's research.

Armed with a grant and a fellow-Bosnian photographer, Brik returns to Eastern Europe to learn more Lazarus’s life there. They travel through Ukraine, Moldova, and Bulgaria before finally returning to Sarajevo. The chapters alternate between Brik and Averbuch, and each is accompanied with a black-and-white photograph.

Lazarus’s murder is shocking. In essence, the novel suggests he is killed because the chief recognizes him not only as an immigrant but a Jew whom he suspects of anarchy. These actions appear outrageous to the contemporary reader. Yet, how different is early twentieth-century Chicago from early twenty-first century America? Don’t many Americans still fear immigrants? Don’t many Americans still fear anarchists—though we now call them terrorists? The reality of this comparison is disturbing.

The novel also raises the interesting question of what makes an American an American. While traveling in Eastern Europe, Brik often refers to himself as American rather than Bosnian. At some point does he truly morph from one nationality—one culture—to another? Does an immigrant ever truly feel American?

Lazarus invites contemplation and introspection. At times, though, I was distracted from the novel by Hemon himself. What little I know about the author’s biography is surprisingly similar to his character.

Hemon, like Brik, was visiting the U.S. when the conflict in Bosnia broke out. Hemon, like Brik, is married to an American. Hemon, like Brik, received a grant to write his book. Hemon and photographer Velibor Bozovic traveled through Eastern Europe researching Averbuch’s story.

Brik does not always have the most flattering view of his wife, his in-laws, marriage, and fatherhood. I continually imagined how Hemon’s wife felt reading these passages.

Hemon is not a native English speaker. He makes some interesting vocabulary choices and seems overly-obsessed with Madonna, but in general Lazarus is beautifully written. I will definitely be reading more Hemon.

[Mafi Zis Amețita Aka Cristina · Rating 5 out of 5]

Prima mea întâlnire cu Hemon a fost tare reușită ❤️ n-am citit altceva de-al lui și n-am termene de comparație (am tot văzut că-i acuzat de repetiție 🙄)mie atât de mult mi-a plăcut cartea asta încât chiar sper să ajung la alte titluri de-ale lui curând 😋
Cel mai mult m-a impresionat simțul realității și-al adevărului scris/spus fără menajamente,mascat într-un umor care-ți sfâșie sufletul.

[Gianni · Rating 5 out of 5]

Quale motivazione abbia spinto Lazarus Averbuck, diciannovenne immigrato ebreo scampato al progrom di Chisnau in Moldavia, a suonare il 2 marzo del 1908 alla porta di George Shippy, comandante della polizia di Chicago, non è dato a sapersi. Michael Feldberg, direttore di ricerca del Research for the American Jewish Historical Society, riporta quanto affermato da Shippy: un giovane uomo, forse siciliano o armeno, bussò alla porta, chiese di lui e fu fatto entrare ”e percependo quello che ha descritto come odio negli occhi del suo visitatore, Shippy afferrò il giovane per i polsi”; Lazarus avrebbe estratto un coltello e pugnalato Shippy ad un braccio e poi avrebbe tirato fuori un revolver sparando al figlio del comandante e all’autista, prima che il comandante potesse esplodere sette colpi sul ragazzo con la sua pistola di ordinanza. Lazarus sarebbe deceduto durante il trasporto all’ospedale.
La versione di Shippy fu subito accettata, Lazarus fu identificato come anarchico e il suo gesto attribuito a una protesta per il divieto a organizzare manifestazioni a Chicago inflitto a Emma Goldman, attivista e anarchica di origine russa attiva negli Stati Uniti in quegli anni.
Ben presto, grazie a investigazioni indipendenti, emersero contraddizioni e incongruenze nella versione ufficiale dei fatti sostenuta dal mondo politico, dai giornali e anche dalla comunità ebraica.
Questa vicenda è lo spunto utilizzato da Aleksandar Hemon per la costruzione de Il progetto Lazarus, che non è una semplice ricostruzione storica dei fatti, ma un vero lavoro di costruzione su più piani che mette a fuoco, attraverso un lavoro di ricerca, il substrato di pregiudizio, razzismo, xenofobia, classismo, antisemitismo nel clima della battaglia politica in atto a cavallo tra la fine dell’800 e i primi decenni del ‘900, con la repressione delle lotte dei lavoratori e delle loro associazioni e la demonizzazione dell’anarchismo, particolarmente attivo in quegli anni. Ma è anche lo spunto per le narrazioni parallele che tengono insieme il racconto, muovendosi tra spazi diversi e in tempi diversi. L’odio e la violenza non restano circoscritti, sono gli stessi che hanno recentemente devastato i Balcani tra pulizie etniche, separazioni e islamofobia e che avvelenano la nostra società.
Così Vladimir Brik, un aspirante scrittore di origine bosniaca riparato negli Stati Uniti durante la guerra nei Balcani ottiene una sovvenzione per il suo lavoro e si spinge in Europa, in compagnia di un amico bosniaco di gioventù, tra Ucraina e Moldavia e fino a Bucarest e poi a Sarajevo, sulle tracce di Lazarus Averbuch. La narrazione della vicenda di Lazarus si intreccia con quella dell’assedio e distruzione di Sarajevo, l’ordine freddo dell’eterno presente americano si confronta con la trasformazione dei territori e delle società dell’est europeo. Vladimir Brik non è americano, nonostante ormai viva negli Stati Uniti e abbia sposato un’americana, ma non è più bosniaco, è estraneo ai luoghi della sua gioventù e la ricerca delle radici è devastante; ad accompagnare Vladimir c’è Rora, un fotografo conterraneo amico di gioventù che ha vissuto la la disintegrazione dell’ex Yugoslavia dall’interno, ”All’epoca credeva in una Bosnia dove si potesse vivere tutti insieme; amava Sarajevo e voleva difenderla dai cetnici. Sarebbe potuto fuggire a Milano o a Stoccolma; invece si arruolò come volontario nell’unità di Rambo - all’nizio della guerra non esisteva un esercito bosniaco, e quindi coloro che possedevano delle armi si organizzavano per difendere le loro proprietà. Conosceva Rambo e Beno dai tempi del Čaršija. Ma prima di affrontare l’aggressore cetnico e versare il loro sangue in battaglia, Rambo e Beno approfittarono di tutto ciò che offriva la città, dove l’ordine pubblico si era improvvisamente dissolto. Rambo la chiamava requisizione, ma in realtà era devastazione e saccheggio. Qualche volta può capitarmi di rubare, disse Rora, ma sono una persona onesta: non derubo i miei vicini. Mi raccontò i primi giorni di guerra, gli intrighi e gli assassini e alcune storie toccanti di gente che conoscevamo entrambi: Aida era stato ammazzato da un cecchino cetnico; Lazo era stato condotto da Caco a Kazani dove gli avevano tagliato la gola; Mirsad si era fatto portar via il cervello da una scheggia di shrapnel…”
Rora è un personaggio ambiguo, ma rappresenta anche la capacità di raccontare storie, seppur esagerate e non necessariamente vere, di affabulare, un’oralità che crea mondi nuovi e lega, ma che necessita di non essere messa in discussione,

”Non avevo mai sentito Rora parlare tanto; era come se muoversi attraverso quel paesaggio verdeggiante e spopolato alimentasse le sue storie; e infatti lui scattava foto, pigramente, senza interrompere la narrazione. Perfino Andrij sembrava ipnotizzato dalla sua voce, con quel flusso regolare di suoni morbidi, epici, slavi. Alcune di quelle storie avrei voluto scriverle, […] Un tempo anch’io raccontavo storie a Mary, storie della mia infanzia e avventure d’immigrati, storie sentite da altra gente. Ma ormai ero stufo di raccontarle, stufo di ascoltarle. A Chicago mi ero ritrovato a rimpiangere il modo in cui si usava farlo a Sarajevo - il sarajevino raccontava storie senza mai perdere la consapevolezza che l’attenzione degli ascoltatori sarebbe anche potuta venire meno, quindi calcava la mano e infiorava e a volte mentiva senza vergogna per mantenerla viva. Tu ascoltavi, rapito, disposto a ridere, impermeabile al dubbio o all’inverosimiglianza. C’era un codice di solidarietà del raccontare storie: non sabotavi il racconto di un altro se il pubblico era soddisfatto; diversamente dovevi aspettarti che un giorno una delle tue storie fosse sabotata a sua volta. L’incredulità era sospesa a tempo indeterminato perché nessuno pretendeva verità o informazioni, ma solamente il piacere di partecipare alla storia e, magari, spacciarla per propria. In America era diverso: l’incessante perpetuazione di fantasie collettive porta la gente ad agognare la verità e nient’altro che la verità è la realtà in America è il bene più sicuro.”

Un raccontare storie che stride con la presunta razionalità americana, ma che consente di proiettare il pensiero verso un futuro ipotetico, ”Se Lazarus fosse vissuto, sarebbe diventato Billy Averbuch? E i suoi figli, sarebbero diventati Avery o Averiman oppure, che so, Field? Avrebbe sfornato un’altra nidiata di Philip e Saul e Bernard ed Eleanor, che sarebbero diventati James e Jennifer e Jan e John? E le sue inclinazioni anarchiche, il mento sfuggente, le orecchie scimmiesche si sarebbero profondamente radicate nella storia familiare, nel glorioso sogno americano? Ci sarebbe un’infinità di storie da raccontare, ma tra queste soltanto alcune possono essere vere.”; non che il pensiero occidentale non inventi storie e realtà parallele, ma forse sono narrazioni più funzionali al potere e un articolo di giornale dell’epoca ci riporta improvvisamente a oggi;

”Perché il vicecapo Schuettler sa che questa città ha sofferto abbastanza. Ha sopportato la presenza contaminante di elementi stranieri approdati sui nostri accoglienti lidi con l’intento non già di dare il proprio contributo alla comunità, bensì di odiare e trasgredire. Non vede questa gente la grandezza del nostro paese? Non sfama forse le proprie famiglie con il pane, per quanto duro, guadagnato nelle officine e nelle fonderie di Chicago? Non è forse venuta qui per sfuggire alla follia omicida, alle continue persecuzioni nel vecchio mondo? E qui non ha forse trovato libertà che prima non immaginava nemmeno, non ultima quella di tornare da dove veniva, se mai l’avesse desiderato? Non può questa gente condividere i nostri nobili intenti? Non si accorge di avere una straordinaria occasione di far parte di un popolo naturalmente portato a lottare per la libertà e l’eccellenza, per una grandezza che offuscherebbe tutte le conquiste sanguinarie dei passati imperi?
Questa accogliente città ha sofferto molto, ma tutte le vite perdute saranno perdute invano se non le riscattiamo e non ricaviamo un valore dalla loro dipartita. Dalle spoglie dei morti risorgerà lo splendore. Dormi ora, amata Chicago, perchè i tuoi nemici sono domati e ormai i tuoi cittadini possono prosperare nel giardino della legalità.”

…. stranieri ingrati, quindi?

[Andrea · Rating 4 out of 5]

"Casa è dove qualcuno si accorge della tua assenza"

[Livietta · Rating 5 out of 5]

Ad un certo punto sei circondata la gente che lo vuole leggere. Un occhio veloce alla trama, 5 euri il digitale. Ci sta.
Cominci, aspettandoti la storia di un tizio che va a cercare di ricostruire la storia di un altro tizio, ammazzato nel 1908 a Chicago in circostanze abbastanza discutibili. Ma no, questa è solo la superficie, perché la storia di Lazarus è una scusa per Brik, emigrato bosniaco negli Stati Uniti, per fare un viaggio nelle sue origini e in se stesso. E Lazarus è la scusa per raccontare e raccontarsi. Ma raccontarsi molto bene, in maniera molto ironica e lasciando lì una quantità di cose su cui riflettere impressionante. Perché Brik riflette su se stesso come marito, come emigrato, come bosniaco, ma soprattutto come scrittore, e si conseguenza sul senso di raccontare.
Quando un libro dispiace finirlo e all'ultima pagina si ha l'istinto a riguardare le sottolineature e rileggere pagine, vuol dire che ha colpito nel segno.

[Cameron · Rating 1 out of 5]

I often think that many critics give the book (or movie, in many more familiar cases) a good review because it is something they are supposed to do. You don't want to be known as the critic who turned his nose up at the Latvian drama about a gay, existentialist teen trying to survive the drab, grim reality of life in a post-communist regime, would you? What about the Paraguayan masterpiece about the girl that left that life of street gangs to become a school teacher that was later murdered by street gangs. Well, you better give it a review, praising it for its "honesty" and "integrity". If all else fails, try to pigeon-hole it into a category that will make it seem like you totally got it on a different level than everyone else.

In my experience, The Lazarus Project is just such a book. It had to be good. So many people were saying such good things. It was nominated for a National Book Award, and they don't just hand those things out to any old James Patterson. With excitement, I started reading, and reading, and reading and before I knew it, I was in the Chariots of Fire of novels and I wanted to get out as soon as possible.

The idea for a decent book is there—a Bosnian man discovers his own identity while researching the historical account of an immigrant murdered by a police sergeant in Chicago. Yet, so many elements are missing that there is little left to bring it all cohesively together. It weaves in and out of the two stories; the first being an over-fictionalized and over-dramatized retelling of the after-effects of the immigrant's murder and the second being the on-the-road story of the writer aimlessly winding his way through Eastern Europe. Story A is poorly told to the point of being very uninteresting. Story B is told in a stream-of-consciousness style that comes off as smug and utterly confusing when it comes to advancing the plot.

There is so much about this book that is not true from the reviews. It isn't a "tour-de-force" as I read in one review. It also isn't, as I read in another, "a page-turner" unless you are turning the pages without reading them just to see how many more pages you have left to get through. It is not a comedy as one review ridiculously put it. Sure, some characters tell jokes to each other. But they are jokes that are constructed in an Eastern-European mindset, and something that makes no sense to someone who hasn't had to stand in a breadline. There is no comedy in this, however "wryly-drawn" as one review said.

It could have used a better editor. It could have used a better plot. It also could have used some more honest reviews. Like this one. Which you should trust. Really. Because I totally hated that one Latvian movie.

[David · Rating 5 out of 5]

I am not sure the average American reader can really understand this book. It captures so well the thoughts of someone who drifts in this world without a home, not because he does not have access to such a place, but because his past shapes him so much he can no longer accept the concept of home others offer him.

The book is not perfect by any means. At parts it's clichéd, and at parts it's repetitive, but then, at parts it's truly poignant and heartbreaking. Some reviewers see it as an immigrant story, but that is a very myopic and generally American view. This story is about connections and the struggle to hold onto the (un)certainty when people come from drastically different places, both physically and psychologically. It is about loneliness. Rabih Alameddine's favorite Chekhov quote: "If you are afraid of loneliness, don't marry." And Hemon's response: "You've never been married, so you don't know, but it is a fragile thing. Nothing ever goes away, everything stays inside it. It is a different reality."

Finally, for those of us who have lived very different lives in search of the meaning of home, I leave you with this quote from the book - "If you can't go home, there is nowhere to go, and nowhere is the biggest place in the world--indeed, nowhere is the world."

[Nathan Rostron · Rating 4 out of 5]

I saw Hemon read recently with Junot Diaz, who got a rock star reception at Central Park's Summer Stage. Hemon is not a rock star writer and garnered only polite applause. Unlike Diaz (in Oscar Wao, at any rate), Hemon's writing is not flashy or stylistically strutting somewhat awkwardly to allow for humongous cojones. Born in Sarajevo, Hemon writes with a syncopated English-language sensibility; it seems quiet but then it will sneak up on you and knock you flat. This one's definitely worth reading--my only complaint is that after the stunning first 40 pages the story plateaued and remained consistently interesting and well written and good, rather than continuing to ramp up into the stratosphere.

[Anesa · Rating 4 out of 5]

probably one of my faves out of all of Hemon's novels

[Selena · Rating 5 out of 5]

All the lives I could live, all the people I will never know, never will be, they are everywhere. That is all that the world is. (2)

Alexander Hemon reminds me of myself. We are both proudly Bosnian, but mostly American in upbringing. Neither one of us can let go of our feelings about the war. But it is difficult to explain that to anyone but those who’ve experienced it with you.

I am a reasonably loyal citizen of a couple of countries. In America – that somber land – I waste my vote, pay taxes grudgingly, share my life with a native wife, and try hard not to wish painful death to the idiot president. But I also have a Bosnian passport I seldom use; I go to Bosnia for heartbreaking vacations and funerals. (11)

The Lazarus Project is a merging of three stories. It is about a writer, Brik, who sets out to tell the story of a Jewish man who was unjustly killed in Chicago. His name was Lazarus Averbuch. The story is also his. It is also the story of Brik’s friend, Rora, a photographer from Sarajevo who tells terrifying and far-fetched tales.

The story takes place in the times of Red Emma, a time when being Jewish created a shadow of doubt about your allegiance to the United States of America. A time when Lazarus was shot without mercy with the unfair and incorrect label of Anarchist. Nobody questioned it. He was unarmed.

On almost a whim, Brik and Rora embark on their journey to follow in Lazarus’s footsteps. They end up discussing the war in Bosnia but Rora doesn’t enjoy casual conversation, instead he replies with short anecdotes. If you’ve ever known an older Bosnian, you’d know that this was an authentic voice. Rather than straight-forward answers or god-forbid, chit-chat, we speak in increasingly severe anecdotes.

“The thing is, everybody who has ever been photographed is either dead or will die. That’s why nobody photographs me. I want to stay on this side of the picture.” (189)

All throughout the novels, you see the parallels between the lives of Lazarus, Rora and Brik. The novel resurrects the same characters, playing on the myth of Lazarus. But it is subtle, not thrown in your face. Unless you remember that the reporter covering the death of Lazarus was named Miller it won’t catch your eye that the man covering the war in Sarajevo was also Miller.

It sounds rather confusing but that is misleading. The book is a merging of stories whose relatedness only becomes clearer and clearer as you read. Alexandar Hemon is someone I will go back to for as long as he writes. The Lazarus Project will probably be one of the best books of the year.

[Maya Lang · Rating 3 out of 5]

Aleksandar Hemon is a brilliant, heady writer: dry wit, intellectual chops, existential searching, preoccupied with questions of displacement, belonging, home, and exile. This "novel" (it is not a novel) is disappointing precisely because its author is so talented. "The Lazarus Project" is a little bit like that dish at a restaurant that never comes together despite featuring ingredients you love. The disappointment is worse somehow against the specter of what might have been. A bowl of cereal is preferable to a gourmet meal that falls flat.

"The Lazarus Project" opens with a punch. Its opening sections are its strongest. The (true) story of Lazarus Averbuch is compelling; the thinly veiled story of an author's quest to document Averbunch's tale is also equally compelling. From there, things grow mired. The story suffers from a failure to launch. It is a car trying to get out of the mud. Those initial sections are the first jolt of the accelerator, hopeful and promising, before the disappointing slide back into the muck. The sections become redundant and strangely formulaic: a Mujo joke followed by an aphorism on the meaning of home followed by terse conversation with Rora, usually while in transit, followed by a rumination on a failing marriage. There are no surprises. Worse, the writing often feels detached. To go back to my restaurant metaphor, the result is a tasting menu where the ingredients don't change: "Wait, didn't we already have this course?"

I stuck with this out of my usual stubbornness (when do I ever give up on a book?) and out of loyalty to Hemon, hoping he would manage to dig himself out of the mud. He doesn't. His memoir, "The Book of My Lives," is more powerful. The references to his own life, what he is trying to convey here, are more potently delivered in essay form.

Perhaps that's it, then. Hemon is a writer—this is obvious—but perhaps not a novelist. Sometimes the turn to fiction gives an author freedom, but here it causes him to be evasive. Essays are where Hemon shines because there is no place to hide.

[Ana-Maria Beșa · Rating 4 out of 5]

" Într-o dimineață, în Chicago, m-am dus tiptil la bucătărie să pun de cafea. În timp ce vărsam, ca de obicei, cafea pe toată masa, am văzut într-un colț o conservă pe a cărei etichetă roșie scria SADNESS. Era atât de multă în lume, că puteau să conserve și să vândă? Am simțit un ghem dureros în intestine înainte să-mi dau seama că pe conservă nu scria SADNESS, ci SARDINES."
" Sunt momente în viață când totul se întoarce pe dos, ca o mănușă - ce e real devine ireal, ce e ireal devine tangibil, și încercările meschine de a nu pierde controlul ființelor noastre se dovedesc a fi stupide și inutile."

[Silvia Matei · Rating 5 out of 5]

Mi-a plăcut enorm. E un fel de 3 în 1. O carte despre un scriitor care vrea sa scrie o carte despre un evreu, supraviețuitor al unui pogrom care vrea sa se apuce de scris înainte să fie ucis. Sunt așa de multe straturi și e atât de bine scrisă. Simți spectrul masacrelor din Bosnia și dilema imigrantului balcanic mutat în America în fiecare pagina (dar fără să se vorbească direct despre ele).

[Claire · Rating 2 out of 5]

Why does everyone love this book so much? National Book Award finalist, New York Times Notable Book of 2008. The New Yorker and Washington Post both ridiculously proclaim Hemon the new Nabokov. Bookforum gabs, "One catches glimpses not only of Nabokov and Sebald but of Bulgarov, Pamuk, Amis, Poe..." Seriously?

Why are we so excited about this guy? Because he is Bosnian, and we don't know any Bosnian writers? (Exotic!) Or because his protagonist is a miserable, wandering writer of the old breed, whose cigarette-smoking, whore-befriending, devil-may-care companion is his role model and raison d'etre? Or is it because he writes about poor Jewish anarchist immigrant refugees, and we can all get behind that? (It hooked me...)

Well I'll tell you what. I was bored to tears. What does our aforesaid protagonist writer-man want to share with us so badly that he has to take us to a slew of post-Soviet sad scenes (casinos, brothels, cafe after cafe) and drone on for so long about his childhood (he wasn't even in Sarajevo during the war!) in order to (never) say? And guess what? Writer-man and macho-friend drink strong coffee! And look at blond girls! And smoke cigarettes! And sit in depressing hotel rooms! And drink more coffee! And by the by, what does any of this dreary misguided misogynist rambling have to do with Lazarus, the dead immigrant Jew whose story (which constitutes the interesting half of the book) writer-man is in Eastern Europe to research in the first place?

Yes, it is impressive that Hemon writes in his second language, and yes, his writing is itself a lovely thing. But master story-teller he is not, and comparisons to Nabokov strike me as absurd. This book is not a story, but a jumble of scenes of Hemon's past, some beautifully painted, others dull, none of which fit together to become the journey we are prepared to experience. What does writer-man find? What is he looking for? I will never know, because I started having the kind of panic attacks interspersed with restlessness that I had while trying to read Milan Kundera's "Unbearable Lightness of Being." (Here, my own feeble and ridiculous comparison of Hemon to another Eastern European writer. Let me just say I do realize this is the pot calling the kettle black.)

So I say skip it, until Hemon realizes he should just buy a journal and write his memoir. Because unlike the talking heads of the literary elite, I was reading to bring forth the ghost of Lazarus. Hear his story, come to terms with his devils, imagine his world. Not Hemon's.

[Nick · Rating 4 out of 5]

Hemon is that rarest of all writers, rarer still for being an immigrant, whose prose has vigor without losing purpose, who can build an intricate, time- and story-shifting plot without making it seem like unnecessary fireworks. And yet his prose retains a flavor of his East European mordancy, the wit of someone born in a country that no longer exists. The central character is Vladimir Brik, an immigrant like Hemon from Sarajevo who is fascinated with the real story of Lazarus Averbukh, a nineteen year old who fled to America from a pogrom in an area now located in an area that is a backwater even for Moldova. In 1908, Averbukh went to the house of the Chicago Chief of Police to give him a letter. The Chief of Police killed Averbukh; Hemon re-creates the hysteria of the times, the efforts of the police and the press to paint Averbukh as an anarchist assassin, the efforts of Lazarus' sister to reclaim his remains and some sort of life for herself (she eventually returned to Europe, where it is thought she perished under Nazism). This is interwoven, at times in sequential passages, with Brik's picaresque and ultimately fruitless effort to find traces of Averbukh's European past. Fortunately, Hemon provides Brik with both a voice that is irreverent and questioning. as well as the joke- and story-telling companion of his youth, Rora (the kind of kid who led tourists to medieval mosques that were built the century before, warned them to leave their shoes outside the building to honor local customs, and then made off with the footware). The idea of knitting together Rora's jokes and stories of the Bosnian-Serb war, Olga's struggles to do right by her younger brother (despite the sinister police, the blowhard newspaperman, and her fellow immigrants), and Brik's meditations on his Sarajevo past and adjusting to his American wife and her family, seems like it would topple under its own weight. But it works, somehow, as a unity, and what emerges is a deeply-felt and argued discussion of what it can mean to tell stories. The only writer who I've ever read who can make a similar whole out of what seems chaotic along the way is Roberto Banuelos in the "Savage Detectives."