The Russians

 I read books serendipitous (based on what I find) and connected (based on what they remind me off).

This often leads me into long reading sessions and ends with numerous books open and half read throughout the apartment.  

The morning diary gave me a story about Gorbachev and Yeltsin during the end of the Soviet union, when an entire country was dismantled, sold or stolen within a few days. It was written by Anatolij Tjernjajev, historian and advisor to Gorbachev that I have never heard of. In the days of the US midterm elections 2026, what feels as a destiny deciding election, it echoes.

But I instead am drawn to the Russians. I have some time picked up a book from a free-books-bookcase; Europa by Maxim Grigoriev (2021). It turned out different than I must have thought it was, a political study. Instead it is a dreamlike novel about second and third generation emigrées from Russia, who primarily settled in France after the establishment of the Soviet Union. Names mentioned as being on old persons bookcases, quoted and remembered send me to Nina Berberova -The Italics Are Mine. A veritable goldmine of Russian literature, and literary life in France before, during and after the Second World War. A great book with wonderful language (although a translation; Great job, thanks, Philippe Radley.)

The book Europa covers my neighbourhood in Brussels, areas of Paris I have walked through, streets in Nice I have visited; I realise the importance of travels. Pointless, unimportant travels, with lots of experiences that are not pre-planned and pre-experienced. Later in life they form a kaleidoscopic patchwork of experiences to fit everybody else onto. 

I don't seek out novels, they irritate me mostly, but this one I cannot put down. I think I would loose the grip of the dreamlike characters in the story if I stop reading. I also know I will need to read my Majakovski (Mayakovski) book I Love by Ann and Samuel Charters. I have promised myself to not read "The Russians" in the fall, as they inevitably make me sad (and I do not need that). But Maxim Grigoriev and Nina Berberova, being refugées (as Bunin always identified himself as), holds something both tragic and recognisable that I resonate with jumping countries and cultures in my life. Not immigrant in the horrible American accent and definition, but emigrée or refugée - new to the country. 

An outside observer, sometimes friendly, always analytical, occasionally critical. 

Vital for the growth of a society.