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Deceit
Deceit is the first major work by Yuri Felsen, referred to by his contemporaries as ‘the Russian Proust’, a significant writer who died in the gas chambers in Auschwitz, and whose legacy and archive was destroyed by the Nazis.
Written in the form of a diary, the novel recounts the unnamed narrator’s complex and emotionally fraught relationship with his love interest and sometime muse. While the plot itself is relatively simple, the real revelation in Felsen’s writing is its supreme originality of language and psychological introspection.
Quite unlike any other writer in the Russian canon, Felsen evokes in rich, poetic, idiosyncratic prose not only the Zeitgeist of interwar Europe and his émigré milieu, but also its psychology and the existential crisis of the age. What Nabokov achieves with images and the physical world, Felsen does with the emotional and metaphysical.
This is the first English translation of this landmark modernist novel.
Written in the form of a diary, the novel recounts the unnamed narrator’s complex and emotionally fraught relationship with his love interest and sometime muse. While the plot itself is relatively simple, the real revelation in Felsen’s writing is its supreme originality of language and psychological introspection.
Quite unlike any other writer in the Russian canon, Felsen evokes in rich, poetic, idiosyncratic prose not only the Zeitgeist of interwar Europe and his émigré milieu, but also its psychology and the existential crisis of the age. What Nabokov achieves with images and the physical world, Felsen does with the emotional and metaphysical.
This is the first English translation of this landmark modernist novel.
209 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1930
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892 people want to read
About the author
Yuri Felsen
1 book9 followersЮрий Фельзен. Pseudonym of the Russian émigré author Nikolai Freudenstein.
Felsen was very popular in the 1930s, known by critics as the Russian Proust, but close to forgotten after dying in Auschwitz, in 1943. His manuscripts and letters were lost – possibly destroyed – after his arrest.
Academic and translator Bryan Karetnyk discovered Felsen’s name while reading literary criticism from the 1930s, finding that he was widely praised, and going on to track down Felsen’s own writings.
Felsen was very popular in the 1930s, known by critics as the Russian Proust, but close to forgotten after dying in Auschwitz, in 1943. His manuscripts and letters were lost – possibly destroyed – after his arrest.
Academic and translator Bryan Karetnyk discovered Felsen’s name while reading literary criticism from the 1930s, finding that he was widely praised, and going on to track down Felsen’s own writings.
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February 14, 2025
2,5 Sterne
Verhindert durch verschachtelte stilisierte Monotonie ohne Dringlichkeit.
In Tagebucheinträgen verhandelt der namenlose Erzähler sein Verhältnis zur Liebe. Das Objekt des unerreichbaren Ideals der Liebe : Ljolja und zwei weibliche Wesen, die ihrer Liebe zum Erzähler, zum Opfer fallen.
Der Text ist in einer gleichmäßigen Introspektion angelegt, die kaum erzählerische oder stilistische Kontraste und Dynamiken entwickelt. Das liest sich auf den ersten 80-90 Seiten noch ganz interessant, da es eine Weile benötigt die Feinheiten des Charakters zu verstehen. Stellenweise bekommt seine Selbstbeobachtung eine ironisch, absurde Note, da er ständig versucht sich in einem erhabenen, eloquenten, vornehmen Gehabe zu positionieren, das für ihn mit dem wie er die Realität vorfindet nicht übereinstimmt und ihn zu Hemmungen im öffentlichen Auftreten verleitet.
Er ist dauerangestrengt seine Imagination aufrecht zu erhalten und analysiert bzw. beobachtet sich selbst in einem spannungsarmen, kühlen, ruhigen, ermüdenden Duktus.
Grundsätzlich alles sehr interessant gedacht. Auf dem Papier liest sich das dann aber so:
Mein tätiges Leben geht weiter, verläuft jedoch anders, als ich mir naiv vorgestellt hatte: ihm fehlt die erwartete Berauschtheit aufgrund von Bewegung, Erfolg und der Möglichkeit, zu befehlen und bequem, ohne Hast, das zu erörtern, was sich dank solcher Erörterungen tatsächlich ändert, ihm fehlt die bebende, ergreifende und bewusst zurückgehaltene Wohligkeit, die im Gefühl liegt, in den Spuren eines Gefühls (ob es nun traurig ist oder freudig); irgendwie muss ich den Tag bis zum Abend bringen, muss vielen, gleichermaßen unnötigen und langweiligen Menschen gegenüber verschlagen sein, muss gegenüber den beiden Frauen (ohne den Dandy zu spielen: es könnten noch mehr sein) ebenfalls verschlagen sein und mir etwas einfallen lassen, um sie bloß nicht zu sehen, um das nächste Treffen aufzuschieben und eine zusätzliche Stunde allein zu bleiben - noch habe ich nicht die Kraft, mich von alledem loszusagen, mit alledem unwiderruflich zu brechen, vielmehr ich habe noch nichts entschieden.
Das Eingeständnis der eigenen Lähmung.
Hier drängt sich mir unmittelbar der Vergleich mit Emanuel Boves Meine Freunde auf.
Eine Figur die statt der Liebe, Freundschaft sucht und ebenfalls im Nicht-Handeln festhängt.
Bove lässt die Figur wie unser Tagebuchschreiber in „Getäuscht“ viel imaginieren, sich in Eifersüchteleien verfangen und obsessives Verhalten an den Tag legen. Jemand der dem Unbekannten nicht gewachsen ist.
Das Eingeständnis der Lähmung klingt bei Bove so:
„Wenn ich von zu Hause weggehe, rechne ich immer mit einem Ereignis, das mein Leben von Grund auf ändern wird. Ich erwarte es bis zum Moment meiner Rückkehr. Das ist der Grund, daß ich nie im Zimmer bleibe. Leider ist dieses Ereignis nie eingetreten.“
Bove geht mit einer ausgeprägten Psychologie, wie Felsen ans Werk. Allerdings mit einer schonungslosen Ehrlichkeit. Die Einfachheit seiner Sprache trifft direkt den Kern. Das Buch lebt von Ambivalenzen. Die Sprachlosigkeit wird produktiv.
Was passiert hingehen im Zitat von Felsen? Für mich liest sich das vernebelt oder verschleiert. Er wird nie konkret. Spuren irgendeines Gefühls. Ja was denn genau?
Ein Satzungetüm, das im Grunde leere Rhetorik birgt und aussagt wie langweilig alles ist.
Das ist reine Selbstbeschäftigung ohne echten Erkenntnisgewinn. Ich bin unfähig, denke darüber nach und komme zu keiner Konsequenz oder Schluss, außer dass ich verdruckst, verhindert bin und mich an allen möglichen sozialen Codes festhänge, die ich eigentlich nicht will, die mich aber vor meiner ungestümen Art schützen, die ich aber sprachlich nicht zeigen kann, sondern sie nur behaupte und nicht erfahrbar mache und deshalb laber und laber und immer wieder dasselbe reproduziere, ohne diese 240 Seiten Text vom Fleck zu bewegen.
Der Text fällt damit der Problematik des Tagebuchschreibers selbst zum Opfer und bleibt in einer Sackgasse.
Was ganz klar wird, der Erzähler ist von einer furchtbaren Desillusionierung und Entwurzelung begleitet. Heldenfiguren gibt es nicht mehr. Die Erkenntnis, es gibt kein Dahinter, nur das hoffnungslose hier und jetzt. Egal wie ich entscheide, es ändert nichts.
In diesem Buch wird das Begehren sprachlich und stilistisch unterdrückt. Eros wird verneint. Es liest sich, wie „Zeit-totschlagen“.
Dabei wird der Tagebuchschreiber krank vor Eifersucht, hat sogar Sex. Er schreibt von Hitze, Gier, ungestümen Verhaltens und macht es nicht erfahrbar. Dem Text fehlt jegliche affektive Resonanz. Das macht die ganze Anlage unglaubwürdig und psychologisch unergiebig.
Ja, die Erkenntnis und offene Aussprache am Ende runden das Buch gut ab.
Ich verstehe was das soll, nur hätte es in dieser Form deutlich abgespeckter ausfallen müssen. 240 Seiten in diesem tautologisch, zirkelnden auf der Stelle treten, sind eindeutig zu viel der Langeweile.
Verhindert durch verschachtelte stilisierte Monotonie ohne Dringlichkeit.
In Tagebucheinträgen verhandelt der namenlose Erzähler sein Verhältnis zur Liebe. Das Objekt des unerreichbaren Ideals der Liebe : Ljolja und zwei weibliche Wesen, die ihrer Liebe zum Erzähler, zum Opfer fallen.
Der Text ist in einer gleichmäßigen Introspektion angelegt, die kaum erzählerische oder stilistische Kontraste und Dynamiken entwickelt. Das liest sich auf den ersten 80-90 Seiten noch ganz interessant, da es eine Weile benötigt die Feinheiten des Charakters zu verstehen. Stellenweise bekommt seine Selbstbeobachtung eine ironisch, absurde Note, da er ständig versucht sich in einem erhabenen, eloquenten, vornehmen Gehabe zu positionieren, das für ihn mit dem wie er die Realität vorfindet nicht übereinstimmt und ihn zu Hemmungen im öffentlichen Auftreten verleitet.
Er ist dauerangestrengt seine Imagination aufrecht zu erhalten und analysiert bzw. beobachtet sich selbst in einem spannungsarmen, kühlen, ruhigen, ermüdenden Duktus.
Grundsätzlich alles sehr interessant gedacht. Auf dem Papier liest sich das dann aber so:
Mein tätiges Leben geht weiter, verläuft jedoch anders, als ich mir naiv vorgestellt hatte: ihm fehlt die erwartete Berauschtheit aufgrund von Bewegung, Erfolg und der Möglichkeit, zu befehlen und bequem, ohne Hast, das zu erörtern, was sich dank solcher Erörterungen tatsächlich ändert, ihm fehlt die bebende, ergreifende und bewusst zurückgehaltene Wohligkeit, die im Gefühl liegt, in den Spuren eines Gefühls (ob es nun traurig ist oder freudig); irgendwie muss ich den Tag bis zum Abend bringen, muss vielen, gleichermaßen unnötigen und langweiligen Menschen gegenüber verschlagen sein, muss gegenüber den beiden Frauen (ohne den Dandy zu spielen: es könnten noch mehr sein) ebenfalls verschlagen sein und mir etwas einfallen lassen, um sie bloß nicht zu sehen, um das nächste Treffen aufzuschieben und eine zusätzliche Stunde allein zu bleiben - noch habe ich nicht die Kraft, mich von alledem loszusagen, mit alledem unwiderruflich zu brechen, vielmehr ich habe noch nichts entschieden.
Das Eingeständnis der eigenen Lähmung.
Hier drängt sich mir unmittelbar der Vergleich mit Emanuel Boves Meine Freunde auf.
Eine Figur die statt der Liebe, Freundschaft sucht und ebenfalls im Nicht-Handeln festhängt.
Bove lässt die Figur wie unser Tagebuchschreiber in „Getäuscht“ viel imaginieren, sich in Eifersüchteleien verfangen und obsessives Verhalten an den Tag legen. Jemand der dem Unbekannten nicht gewachsen ist.
Das Eingeständnis der Lähmung klingt bei Bove so:
„Wenn ich von zu Hause weggehe, rechne ich immer mit einem Ereignis, das mein Leben von Grund auf ändern wird. Ich erwarte es bis zum Moment meiner Rückkehr. Das ist der Grund, daß ich nie im Zimmer bleibe. Leider ist dieses Ereignis nie eingetreten.“
Bove geht mit einer ausgeprägten Psychologie, wie Felsen ans Werk. Allerdings mit einer schonungslosen Ehrlichkeit. Die Einfachheit seiner Sprache trifft direkt den Kern. Das Buch lebt von Ambivalenzen. Die Sprachlosigkeit wird produktiv.
Was passiert hingehen im Zitat von Felsen? Für mich liest sich das vernebelt oder verschleiert. Er wird nie konkret. Spuren irgendeines Gefühls. Ja was denn genau?
Ein Satzungetüm, das im Grunde leere Rhetorik birgt und aussagt wie langweilig alles ist.
Das ist reine Selbstbeschäftigung ohne echten Erkenntnisgewinn. Ich bin unfähig, denke darüber nach und komme zu keiner Konsequenz oder Schluss, außer dass ich verdruckst, verhindert bin und mich an allen möglichen sozialen Codes festhänge, die ich eigentlich nicht will, die mich aber vor meiner ungestümen Art schützen, die ich aber sprachlich nicht zeigen kann, sondern sie nur behaupte und nicht erfahrbar mache und deshalb laber und laber und immer wieder dasselbe reproduziere, ohne diese 240 Seiten Text vom Fleck zu bewegen.
Der Text fällt damit der Problematik des Tagebuchschreibers selbst zum Opfer und bleibt in einer Sackgasse.
Was ganz klar wird, der Erzähler ist von einer furchtbaren Desillusionierung und Entwurzelung begleitet. Heldenfiguren gibt es nicht mehr. Die Erkenntnis, es gibt kein Dahinter, nur das hoffnungslose hier und jetzt. Egal wie ich entscheide, es ändert nichts.
In diesem Buch wird das Begehren sprachlich und stilistisch unterdrückt. Eros wird verneint. Es liest sich, wie „Zeit-totschlagen“.
Dabei wird der Tagebuchschreiber krank vor Eifersucht, hat sogar Sex. Er schreibt von Hitze, Gier, ungestümen Verhaltens und macht es nicht erfahrbar. Dem Text fehlt jegliche affektive Resonanz. Das macht die ganze Anlage unglaubwürdig und psychologisch unergiebig.
Ja, die Erkenntnis und offene Aussprache am Ende runden das Buch gut ab.
Ich verstehe was das soll, nur hätte es in dieser Form deutlich abgespeckter ausfallen müssen. 240 Seiten in diesem tautologisch, zirkelnden auf der Stelle treten, sind eindeutig zu viel der Langeweile.
June 29, 2022
Sometimes you come across a book that is unknown to you and others that you fall in love with instantly. Deceit is one. I was sent a review of this book from a friend. Recently released in England by prototype publishing after being lost for decades. Yuri Felsen’s (born, Nikolai Freudenstein) story is beyond sad and unfortunate and if you’ve read up on him, no longer with us. Deceit was originally published in 1930 in France where he fled to. The novel was beautifully frail in the depictions of love between the unnamed narrator and his “love”, Lyolya. His writing was inspiring and filled with renderings of art and love. All through the cafés and streets of Paris. Just gorgeous writing and made more so knowing that he wrote only a few novels and was sent to his death in Auschwitz in 1943. Friends with Vladimir Nabokov (who wrote a blurb) and justifiably compared to the writing of Marcel Proust (form, autobiographical in nature, diary(esque), philosophically). It’s just flat out a very good novel. Many thanks to prototype publishing for the release. If there’s one book to seek out this year, this is the one!
Below are some links about Yuri Felsen and Deceit:
https://amp.theguardian.com/books/202...
https://prototypepublishing.co.uk
Below are some links about Yuri Felsen and Deceit:
https://amp.theguardian.com/books/202...
https://prototypepublishing.co.uk
April 17, 2025
Ein einsamer enttäuschter Ich-Erzähler und seine Abhängigkeit bzw. überhöhten Liebe zu Lolja. In ihrer Abwesenheit denkt er unaufhörlich über sie nach. Nach ihrer Rückkehr ist er enttäuscht, dass sie ihn links liegen lässt. So herrscht in diesem Buch eine Langeweile, dies immer wieder zu lesen. Kurz vor Ende kommt es dann zu einer Art Auflösung. Vieles bleibt in der Person des Erzählers unklar. Es war kein Buch für mich.
December 1, 2023
Dating a Russian novelist must have been so exhausting omg
July 4, 2022
Boy meets girl. Then another two. A lot of overthinking ensues. A lot.
December 12, 2022
Deceit, Yuri Felsen
This is a beautifully written and translated novel of the inner mind, in diary form, showing how the narrator Volodya becomes obsessed with the figure of Lyolya. He feels an intimate connection, a realisation of a higher truth in their supposed mutual understanding. But for all the beauty of his Proustian-Nabokovian prose, Volodya cannot see the vulgarity of his treatment of women, or his increasingly monomaniacal traits. Ultimately, the Deceit of this text is how this erudite man behaves like a boorish brute who deludes himself as to his own brilliance and the higher truth of his proclaimed love.
This is an émigré novel, the first by Russian Latvian-Jewish Yuri Felsen, the nom de plume of Nikolai Bernhardovich Freudenstein. Escaping revolution and tyranny, Felsen was clear that his art should represent 'a kind of neo-romanticism, the exultation of the individual and love set in opposition to Soviet barbarism and dissolution in the collective.'
A victim of the Shoah, taken to Auschwitz in 1943, and his archive disappeared, there is little left of the man other than his little-published work. We are left to discern the outline of a brilliant writer from his fiction, to read his presence and a trace of a life through a fictional double mirrored in a twisted life-document. Deceit and truth. Art and pretense.
Twisted and toxic; tragic and terrific.
This is a beautifully written and translated novel of the inner mind, in diary form, showing how the narrator Volodya becomes obsessed with the figure of Lyolya. He feels an intimate connection, a realisation of a higher truth in their supposed mutual understanding. But for all the beauty of his Proustian-Nabokovian prose, Volodya cannot see the vulgarity of his treatment of women, or his increasingly monomaniacal traits. Ultimately, the Deceit of this text is how this erudite man behaves like a boorish brute who deludes himself as to his own brilliance and the higher truth of his proclaimed love.
This is an émigré novel, the first by Russian Latvian-Jewish Yuri Felsen, the nom de plume of Nikolai Bernhardovich Freudenstein. Escaping revolution and tyranny, Felsen was clear that his art should represent 'a kind of neo-romanticism, the exultation of the individual and love set in opposition to Soviet barbarism and dissolution in the collective.'
A victim of the Shoah, taken to Auschwitz in 1943, and his archive disappeared, there is little left of the man other than his little-published work. We are left to discern the outline of a brilliant writer from his fiction, to read his presence and a trace of a life through a fictional double mirrored in a twisted life-document. Deceit and truth. Art and pretense.
Twisted and toxic; tragic and terrific.
2023
June 7, 2024📱 Thank you to NetGalley and Astra House
March 20, 2023
3.5, interesting read and I feel like the some of themes are relevant today although it was written in the 20s
February 10, 2025
In Tagebuchform schildert der namenlose Ich-Erzähler seine Verliebtheit zu Ljolja, der Nichte einer Bekannten – doch sie erwidert seine Liebe nicht.
Und so ergeht sich der Erzähler in seiner Eifersucht und Einsamkeit, klagt über Ljoljas angebliche Täuschung (daher der Titel). Meist liegt das von ihm Geschriebene irgendwo zwischen eitel und erbärmlich, oder (wie es im Nachwort heißt) zwischen Selbstmitleid und Selbstironie, Größenwahn und Depression. An anderer Stelle sind seine Gedanken aber auch wieder schonungslos ehrlich und erstaunlich verletzlich, weil sich der Erzähler seine Wehleidigkeit, zumindest zum Teil, selbst bewusst zu sein scheint.
Diese Wechsel zwischen Ehrlichkeit, Eitelkeit und Wehleidigkeit zeigen aber nur, wie aufwendig und aufmerksam Felsen das Erzählen konstruiert hat.
Eine weitere Besonderheit des Erzählens ist, wie extrem es auf die Perspektive des Erzählers fokussiert ist (das liegt nicht daran, dass die Tagebuchform gewählt wurde, die Tagebuchform wurde vielmehr gewählt, um ein solches Erzählen erst möglich zu machen): Alles über Ljolja erfährt man nur durch ihn, ihre Treffen sind nur mit seinen Eindrücken geschildert, man erhält nicht mal viele Dialogzeilen von Ljolja selbst. Ihr Charakter ist durch den Erzähler gefiltert, einem Erzähler, der sie von Anfang an, noch bevor die beiden sich zum ersten Mal treffen, zu einem absoluten Ideal erhebt - einem Ideal, das sie gar nicht erfüllen kann. Wie verlässlich ist der Erzähler dabei?
In einem Vorwort zu einem anderen Roman der russisch-parisischen Literatursezene der 1920er und 30er (Boris Poplawskis „Homeward from Heaven“) wurden die Romane dieser Szene gekennzeichnet als „confessional, plotless and deeply psychological“. Das trifft auch vollkommen auf „Getäuscht“ zu.
Weil der Roman aber so wenig Plot hat (wenn das auch, wie eben erwähnt in der Natur dieser Art von Romanen liegt), und weil es wenig Dialoge gibt und das Geschilderte sich wiederholt, hat „Getäuscht“ leichte Längen.
Doch trotz dieser Längen ist „Getäuscht“ vor allem wegen der bemerkenswerten Art des Erzählens ein interessantes Buch. Und ich hoffe sehr, Kiepenheuer und Wisch übersetzt auch noch die anderen Romane Felsens.
Und so ergeht sich der Erzähler in seiner Eifersucht und Einsamkeit, klagt über Ljoljas angebliche Täuschung (daher der Titel). Meist liegt das von ihm Geschriebene irgendwo zwischen eitel und erbärmlich, oder (wie es im Nachwort heißt) zwischen Selbstmitleid und Selbstironie, Größenwahn und Depression. An anderer Stelle sind seine Gedanken aber auch wieder schonungslos ehrlich und erstaunlich verletzlich, weil sich der Erzähler seine Wehleidigkeit, zumindest zum Teil, selbst bewusst zu sein scheint.
Diese Wechsel zwischen Ehrlichkeit, Eitelkeit und Wehleidigkeit zeigen aber nur, wie aufwendig und aufmerksam Felsen das Erzählen konstruiert hat.
Eine weitere Besonderheit des Erzählens ist, wie extrem es auf die Perspektive des Erzählers fokussiert ist (das liegt nicht daran, dass die Tagebuchform gewählt wurde, die Tagebuchform wurde vielmehr gewählt, um ein solches Erzählen erst möglich zu machen): Alles über Ljolja erfährt man nur durch ihn, ihre Treffen sind nur mit seinen Eindrücken geschildert, man erhält nicht mal viele Dialogzeilen von Ljolja selbst. Ihr Charakter ist durch den Erzähler gefiltert, einem Erzähler, der sie von Anfang an, noch bevor die beiden sich zum ersten Mal treffen, zu einem absoluten Ideal erhebt - einem Ideal, das sie gar nicht erfüllen kann. Wie verlässlich ist der Erzähler dabei?
In einem Vorwort zu einem anderen Roman der russisch-parisischen Literatursezene der 1920er und 30er (Boris Poplawskis „Homeward from Heaven“) wurden die Romane dieser Szene gekennzeichnet als „confessional, plotless and deeply psychological“. Das trifft auch vollkommen auf „Getäuscht“ zu.
Weil der Roman aber so wenig Plot hat (wenn das auch, wie eben erwähnt in der Natur dieser Art von Romanen liegt), und weil es wenig Dialoge gibt und das Geschilderte sich wiederholt, hat „Getäuscht“ leichte Längen.
Doch trotz dieser Längen ist „Getäuscht“ vor allem wegen der bemerkenswerten Art des Erzählens ein interessantes Buch. Und ich hoffe sehr, Kiepenheuer und Wisch übersetzt auch noch die anderen Romane Felsens.
July 22, 2022
I stumbled upon this book just sitting on a cart in a bookstore in the city. Having never heard of either the title or the author I was on the fence but I took the recommendation from Nabokov seriously and bought the book.
This is the best book I have read this year and I really doubt I'll read anything to compete with it in the next 5 months.
Typically I am a massive fan of plot light, first person narratives so I almost feel like this book was made for me. Beautifully written and incredibly emotive (who hasn't experienced some kind of unrequited love). I strongly recommend you pick this one up!
This is the best book I have read this year and I really doubt I'll read anything to compete with it in the next 5 months.
Typically I am a massive fan of plot light, first person narratives so I almost feel like this book was made for me. Beautifully written and incredibly emotive (who hasn't experienced some kind of unrequited love). I strongly recommend you pick this one up!
February 16, 2024
If Woody Allen wrote a Captain Ahab with a bored Russian woman as his white whale.
February 12, 2026
"στη μουσική και στον έρωτα υπάρχει η ίδια εξευγενιστικη αποσύνδεση από καθετί ματαιόδοξο και ιδιοτελές,η ίδια τολμηρή και θυσιαστική εξύψωση ."
Η "πλάνη" είναι η ιστορία ενός άντρα που είναι ερωτευμένος με μια γυναίκα . Δυστυχώς όμως ,ο έρωτας του είναι μονόπλευρος . Δεν παίρνει κάτι σε αντάλλαγμα . Κάπως έτσι αρχίζει το overthinking του αιώνα από τη μεριά του πρωταγωνιστή - συγγραφέα ,όπου αναλύει με τεράστια λεπτομέρια το πώς είναι να αγαπάς ,να μη σε αγαπούν (τουλάχιστον όχι με τον ίδιο τρόπο) και κάπου εκεί να μπαίνει και η εγωιστική ανάγκη να μην αισθανθείς ότι έπεσες σε πλάνη .ότι όλα όσα ένιωσες ,δε στα προκάλεσε κάποιος άλλος ,αλλά ήσουν μόνος σε όλο αυτό . Μια ανάγκη που φτάνει στα όρια της εμμονής .
Το κείμενο είναι πολύ ενδιαφέρον ,αν και αρκετά αργο και anticlimactic,μιας και επί της ουσίας δεν οδηγούμαστε κάπου συγκεκριμένα.
Ο συγγραφέας αναφέρεται στην αρχή ότι είναι ο πιο "προυστικος" από όλους τους Ρώσους συγγραφεις που προσπάθησαν να μιμηθούν τον Προυστ και αυτό είναι ένα πολύ εύστοχο σχόλιο κατά τη γνώμη μου ,μιας και οντως ,ειδα πολλές ομοιότητες με τη γραφή του .
Κατά τα λοιπά ,ήταν ένα ωραίο βιβλίο που όμως σίγουρα κάτι του έλειπε .
🌟🌟🌟/5 αστέρια
Η "πλάνη" είναι η ιστορία ενός άντρα που είναι ερωτευμένος με μια γυναίκα . Δυστυχώς όμως ,ο έρωτας του είναι μονόπλευρος . Δεν παίρνει κάτι σε αντάλλαγμα . Κάπως έτσι αρχίζει το overthinking του αιώνα από τη μεριά του πρωταγωνιστή - συγγραφέα ,όπου αναλύει με τεράστια λεπτομέρια το πώς είναι να αγαπάς ,να μη σε αγαπούν (τουλάχιστον όχι με τον ίδιο τρόπο) και κάπου εκεί να μπαίνει και η εγωιστική ανάγκη να μην αισθανθείς ότι έπεσες σε πλάνη .ότι όλα όσα ένιωσες ,δε στα προκάλεσε κάποιος άλλος ,αλλά ήσουν μόνος σε όλο αυτό . Μια ανάγκη που φτάνει στα όρια της εμμονής .
Το κείμενο είναι πολύ ενδιαφέρον ,αν και αρκετά αργο και anticlimactic,μιας και επί της ουσίας δεν οδηγούμαστε κάπου συγκεκριμένα.
Ο συγγραφέας αναφέρεται στην αρχή ότι είναι ο πιο "προυστικος" από όλους τους Ρώσους συγγραφεις που προσπάθησαν να μιμηθούν τον Προυστ και αυτό είναι ένα πολύ εύστοχο σχόλιο κατά τη γνώμη μου ,μιας και οντως ,ειδα πολλές ομοιότητες με τη γραφή του .
Κατά τα λοιπά ,ήταν ένα ωραίο βιβλίο που όμως σίγουρα κάτι του έλειπε .
🌟🌟🌟/5 αστέρια
June 27, 2023
I have no idea why Felsen wrote this as a collection of diary entries - the writing would have flowed so much better in another format. Genuinely, I adore his writing style (it's poetic and raw), but it just didn't *feel* right for some reason.
Want to read
October 3, 2023Great if you like books with lots of thinking but not a lot of action (Which I do!) Wish there was more from this author to dive into.
November 30, 2023
I do love me a narrator that cannot be trusted, especially one as intricate as this one.
January 18, 2023
The diary of a Russian man living in Paris whining about various women - didnt do much for me.
August 23, 2024
The plot of Deceit is simple – man obsesses over woman who, after a brief entanglement, wants little to do with him. I have nothing against simple plots, but I think simple plots are difficult for novels to carry without superb prose writing. Unfortunately, as much as Felsen should be applauded for conjuring at least five thousand different ways to convey the protagonist’s desperation, it was nowhere near enough. The main character is absolutely exhausting and while I could tolerate his melodramatic droning on about his love for Lyolya for the first half of the book, I truly struggled in the last. Felsen’s writing is simply too much at times – mentions of the protagonist’s ‘suicidal triviality’ and ‘debasement’ made me roll my eyes and did absolutely nothing for me.
While the book was honestly not that bad overall, it definitely was not my cup of tea and I will not be revisiting it anytime soon.
While the book was honestly not that bad overall, it definitely was not my cup of tea and I will not be revisiting it anytime soon.
July 8, 2022
"It is impossible to live without deceit, however: we are made so that we shall never find our way out of this dead end, and, amid the other ever-present contradictions that seem to mock us is the need for deceit, at the the very least for an erroneous, arbitrary conjecture, or, more precisely, for that curious mental exertion that can be produced only by deception, and from which alone derives that most intriguing, most inexplicable activity of ours- shaking off the desolate human darkness, extracting more and more fragments of indisputable knowledge. Without this, there can be only ordinary, everyday, loathsome, impotent ennui, or else an icy sense of elation that is blind to both time and people and constitutes a living death"
Read
September 23, 2024inclined to say this is the text that has most dislodged my pathology from within my cavernous heart, because felsen, with spearlike precision, articulates these monstrous artefacts of the crush in such a way that with haste i must abandon them and pretend i never knew them, so as to avoid total humiliation.
like the simple stuff (that if the object were to know, would be horrific):
“I have often wanted—in moments of grief or fear—to cause myself deliberate physical pain (something like an inoculation from psychological pain), to attempt to recall something humiliating, shameful, unforgivable in my past: in this present suffering there is a pretentious inner posture that believes in its own righteousness and stands indignant before fate, and so it is necessary to deprive it of its nobility, its righteousness, its fervent belief in these things, to sweep out from under it the most solid foundation for any postures of suffering—a sense of injustice, a resentment of one's fate-and only then is deliverance possible.”
ex. the masochistic false compersion one tricks oneself into believing on account of a crush:
“I looked upon myself as his happy successor, but only now, since this letter, have I been overwhelmed by bouts of sympathy and burning curiosity, which is driven by some sort of diabolical affinity for my rival, by the prospect of having it out with him, as I have never done with any other. For so long I failed to see such a rival in Sergei N., one who arouses my curiosity and in whom I share an inadvertent kinship, for I have neither met him, nor had any direct confrontation with him, for it is not nagging, loathsome jealousy that has been drawing me to him, nor is it conciliatory (in the wake of jealousy and victory) forgiveness, but yesterday our sorry resemblance was suddenly revealed to me, and in that moment a pity—the very same that I lavish upon myself—was born of our kinship, and so, giving myself free rein, cutting loose and running wild, l imagined endless conversations filled with mutual admiration, conversations predicated on a sense of despair that was allayed by the spiritual depths that we both of us possessed.
These imaginary conversations, the possibility of such a meeting, seemed all the more pleasing to me since I had always maintained (because of all that I knew about Sergei N. or else had gathered from Lyolya) a perfectly singular attitude towards him-that of the semi-enamoured devotion we so readily feel for those to whom we necessarily or voluntarily submit (or for those to whom we should like to submit) and who as a rule simply do not notice us.”
and just the sadsack stuff:
“I recalled how last winter at Lyolya's I undressed in the dark, how embarrassed I was by my ice-cold legs, rubbing them for so long and fearing to touch Lyolya, and now it pains me to realise that the night is passing, and so with it all this wasted, living warmth meant for Lyolya. I felt something vaguely like this when I was a child, when the dog, loved and doted on by all our family, ran off one day during a walk, after which at each and every meal I would feel sad—with a touch of that same mercenariness that I now foster for what is untouched—that bones and titbits intended for our beloved pet were going to waste, no longer of use to anybody.”
the otherwise inappropriate behaviours:
“When she got up, I looked at her with mock entreaty, as though begging her to allow me to accompany her to the telephone and not to be left alone—previously, such 'unnecessary things' were not allowed, but now that the relationship is less obtrusive, 'without strings', and has a friendly air about it, Lyolya can no longer quibble with every one of my apparently romantic de-mands, and, with a laugh, she indicated her approval with a nod.”
“but it was that forgetfulness of hers that now enraged me, and childishly I promised myself never, but never to dance with her again.
All I could do was look at them and suddenly, accidentally discover how radiant they both were, how comfortable and well they looked together, both sitting and dancing.
[…] after they came towards me, as though in cahoots with each other, as though conspiring together against me (I always resent that sense of lovers' complicity) […] an overwhelming fear of helplessness came over me, the long-forgotten fear of childhood dreams—that I was sinking, that I had nobody to turn to, that nobody would come to my rescue. The pain, a real physical pain—chills interspersed with nausea and faintness—has already reached me and found its way into everything (my head, my chest, my stomach), and there is yet another, indescribable pain—that caused by the fact that I shall never again sit with Lyolya, never get up and leave, never entreat or quarrel with her, by the same infidelity, the destructiveness of every step, every situation that I am faced with […] (I could already foresee something absolutely excruciating coming down the tracks) […] They talked, as though I were invisible, gaily and tenderly—ever more tike conspirators—and that fear of helplessness inside me grew ever more acute, as did the constant chills and pain. I could no longer think things through or reach decisions—my flickering, foreshortened thoughts were groping for something new and previously unnoticed in both my companions, something that had manifested itself so very suddenly but now could not be found […] Granted, she remained, as it were, entirely closed to me (as far as she was concerned, I was, quite simply, not there, and never once did she turn to me or notice that I, in my umbrage, would not dance with her, never did she appreciate my crestfallen silence), but this Lyolya, in thrall to dark, greedy impulses, isolated and withdrawn from me, I recalled perfectly—by other, already present signs, only I had failed to recognise their cruel, affronting combination. Other disparate, disfigured thoughts also flashed through my mind—why was Bobby here (or was all this torment not sooner the rule for me, my fate, and did Bobby in fact have nothing at all to do with this), and why did neither Lyolya nor any of the people around us seem to recognise that the three of us had come here as friends, that out of nowhere the two of them had conspired to torment me, the third wheel, that this was not decent behaviour? I also tried to uncover the reason behind this unexpected favour: no matter how high I set myself, no matter how my tenacity, my inspired and necessary work moves me, inwardly I always register the successes of others, their victories over me, and I cannot settle for the excuse that I myself disdainfully refuse to fight, or that I am the victim of some misunderstanding or injustice (the perpetual mania of the defeated)
—no, I persistently, instinctively seek out what it was that led my opponent to victory, what it was that I lacked, and so, as I looked at Bobby, stifled by the hopelessness and intractability of each passing moment, not knowing what to do with myself or where to hide-right now, at home, tomorrow-I somehow managed to stumble upon the semblance of an explanation, an unexpected question that suggested so much-why were Bobby and Lyolya both radiant while Zina and I were dull? and why, of the four of us, am I the only one who apparently does not know his place (by Zina's side)? But since a semblance of an explanation had been found-albeit in the law of outward consistency (not inner, mind, much as I should have liked to findit and much as it would have been truer)—I had inadvertently found my way out of a dead end (if only mentally, continuing all the while in my heart to mourn) and could now preserve some sorry dignity, forget about my fragility and avoid courting pity: after after all, the ‘law’ cannot be changed. Then again, I did not even feel the urge to talk to Lyolya—because of the blind barrier that has sprung up between us, moreover, clear to us
both: in any friendship between two people, where one is somehow subordinate to the other (a son to a mother, a pupil to a teacher, a worker to his manager, one who is loving to another unloving), there comes a moment of danger when power begins to manifest itself, when friendship turns into control, a moment that is, for the subordinate, humiliating, painful, unforgivable—for me this rude change, this end to the usual warmth of friendship, this new imperious tone, the imposition of a new relationship is inmensely difficult, instils long-running resentment, particularly where women are concerned, particularly where it is a matter of 'loving' and 'unloving’, and such a cruel, arbitrary change, as Lyolya has had, always robs me of both courage and the hope of coming to some arrangement. To the bitter end, not once did I reproach Lyolya; the whole evening I spent in stubborn silence, evincing certain irreproachability—back there in the alley, owing to a combination of awkwardness and witlessness, there in the ballroom, owing to fear, insult, maybe even a well-reasoned sense of despair—among the myriad reasons that had provoked this chance irreproachability were both ay weakness and my strength.”
how pitifully antisocial you become:
“where any third party is present—that are indifferent and blasé, leaving anything of real substance to tête-à-têtes. What is simply beyond me is the knack for dealing with Bobby and Lyolya when they are together (dealing with each of them alone is difficult enough, and, after however many blunders, I can now see almost graphically how my pitiful attempts to find the right tone for one and the other (friendly and light-hearted for Bobby, and ironically afflicted for Lyolya) cross each other but never converge, and how I attempt to ingratiate myself, ait were, with each of them by turns, trying to land on a much-sought-after middle tone. I am also disturbed by the incessant radiance that continues to emanate from them, a radiance that is powerful beyond measure and much too cordinated if they are nearby.”
and vitriolic:
“Lyolya's allure is waning. I am lost and can no longer tell whether this unspeakable threat is true (or is it an invention of my own vengeful resentment?), whether that common trait-to give in to temptation, to the thrill of the chase'—applies to me, or whether I am so in love that success and rejection no longer hold any meaning for me, for I shall never convince myself to fall out of love and shall always be able to distinguish between reality and self-indulgence, and that, still, how paralysingly sweet it would be to stay with Lyolya for ever, to be her husband—and hence to be at once her guardian and her lover. But if my feelings have not in fact weakened, then Lyolya's disfavour has instilled and inspires yet in me something resentful and petty, something that reveals itself in ever more diverse ways, and drives out kindness, thoughtfulness and the immaculate sincerity of my feelings for her.
When I am alone, without Lyolya (and not only at night, in the grip of insomnia), I spend hours lustily imagining our vitriolic attempts to set the record straight, our ill-mannered yet well-founded rebukes, and, at the end of each disquisition, the irrevocable, pernicious words: 'Yes, I know you well enough by now-why only kick a man who's down when you can finish him off entirely?'”
and you knew all along :/ :
“My answer is that it was despite myself. But that isn't enough for you, and so you're forcing me to say what you already know full well. Yes, I hated you. There you have it. It's a known condition—irritation to the point of hatred, directed against those who dare to love us, those we can't get rid of-unless we ourselves love?
A thought struck me: here was an untimely explanation for all my callousness towards Zina, after all that obliging kindness that had suddenly brightened me. Interrupting this thought, Lyolya carried on implacably explaining, indignant at my attacks and her own unspoken rebukes that had doubtless accumulated over a long period of time:
"You used to tell me to take a good look at myself. But if only you could have seen yourself, too-how unpleasant you were at times. You hounded me every minute. I could always feel that scrutiny, that detective's gaze of yours- especially if I was dancing, or if I was lying on the bed and Bobby was sitting beside me. You almost seemed to want something to happen right there in front of you. You were shameless!
Bobby used to ask me, over and over again, what right you had to watch and why I allowed it. Don't forget: you were spoiling a rare and, for all that, pleasant time for me?
Then, with glaring inconsistency (as if she had been unburdened, just as I had been, of everything that was weighing her down), Lyolya, for the first time since our trip, smiled at me as she used to do, gratifyingly and knowingly—granted, she was exhausted, half-unconvinced and distant—and, as she used to do, she embraced me tenderly-this embrace proved kinder, more real than any of our thorny accounts of the past-and just then I rediscovered those familiar, but forever alive, caresses of ours.”
and so i would love to believe this:
“Now I can speak of love more soberly and soundly than usual: now begins that most pleasant part of writing, the most truthful and focused, when the resistant lull of lethargy, the temptation to dream and rest, has been over-come, when the outside world—my greatest challenge—has more or less been put to bed, when all that remains are self-evident conclusions that have long been apparent, conclusions that suggest themselves readily, matter-of-factly, and dispassionately.”
“Any human transcendence—whether it be lovingly idealistic and self-sacrificing or achieved through faith—provided that it does not become a wonted, stagnant duty, is a kind of ardour that is cooled, only for it continually to re-emerge somewhere, and it is a genuine ardour, one that we cannot replace and cannot force. To descend, to fly off and not attain some new transcendence, is impossible, and since other possible attempts have been killed by my natural ineptitude, by some unforgettable and crushing blow, I will not mortify the only possibility that remains: if I have been given no other pinnacle than love, and no other love than Lyolya, and if love, as well as any pinnacle, is but a deception, and Lyolya embodies deceit, and if today, alone with her, without any rival, in the moment of my most passionate hope, she has definitively pushed me away, then I shall not run away, nor shall I repress anything inside me, but rather I shall offer up my already dwindling strength to the cruel and fertile whims of love's divinity, to the god of love who has never forsaken me, nor yet claimed my victory. One could easily suspect that all this is a game, that I am embellishing and, as it were, crafting an artificial love, or, on the contrary, that I am contriving clever arguments lest I pluck out my beating love for Lyolya, but then it is I who must suffer because of this love, I who must wait for Lyolya's uncomprehending callousness, who must horribly and irreparably debase myself before her, who must depend on Bobby and on absurd external circumstances, I who must witness their intolerable power, at night, in the midst of insomnia, I who must curse my suicidal triviality and, in my improbable nightly fantasies, disfigure and blacken that same Lyolya for whom all this was begun and endured; what's more, experience has taught me to prepare for the worst when the going is good, and that shall find no good in the bad—more than that, that I have a sense of honour like any other man, and that I do not have any special aptitude for self-edification, that a reciprocated earthly love is, I believe, the most worthy and beautiful kind of love, and that the first pain will come the very moment the work distracting you from that love ends–such a hopeless choice is not a sophistry, nor is it a pose or a game, but an attempt to remain true (even amid misfortune) to some human purpose, perhaps misunderstood, but binding me all the same, if I am to understand it in this way, and can no fault in such understanding.”
like the simple stuff (that if the object were to know, would be horrific):
“I have often wanted—in moments of grief or fear—to cause myself deliberate physical pain (something like an inoculation from psychological pain), to attempt to recall something humiliating, shameful, unforgivable in my past: in this present suffering there is a pretentious inner posture that believes in its own righteousness and stands indignant before fate, and so it is necessary to deprive it of its nobility, its righteousness, its fervent belief in these things, to sweep out from under it the most solid foundation for any postures of suffering—a sense of injustice, a resentment of one's fate-and only then is deliverance possible.”
ex. the masochistic false compersion one tricks oneself into believing on account of a crush:
“I looked upon myself as his happy successor, but only now, since this letter, have I been overwhelmed by bouts of sympathy and burning curiosity, which is driven by some sort of diabolical affinity for my rival, by the prospect of having it out with him, as I have never done with any other. For so long I failed to see such a rival in Sergei N., one who arouses my curiosity and in whom I share an inadvertent kinship, for I have neither met him, nor had any direct confrontation with him, for it is not nagging, loathsome jealousy that has been drawing me to him, nor is it conciliatory (in the wake of jealousy and victory) forgiveness, but yesterday our sorry resemblance was suddenly revealed to me, and in that moment a pity—the very same that I lavish upon myself—was born of our kinship, and so, giving myself free rein, cutting loose and running wild, l imagined endless conversations filled with mutual admiration, conversations predicated on a sense of despair that was allayed by the spiritual depths that we both of us possessed.
These imaginary conversations, the possibility of such a meeting, seemed all the more pleasing to me since I had always maintained (because of all that I knew about Sergei N. or else had gathered from Lyolya) a perfectly singular attitude towards him-that of the semi-enamoured devotion we so readily feel for those to whom we necessarily or voluntarily submit (or for those to whom we should like to submit) and who as a rule simply do not notice us.”
and just the sadsack stuff:
“I recalled how last winter at Lyolya's I undressed in the dark, how embarrassed I was by my ice-cold legs, rubbing them for so long and fearing to touch Lyolya, and now it pains me to realise that the night is passing, and so with it all this wasted, living warmth meant for Lyolya. I felt something vaguely like this when I was a child, when the dog, loved and doted on by all our family, ran off one day during a walk, after which at each and every meal I would feel sad—with a touch of that same mercenariness that I now foster for what is untouched—that bones and titbits intended for our beloved pet were going to waste, no longer of use to anybody.”
the otherwise inappropriate behaviours:
“When she got up, I looked at her with mock entreaty, as though begging her to allow me to accompany her to the telephone and not to be left alone—previously, such 'unnecessary things' were not allowed, but now that the relationship is less obtrusive, 'without strings', and has a friendly air about it, Lyolya can no longer quibble with every one of my apparently romantic de-mands, and, with a laugh, she indicated her approval with a nod.”
“but it was that forgetfulness of hers that now enraged me, and childishly I promised myself never, but never to dance with her again.
All I could do was look at them and suddenly, accidentally discover how radiant they both were, how comfortable and well they looked together, both sitting and dancing.
[…] after they came towards me, as though in cahoots with each other, as though conspiring together against me (I always resent that sense of lovers' complicity) […] an overwhelming fear of helplessness came over me, the long-forgotten fear of childhood dreams—that I was sinking, that I had nobody to turn to, that nobody would come to my rescue. The pain, a real physical pain—chills interspersed with nausea and faintness—has already reached me and found its way into everything (my head, my chest, my stomach), and there is yet another, indescribable pain—that caused by the fact that I shall never again sit with Lyolya, never get up and leave, never entreat or quarrel with her, by the same infidelity, the destructiveness of every step, every situation that I am faced with […] (I could already foresee something absolutely excruciating coming down the tracks) […] They talked, as though I were invisible, gaily and tenderly—ever more tike conspirators—and that fear of helplessness inside me grew ever more acute, as did the constant chills and pain. I could no longer think things through or reach decisions—my flickering, foreshortened thoughts were groping for something new and previously unnoticed in both my companions, something that had manifested itself so very suddenly but now could not be found […] Granted, she remained, as it were, entirely closed to me (as far as she was concerned, I was, quite simply, not there, and never once did she turn to me or notice that I, in my umbrage, would not dance with her, never did she appreciate my crestfallen silence), but this Lyolya, in thrall to dark, greedy impulses, isolated and withdrawn from me, I recalled perfectly—by other, already present signs, only I had failed to recognise their cruel, affronting combination. Other disparate, disfigured thoughts also flashed through my mind—why was Bobby here (or was all this torment not sooner the rule for me, my fate, and did Bobby in fact have nothing at all to do with this), and why did neither Lyolya nor any of the people around us seem to recognise that the three of us had come here as friends, that out of nowhere the two of them had conspired to torment me, the third wheel, that this was not decent behaviour? I also tried to uncover the reason behind this unexpected favour: no matter how high I set myself, no matter how my tenacity, my inspired and necessary work moves me, inwardly I always register the successes of others, their victories over me, and I cannot settle for the excuse that I myself disdainfully refuse to fight, or that I am the victim of some misunderstanding or injustice (the perpetual mania of the defeated)
—no, I persistently, instinctively seek out what it was that led my opponent to victory, what it was that I lacked, and so, as I looked at Bobby, stifled by the hopelessness and intractability of each passing moment, not knowing what to do with myself or where to hide-right now, at home, tomorrow-I somehow managed to stumble upon the semblance of an explanation, an unexpected question that suggested so much-why were Bobby and Lyolya both radiant while Zina and I were dull? and why, of the four of us, am I the only one who apparently does not know his place (by Zina's side)? But since a semblance of an explanation had been found-albeit in the law of outward consistency (not inner, mind, much as I should have liked to findit and much as it would have been truer)—I had inadvertently found my way out of a dead end (if only mentally, continuing all the while in my heart to mourn) and could now preserve some sorry dignity, forget about my fragility and avoid courting pity: after after all, the ‘law’ cannot be changed. Then again, I did not even feel the urge to talk to Lyolya—because of the blind barrier that has sprung up between us, moreover, clear to us
both: in any friendship between two people, where one is somehow subordinate to the other (a son to a mother, a pupil to a teacher, a worker to his manager, one who is loving to another unloving), there comes a moment of danger when power begins to manifest itself, when friendship turns into control, a moment that is, for the subordinate, humiliating, painful, unforgivable—for me this rude change, this end to the usual warmth of friendship, this new imperious tone, the imposition of a new relationship is inmensely difficult, instils long-running resentment, particularly where women are concerned, particularly where it is a matter of 'loving' and 'unloving’, and such a cruel, arbitrary change, as Lyolya has had, always robs me of both courage and the hope of coming to some arrangement. To the bitter end, not once did I reproach Lyolya; the whole evening I spent in stubborn silence, evincing certain irreproachability—back there in the alley, owing to a combination of awkwardness and witlessness, there in the ballroom, owing to fear, insult, maybe even a well-reasoned sense of despair—among the myriad reasons that had provoked this chance irreproachability were both ay weakness and my strength.”
how pitifully antisocial you become:
“where any third party is present—that are indifferent and blasé, leaving anything of real substance to tête-à-têtes. What is simply beyond me is the knack for dealing with Bobby and Lyolya when they are together (dealing with each of them alone is difficult enough, and, after however many blunders, I can now see almost graphically how my pitiful attempts to find the right tone for one and the other (friendly and light-hearted for Bobby, and ironically afflicted for Lyolya) cross each other but never converge, and how I attempt to ingratiate myself, ait were, with each of them by turns, trying to land on a much-sought-after middle tone. I am also disturbed by the incessant radiance that continues to emanate from them, a radiance that is powerful beyond measure and much too cordinated if they are nearby.”
and vitriolic:
“Lyolya's allure is waning. I am lost and can no longer tell whether this unspeakable threat is true (or is it an invention of my own vengeful resentment?), whether that common trait-to give in to temptation, to the thrill of the chase'—applies to me, or whether I am so in love that success and rejection no longer hold any meaning for me, for I shall never convince myself to fall out of love and shall always be able to distinguish between reality and self-indulgence, and that, still, how paralysingly sweet it would be to stay with Lyolya for ever, to be her husband—and hence to be at once her guardian and her lover. But if my feelings have not in fact weakened, then Lyolya's disfavour has instilled and inspires yet in me something resentful and petty, something that reveals itself in ever more diverse ways, and drives out kindness, thoughtfulness and the immaculate sincerity of my feelings for her.
When I am alone, without Lyolya (and not only at night, in the grip of insomnia), I spend hours lustily imagining our vitriolic attempts to set the record straight, our ill-mannered yet well-founded rebukes, and, at the end of each disquisition, the irrevocable, pernicious words: 'Yes, I know you well enough by now-why only kick a man who's down when you can finish him off entirely?'”
and you knew all along :/ :
“My answer is that it was despite myself. But that isn't enough for you, and so you're forcing me to say what you already know full well. Yes, I hated you. There you have it. It's a known condition—irritation to the point of hatred, directed against those who dare to love us, those we can't get rid of-unless we ourselves love?
A thought struck me: here was an untimely explanation for all my callousness towards Zina, after all that obliging kindness that had suddenly brightened me. Interrupting this thought, Lyolya carried on implacably explaining, indignant at my attacks and her own unspoken rebukes that had doubtless accumulated over a long period of time:
"You used to tell me to take a good look at myself. But if only you could have seen yourself, too-how unpleasant you were at times. You hounded me every minute. I could always feel that scrutiny, that detective's gaze of yours- especially if I was dancing, or if I was lying on the bed and Bobby was sitting beside me. You almost seemed to want something to happen right there in front of you. You were shameless!
Bobby used to ask me, over and over again, what right you had to watch and why I allowed it. Don't forget: you were spoiling a rare and, for all that, pleasant time for me?
Then, with glaring inconsistency (as if she had been unburdened, just as I had been, of everything that was weighing her down), Lyolya, for the first time since our trip, smiled at me as she used to do, gratifyingly and knowingly—granted, she was exhausted, half-unconvinced and distant—and, as she used to do, she embraced me tenderly-this embrace proved kinder, more real than any of our thorny accounts of the past-and just then I rediscovered those familiar, but forever alive, caresses of ours.”
and so i would love to believe this:
“Now I can speak of love more soberly and soundly than usual: now begins that most pleasant part of writing, the most truthful and focused, when the resistant lull of lethargy, the temptation to dream and rest, has been over-come, when the outside world—my greatest challenge—has more or less been put to bed, when all that remains are self-evident conclusions that have long been apparent, conclusions that suggest themselves readily, matter-of-factly, and dispassionately.”
“Any human transcendence—whether it be lovingly idealistic and self-sacrificing or achieved through faith—provided that it does not become a wonted, stagnant duty, is a kind of ardour that is cooled, only for it continually to re-emerge somewhere, and it is a genuine ardour, one that we cannot replace and cannot force. To descend, to fly off and not attain some new transcendence, is impossible, and since other possible attempts have been killed by my natural ineptitude, by some unforgettable and crushing blow, I will not mortify the only possibility that remains: if I have been given no other pinnacle than love, and no other love than Lyolya, and if love, as well as any pinnacle, is but a deception, and Lyolya embodies deceit, and if today, alone with her, without any rival, in the moment of my most passionate hope, she has definitively pushed me away, then I shall not run away, nor shall I repress anything inside me, but rather I shall offer up my already dwindling strength to the cruel and fertile whims of love's divinity, to the god of love who has never forsaken me, nor yet claimed my victory. One could easily suspect that all this is a game, that I am embellishing and, as it were, crafting an artificial love, or, on the contrary, that I am contriving clever arguments lest I pluck out my beating love for Lyolya, but then it is I who must suffer because of this love, I who must wait for Lyolya's uncomprehending callousness, who must horribly and irreparably debase myself before her, who must depend on Bobby and on absurd external circumstances, I who must witness their intolerable power, at night, in the midst of insomnia, I who must curse my suicidal triviality and, in my improbable nightly fantasies, disfigure and blacken that same Lyolya for whom all this was begun and endured; what's more, experience has taught me to prepare for the worst when the going is good, and that shall find no good in the bad—more than that, that I have a sense of honour like any other man, and that I do not have any special aptitude for self-edification, that a reciprocated earthly love is, I believe, the most worthy and beautiful kind of love, and that the first pain will come the very moment the work distracting you from that love ends–such a hopeless choice is not a sophistry, nor is it a pose or a game, but an attempt to remain true (even amid misfortune) to some human purpose, perhaps misunderstood, but binding me all the same, if I am to understand it in this way, and can no fault in such understanding.”
December 21, 2022
Deceit by Yuri Felsen would not be an easy read—I knew that much from the first page. Everything from the distinctively complex prose to the mildly distasteful thoughts that flowed line by line built it up to be a patient and focused read. Thus, I had hope that all this would weave together a work as masterfully impactful as the praise surrounding it claimed. At the end of the 256 pages, I can simply say that it was…serviceable.
Our unnamed narrator, whose thoughts and feelings we get submerged in for the entirety of the book, meets the perfectly lovely Lyolya, and launches into an eager friendship that rapidly moves towards what the narrator would believe to be a romance, and even love. As readers, we can be entirely sure that the situation is anything but. From the very first thoughts of our narrator as he regards Lyolya and her effect on him, and all the way to the last journal entry, the narrator’s shameless deceit in wooing Lyolya, his vulgar commentary on the women that he encounters, and his delusions of himself all combine to form a bold, truthful look into limerence and what it makes of people.
All the same, this thorough look at a man falling through such obsession simply didn’t quite land with me. While I appreciate the honesty of Felsen—who did not in the least bother with including anything a reader could genuinely like—I remain unmoved by the thoughts presented in this novel. They’re not unfounded, by any means, nor are they particularly irrelevant either. After all, it would not be entirely outrageous to point out similar tendencies in our current society’s idea of romance and relationships. I suspect, rather, that my apathy towards the exploration of the novel comes from its presentation. This is my preference, of course: others can and certainly have found it excellent and striking in its own right. I, however, simply cannot terribly appreciate a novel that I couldn’t find my personal connection to. Felsen’s prose potentially got in the way of my empathizing with the narrator here, which in turn, left our protagonist as nothing but an unlikeable, stumbling character in my mind. At the end of 256 pages of emotional turmoil alongside the obsessed narrator, all I can do is shrug.
That is not to say that the prose didn’t have its highlights, though. Quotes such as “the doggish devotion to the hand that pushes it away; the benediction of a tormentress who cares nothing for us; the confession (even if fictitious) of a criminal before a judge who is just and “understands all”; the facelessness of first-rate soldiers, who blend, as it were, into their commanding officer-cum-father; the faith schoolboys hold in the wisdom of a favorite teacher…” captured Felsen’s ability to deliver deeply personal experiences poignantly and poetically. Nonetheless, the prose on the whole was not a great fit for me.
While I didn’t quite appreciate this novel, I didn’t dislike it either. A solid 3 stars from me.
Thank you to Netgalley and Astra House for the ARC in exchange for an honest review.
Our unnamed narrator, whose thoughts and feelings we get submerged in for the entirety of the book, meets the perfectly lovely Lyolya, and launches into an eager friendship that rapidly moves towards what the narrator would believe to be a romance, and even love. As readers, we can be entirely sure that the situation is anything but. From the very first thoughts of our narrator as he regards Lyolya and her effect on him, and all the way to the last journal entry, the narrator’s shameless deceit in wooing Lyolya, his vulgar commentary on the women that he encounters, and his delusions of himself all combine to form a bold, truthful look into limerence and what it makes of people.
All the same, this thorough look at a man falling through such obsession simply didn’t quite land with me. While I appreciate the honesty of Felsen—who did not in the least bother with including anything a reader could genuinely like—I remain unmoved by the thoughts presented in this novel. They’re not unfounded, by any means, nor are they particularly irrelevant either. After all, it would not be entirely outrageous to point out similar tendencies in our current society’s idea of romance and relationships. I suspect, rather, that my apathy towards the exploration of the novel comes from its presentation. This is my preference, of course: others can and certainly have found it excellent and striking in its own right. I, however, simply cannot terribly appreciate a novel that I couldn’t find my personal connection to. Felsen’s prose potentially got in the way of my empathizing with the narrator here, which in turn, left our protagonist as nothing but an unlikeable, stumbling character in my mind. At the end of 256 pages of emotional turmoil alongside the obsessed narrator, all I can do is shrug.
That is not to say that the prose didn’t have its highlights, though. Quotes such as “the doggish devotion to the hand that pushes it away; the benediction of a tormentress who cares nothing for us; the confession (even if fictitious) of a criminal before a judge who is just and “understands all”; the facelessness of first-rate soldiers, who blend, as it were, into their commanding officer-cum-father; the faith schoolboys hold in the wisdom of a favorite teacher…” captured Felsen’s ability to deliver deeply personal experiences poignantly and poetically. Nonetheless, the prose on the whole was not a great fit for me.
While I didn’t quite appreciate this novel, I didn’t dislike it either. A solid 3 stars from me.
Thank you to Netgalley and Astra House for the ARC in exchange for an honest review.
March 6, 2024
I keep waffling between enjoying this book a lot and not liking it at all. On one hand, it is page after page of rambling musings that are easy to get lost in. But I do appreciate the stream of consciousness the writer conveys with these page long sentences.
On the other hand, the situations our unnamed narrator finds himself in while trying to process his unfettered love for the beautiful Lyolya are painfully relatable. And I do enjoy how the author uses the ramblings of the narrator to show how his mind runs away from him, how every worry and every moment is consumed by his obsession with Lyolya. It’s almost comforting to know that these emotions, though written about in the 1930s are some that I (and many others) still experience in the early stages of crushes and loves.
Though oftentimes hard to follow, the book still highlights key moments of the human experience.
So I think I’ll rate it a 3.75 and round to 4 stars. I’m probably only rating it lower because it can be difficult to understand at times, but in that case we should probably be docking points from the reader and not the writer.
I recommend for those who like slice of life books with a classic feel and are ready for a bit of brain hurt:)
On the other hand, the situations our unnamed narrator finds himself in while trying to process his unfettered love for the beautiful Lyolya are painfully relatable. And I do enjoy how the author uses the ramblings of the narrator to show how his mind runs away from him, how every worry and every moment is consumed by his obsession with Lyolya. It’s almost comforting to know that these emotions, though written about in the 1930s are some that I (and many others) still experience in the early stages of crushes and loves.
Though oftentimes hard to follow, the book still highlights key moments of the human experience.
So I think I’ll rate it a 3.75 and round to 4 stars. I’m probably only rating it lower because it can be difficult to understand at times, but in that case we should probably be docking points from the reader and not the writer.
I recommend for those who like slice of life books with a classic feel and are ready for a bit of brain hurt:)
April 5, 2024
Deceit by Yuri Felsen
Through this novel we follow an unnamed narrator's diary entries who becomes obsessed with the elusive Lyolya. This unreliable narrator is consumed by her but ultimately does not see how vulgar his treatment of her and other women are. He is a conflicted and boorish man with his needs at the centre of his narrative.
Despite the negative subject matter, the prose and writing are beautiful. The novel regards love as the most important thing, to our narrator, in life and this begins interesting discussions of who men versus women view this. As, in earlier times in particular, women favoured security over passion and men tended to favour the later. I think reading this from a woman's perspective was particularly interesting.
Important to note that Yuri Felsen's work has been largely unknown due to his tragic end. A victim of the Shoah, taken to Auschwitz in 1943, Yuri's archive and work disappeared. Reading through this book you can tell that his writing and prose would have given us some more brilliant work in his lifetime.
Through this novel we follow an unnamed narrator's diary entries who becomes obsessed with the elusive Lyolya. This unreliable narrator is consumed by her but ultimately does not see how vulgar his treatment of her and other women are. He is a conflicted and boorish man with his needs at the centre of his narrative.
Despite the negative subject matter, the prose and writing are beautiful. The novel regards love as the most important thing, to our narrator, in life and this begins interesting discussions of who men versus women view this. As, in earlier times in particular, women favoured security over passion and men tended to favour the later. I think reading this from a woman's perspective was particularly interesting.
Important to note that Yuri Felsen's work has been largely unknown due to his tragic end. A victim of the Shoah, taken to Auschwitz in 1943, Yuri's archive and work disappeared. Reading through this book you can tell that his writing and prose would have given us some more brilliant work in his lifetime.
March 14, 2025
“plainly, those whom we love at any given moment appear poeticized and near to us even in the memories that predate that love (if such memories in any way concern the object of our affection), while those whom we have ceased to love, whom we have replaced — seem dull and unpoetic not only now, but even in our romantic past, which is cast in a light (despite the truth of the matter in our heads) determined not by how we felt then, but by how we feel now.”
very beautiful prose and unfortunately quite relatable. the narrator finds his mind constantly and utterly obsessed with lyola but in all his musings, he lacks a lot of the recognition with himself and views himself (and her to an extent) to be the next recipient of her love even though to the reader he is very obviously not.
however, for as beautiful as it was, it didn’t click for me. i’m not sure what it was about it, but it fell slightly flat in its entirety. maybe it was the slight entitlement i felt while reading his thoughts, but here we are.
very beautiful prose and unfortunately quite relatable. the narrator finds his mind constantly and utterly obsessed with lyola but in all his musings, he lacks a lot of the recognition with himself and views himself (and her to an extent) to be the next recipient of her love even though to the reader he is very obviously not.
however, for as beautiful as it was, it didn’t click for me. i’m not sure what it was about it, but it fell slightly flat in its entirety. maybe it was the slight entitlement i felt while reading his thoughts, but here we are.
August 14, 2022
This is the first book published in the UK by Yuri Felsen. The novel is presented in diary form with an unnamed narrator and his anticipated "love affair" with Lyolya in Paris.
As you progress through the novel it depicts the narrators thwarted attempts to secure Loloyta's love to an extent that it becomes obsessive. In many ways this reminds me of Marcel Proust's "In Search of Lost Time" series but not so complicated!
As you progress through the novel it depicts the narrators thwarted attempts to secure Loloyta's love to an extent that it becomes obsessive. In many ways this reminds me of Marcel Proust's "In Search of Lost Time" series but not so complicated!
November 6, 2025
the whole book, not being very easy at times to read/understand and, dare I say, deceptive, while at times also being very 'ennui', kind of makes it's point in the way it's written. only to give you the final slap in the face of why you stuck around as long as you did in the final pages.
all and all, good, but a bit painful read. would recommend for those looking for a book that speaks on a philosophy hidden within the whole.
all and all, good, but a bit painful read. would recommend for those looking for a book that speaks on a philosophy hidden within the whole.
February 9, 2024
Deliciously thick prose style (I’ve seen it called “sticky”) and maddeningly deep psychological insight. This is a portrait of obsessive and self-obsessed love that layers in the questions of how truthful we ever are with ourselves or with others—it’s the sort of novel where almost all the action and momentum are purely internal.
January 24, 2024
A hidden gem! If you love beautiful prose, this book is for you. My copy is completely marked up from how many quotes I underlined!
April 15, 2024
Not for me. Too many words too little action.
June 16, 2024
aka Diary of a “where’s my hug at” Guy
May 26, 2024
3.5/5 gifted by the publisher
Written in the form of a diary, this story follows an unnamed MMC as he recounts his complex relationship with his muse. In traditional Russian novelists' all vibes no plot, overthinking with existential crisis, poetic prose that gets philosophical, DECEIT examines the truth behind human nature in a world where lies, love, and obsessions are intricately intertwined. While I can't say I enjoyed being in the mind of this *problematic* protagonist and unreliable narrator, I appreciate Felsen's honesty in portraying the deception one performs when they are in love.
Written in the form of a diary, this story follows an unnamed MMC as he recounts his complex relationship with his muse. In traditional Russian novelists' all vibes no plot, overthinking with existential crisis, poetic prose that gets philosophical, DECEIT examines the truth behind human nature in a world where lies, love, and obsessions are intricately intertwined. While I can't say I enjoyed being in the mind of this *problematic* protagonist and unreliable narrator, I appreciate Felsen's honesty in portraying the deception one performs when they are in love.
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