#littlefailure

Little Failure by Gary Shteyngart

Was typing for an update on Sagan’s Cosmos in prev post when I forgot that Tumblr can be a bitch sometimes - thanks for wiping out the entire 1k-word update on parts of the book that mattered a lot to me - so now I’m typing on my google docs about another book. Wanted  to make a second attempt but left the copy at my parents’ place and on the due date itself I just had to ask my mom to return the book on my behalf… (“Yeah the one with the black cover, entitled Cosmos just like the magic jar brand” thx mom)

Anyway as I’m typing this right now this other book is two days late - I finished it on the due date itself actually but I wanted to write a little about it before its overdue journey back to the public library

I brushed with Shteyngart’s work briefly a few years ago (Super Sad True Love Story - which strangely enough, does not remind me of any romantic encounters elaborated in the book, can only recall bits of the dystopian near-future background eg personality rating, the financial chaos - not sure if it’s followed by homeostasis), and it turned out to be one of my favorite books. I noticed that I probably have this tendency to read an author’s most prominent work and jump into their memoir if any is available (last onewas J Winterson’s), instead of exploring the depth of their works via reading their other less-known books… I think with books I go for breadth because there are so many on my list right now. Relating to a body of work is pretty easy for me, but then I try to be more “present” when I’m reading them so as to absorb the nuances, be aware of the images the author is trying to conjure up - I think this is the difficult part for me. Also my memory is failing, I feel, hence the existence of this book log

So Gary (born Igor), hailing from Leningrad, USSR, had to leave with his nuclear family for the US due to the series of wars that at that time had the dangerous possibility of involving nuclear weapons. But the story went even further, back to WWII, back to when his Grandpa died in the battlefield (in a fashion less glamorous than Gary had imagined it to be), back to when his mother’s side of family inherited Jewish blood. Another immigrant story? I think Shteyngart is pretty strong with prose/words - so it’s never a bore no matter how many accounts of immigrant struggle you have run through before this one. It’s a no wonder because Gary started writing since ridiculously young, probably like some of us, but the difference is that the habit carried on for years…and years, and before you know it, Gary testified that he had come across a lot of difficulties life has to offer but never, according to him, “a writer’s block.” I don’t know if I would trade chunks of my writer’s block with more of life challenges (on a second thought, no thank you)

The Soviet culture is probably one of those that I am really unfamiliar with, I have not consumed their films/books for some reason (although I am constantly dusting off an imaginary copy of Dostoyevsky’s Crime and Punishment, getting old and cold in my to-read list). My most memorable encounters that are (not very) relevant to the region are probably Vans x Gosha Rubchinskiy shoes, Enemy - an American film adaptation of Dostoyevsky's other novel The Idiot, and BuzzFeed-esque lists on my news feed - constantly cajoling me with the borderline otherworldly allure of Eastern Europe beauties.

So reading this opened my eyes a little, I am now left with a sizeable amount of curiosity about Kiev-style chicken cutlets and the bleeding purple-red gravy of beet borscht (first things first, gotta keep your stomach satiated). And not just that (duh), also how kinship is a big deal, especially since they moved together to the US - gotta stick to your kind, your own breed. Compared to their American counterpart, the word privacy seems nonexistent in Russian parents’ dictionary, something relatable to me except that I can never escape it even as I am reaching my quarter life milestone (in two years…. gasp!!!!).

More than anything, Shteyngart’s memoir has most to do with his relationship with parents, friends, and writing (in that order). Gary’s closest friend in his not-so-young adulthood - his most arduous and giving literary critic, his most loving companion cum faux-father - Jonathan, crafted this particularly well thought-out letter that read like bits of a piece by a prominent figure on brain pickings:

You are not a child and I am not your parent.

(...)

You are no longer twenty as you were when we met. You are pushing thirty. The wounded child in a defensive rage has become an adult man hurting himself and inflicting pain on others.

You are still close enough to the beginning of adulthood that you can change.

Do you want to spend your life as a frightened angry person taking your deepest fears and problems out on innocent bystanders, as well as on yourself?

(...)

You have to decide to take yourself seriously, not in a phony self-pitying way, but in a serious, dignified way.

(...)

When do you reach the point that you are no longer so fragile that you can’t see beyond your own pain?

And I loved this part in particular when describing Gary’s wife:

Even though I am “the writer,” she reads more than I do. She folds the pages of the books she reads when she wants to remember something important. Her favorite books are accordions, testaments to an endless search for meaning.