Good at actualizing modalities of its region, but laden with male gaze
Most interesting takes on national literature always come from outsiders—like Kulbak’s “Raysn,” both silly and convincing, or Gogol’s “Mirgorod.”
Rafeyenko also has that complex background which lets him synthesise different worlds. Not he’s only a writer with seven Russian-language novels, but also a literary critic. In 2014 he was displaced from Donetsk to Kyiv (I have little understanding what chunk of life he had lost then, and it’s a bad habit to draw conclusions from person’s literary alter egos). A year ago, I’ve read his second-to-last book, “Length of Days,” about the presence of the war in Donetsk and Kyiv, about “national unity” that struggles to be born.
It’s pretty common to see national myths using women as substitute for Homeland, giving them roles to play in the national order: of a mother, of a lover, so one may seek her valorously, or loose her tragically. Rafeyenko too uses such …
Most interesting takes on national literature always come from outsiders—like Kulbak’s “Raysn,” both silly and convincing, or Gogol’s “Mirgorod.”
Rafeyenko also has that complex background which lets him synthesise different worlds. Not he’s only a writer with seven Russian-language novels, but also a literary critic. In 2014 he was displaced from Donetsk to Kyiv (I have little understanding what chunk of life he had lost then, and it’s a bad habit to draw conclusions from person’s literary alter egos). A year ago, I’ve read his second-to-last book, “Length of Days,” about the presence of the war in Donetsk and Kyiv, about “national unity” that struggles to be born.
It’s pretty common to see national myths using women as substitute for Homeland, giving them roles to play in the national order: of a mother, of a lover, so one may seek her valorously, or loose her tragically. Rafeyenko too uses such a trope, putting the name of his Lady Vitchyzna in the title, of one who was misinterpreted to be real.
Rafeyenko’s protagonist, Haba admits his relationship with women is complicated—he lost his love on the account of Russian invasion to the City of Z (Donetsk’s doppelgänger) with both his home and his language. As a displaced person in Kyiv, he tries to be an ideal Ukrainian, so he craves new normality—and he eventually finds it in a family, with his woman (the one that in reality never abandoned him) and his ancestors as his children. Along the way he renounces his role as a consumer in a complexity of Kyiv’s life, written in a form of a shopping mall, then of a cinema.
The field of opportunities which Rafeyenko depicts his characters in is sad and claustrophobic, yet the language he uses is spectacular. I’ve read it in Ukrainian and cannot imagine how much even a skilled translator can discard and adapt and how many footnotes they should provide for the reader to understand all Rafeyenko’s puns, his slips into Russian and regional lore. Though it was translated into English last year, so give it a try.