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      • Fiction

        Something Real

        by Martin Algus

        Inspired by true events and written as a dialogue between two men, Algus’s debut novel offers an opportunity to peer deep into the darkest currents of the human soul in today’s internet-entangled world. The story is captivating in such a horrifying way that one delves into the fi nest nuances almost unintentionally, envisioning minute details and experiencing fear as well as sympathy in situations into which one might otherwise never have thought of putting themselves, much less expecting to understand them. Something Real is an intense expedition that plunges the reader into issues of loneliness, foolishness, greed, as well as simple chance and curiosity. The shadowy world of the internet gives one of the characters – a young man recently released from prison – the abhorrent idea to use his young stepdaughter to lure perverts out of the murkiest layers of the web. A middle-aged man who is fed up with his marriage and is a regular patron of porn sites takes the expertly-placed bait, starts chatting with the young girl offering sexual services, and ultimately asks to meet. Once he arrives, the man finds himself staged to be guilty of statutory rape. He falls into the blackmailer’s disgusting trap, though he soon discovers that many others have taken the ever-younger internet bait as well – some of them genuine monsters. The men’s alternating perspectives of the escalating situation only add tension as the plot arrives at critical, odious, unnerving, and unexpected twists. Algus depicts what is inarguably a filthy version of reality – addictions, extortion, fear, cruelty – but in doing so, he somehow manages to show its polar opposite of caring and despair. One reviewer called the drama of disquiet ‘as sharp as a razor blade’ – keen, precise, masterful, and cutting to the core of what is true. The keywords cinema, universality, and contemporaneity can also be applied. Algus himself has asked: ‘If we spend more and more of our days in a virtual state, what will it do to us over time?’ Justifiably, he has also asserted that every topic in the work realistically exists in Estonia and the greater world right now.

      • Fiction

        What It Feels Like for a Girl

        by Eia Uus

        The female body stands at the core of Eia Uus’s newest novel. It is a book that speaks to women and may irritate many men, as the author states frank, unvarnished truths about what life is like for a woman in our masculine world. At the same time, Uus does not clearly demarcate gender roles. The story is set in motion by a party at which the narrator Lilian, still reeling from losing her job, meets a woman close to half her age – Mona. Inexplicably, Mona stirs up erotic feelings in Lilian which gradually swell into nearly oppressive maternal instincts – or, perhaps, a selfish desire to sculpt a socially-acceptable companion for herself. Uus’s novel would be a modern Lolita or Pygmalion, were its mission not divergent and its social spectrum less expansive. Worked into the story are attractive and enterprising women’s attempts to break through the glass ceiling in the traditionally male-dominated world of PR and politics. It is a world that ingrains in women from a very young age the notion that they are inadequate. Accounts of sexual harassment inflicted upon the protagonist as a girl tend to recur, but there can never be too many of those stories – who has ever heard of a woman who knows no other woman who has suffered from harassment? That being said, the author’s storytelling style is in no way piteous or depressing – on the contrary, Uus’s book is written in a light, engaging manner; you could even say with zest. It is intimate, erotically charged, and at the same time grittily honest and acute. What It Feels Like for a Girl isn’t an enervated individual’s personal drama, but rather a concentrated portrait of a woman striving to understand the reactions which the female body provokes. It tells the untold stories of so many women – stories that have been buried beneath the feelings of guilt and shame that society forces upon them. Uus’s novel has sparked heated debates on a variety of topics in Estonia and contains ample material for many more.

      • Fiction

        Between Two Sounds. The Story Behind the Music of Arvo Pärt

        by Joonas Sildre

        Between Two Sounds tells the story behind the music of the world-famous Estonian composer Arvo Pärt. Arvo Pärt’s (b. 1935) music became increasingly popular throughout the world following his forced emigration from then-Soviet Estonia in 1980. International performances and recordings swelled to the point where today, in 2019, there are over 500 professional recordings featuring his works. The online concert tracker Bachtrack has listed him as the world’s most-performed living classical composer for the past eight years running (2011–2018). Pärt’s music, and sometimes that of his imitators, has become ubiquitous in film and television. In spite of this success, Pärt has remained incredibly private and modest, granting almost no interviews. Until now, there have been no biographies published on any part of Pärt’s life. Information about his personal and career developments prior to 1980 has been limited to snippets from print interviews and Estonian film documentaries. The graphic novel Between Two Sounds provides unprecedented insight into this uncovered area. It is worth mentioning that Pärt himself was closely involved in drafting the story and staying true to the facts. Between Two Sounds starts with Pärt’s birth, moves through his youth and the kindling of his love of music, covers his musical education and early years as a composer, and gradually arrives at his retreat from the world as he searched for his own musical voice. Pärt’s first creative period can be called avant-garde modernism. He was perceived as an “angry young man” in the Soviet music scene of the 1960s. The second part of his career emerged in the mid-1970s, when his own spiritual technique evolved: tintinnabuli (little bell-like). The shift between these two fundamentally different musical languages happened slowly but dramatically. Pärt ceased writing music for the public for about a decade, fully immersing in his search for a new, individual compositional technique. Between Two Sounds shows what led him to this change and how he succeeded. The graphic novel also touches upon a universal artistic problem: an inability to fully express oneself through skills or a desired technique. Another sub-theme is Estonians’ struggle during the Soviet occupation: the severe restrictions on the freedom of speech, garnished with attempts to contain and control ideas and beliefs; restrictions that sometimes played out in utterly absurd situations. The repression of Pärt’s career under the Soviet regime eventually culminated in his forced emigration to the West. In October 2018, the first Estonian-language hardcover print of Between Two Sounds was published by the Arvo Pärt Centre in conjunction with Centre’s grand opening. As of February 2019, it has been nominated for six different literary and cultural prizes. It received the annual Golden Book Award from the Estonian National Library and was selected as one of Estonia’s Best Designed Books of 2018. The work has naturally received widespread media attention, including lengthy positive reviews in Estonia’s largest newspapers.

      • Fiction

        Autobiography: The First Two Weeks

        by David Vseviov

        One morning, the midwife Maria Ivanovna Sidorkina wakes up to her downstairs neighbor’s cries that Maria’s cat Barsik has killed a man. After an investigation by the Soviet militsiya, the grotesque morning (which lacked any human victim, regardless) transitions smoothly into a similarly absurd birthday party for Maria’s mother that is attended by terrible guests, and during which the woman’s husband Vassily makes a joke that falls horribly flat. To mitigate his wife’s displeasure, Vassily promises to start studying Estonian using the local newspapers. Thus, a Stalinist periodical with a peculiar attitude towards reality becomes their Estonian textbook. In 1944, the Soviet Union occupied Estonia for a second time in fewer than five years. Vseviov, an historian, depicts the ways enigmatic Russia strengthened its foothold in the country and how life profoundly transformed. Complemented by extensive photographic illustrations, the novel paints a picture of people’s everyday lives in Tallinn over the course of two spring weeks in 1949, shortly after the end of World War II. Newspaper-reading and the reporting of current affairs in a way loyal to the regime are central topics throughout the book. The narrator of Autobiography is a precocious newborn who comments on the situation from his own unusual perspective. One major setting in the novel is the multinational hospital maternity ward, which brings together the stories of women born all across the Soviet Union who have relocated to Estonia. In the second week, the infant moves home to a room in a communal apartment in the city center, where the mother receives visitors with stories that are just as fascinating. The protagonist is born into a mixed Estonian- and Russian-Jewish family; the languages spoken at home also include German and French. This crossroads of cultures and conflicts doesn’t necessarily entail collisions alone, but also queer cultural intertwining and interpretations. The humorous parallel reality conjured up by the newspaper articles (which an alarming number of the Soviet-minded characters do not doubt in the very least) highlights, in fact, the grotesque that could be found in those terrifying years – an era of genuine fear. The reality of Stalinism in Soviet Estonia is woven into the author’s historically accurate yet exaggerated characters. Reviewers have called Vseviov’s Autobiography an historically and politically comedic work of reference. At the same time, it is a high-spirited parody of autobiographies. The tiny narrator discovers parallels with events that will occur later in life, relating episodes with roots that extend (sometimes mockingly, other times with dire seriousness) into these first two weeks. The nature of compulsory Soviet military service, for example, is revealed all in its unadulterated absurdity. Autobiography: The First Two Weeks stylistically resembles Ilf and Petrov’s The Twelve Chairs.

      • Fiction

        Polish Boys

        by Mudlum

        Polish Boys is a story of young bohemian-intellectuals who have settled in old dilapidated buildings and who follow their ideals. The novel is located in socialist Poland but space and time are irrelevant and can be seen as an allegory. Polish Boys is about the confidence of youth and about aspirations for beauty and truth, how high expectations meet reality, how some people bend and deviate and some donʼt. Adam, Sulisław, Teofilis and Jerzy grow up together and become influential figures in Warsawʼs art and literary circles. They set up the radical cultural newspaper Płaszcze and try to transform the society surrounding them. Their radicalism is challenged and not least by the convenient choices offered by the establishment. The same choices are present in their private lives: the unpredictability of free love or the security of a family. Polish Boys is a bildungsroman for the whole generation inspired by the cultural group ZA/UM in Estonia. The author, who was a member of the group, writes from her personal experience with warmth and compassion, which makes the novelʼs tonality both universal and human.

      • Fiction

        The Ballet Master

        by Urmas Vadi

        Vadi’s fantasy novel weaves a thrilling version of tumultuous years in Estonian history. When the Soviet Union occupied the Republic of Estonia in 1940, authorities deported the Estonian president Konstantin Päts and his family to Russia. When war broke out between Nazi Germany and the Soviet Union in 1941, he was arrested and imprisoned in various mental hospitals until his death in 1956. In Vadi’s novel, four men who have assumed false identities and are masquerading as a folk-dance troupe set out to free the president from the Kazan Asylum. Alas, as their journey commences, they don’t even know how to dance. Stitched into their folk costumes are said to be the secret codes the president needs to access his assets. One of the briefcases they were given contains a book on folk dancing. Needless to say, not all goes according to plan. Vadi originally wrote the story as a play that was staged in 2009, and later reworked it as a film script. The Ballet Master is indeed cinematically dynamic and theatrically multilayered, reminiscent of Bulgakov’s The Master and Margarita. The grotesque comedy partly centers around the president, who was a great historical figure, and otherwise follows the rescue squad made up of a fi re fighter and three potters: four entirely ordinary men who are meant to alter the course of history. The imposters board a train to Moscow from Tallinn and are forced to perform an improvised dance repertoire that very same evening in the dining car. The comical-yet-calculated creativity and mesmerizing quality of the men’s movements is detailed from their very first leaps – be it hopping on one foot with their arms crossed and trying to make the others lose their balance while “La Marseillaise” is played, or a dance called “Walk When the Devil’s on Your Heels”, which was they learned from a Moscow street urchin named Seryozha to help them survive in war or a metropolis. Peppered with ample references to Russian literary classics and fairy tales, the four men’s adventure through Russia is akin to an unpredictable Russian anecdote. The Ballet Master’s bizarre cast of semi-folkloric characters is colorful, including humans and animals alike. That said, deeper undertones are not absent at any point in the story. The characters’ fates, romances that flourish along the way, and betrayal that is committed are written with witty and concerned warmth from start to finish. Although they do not succeed in freeing the president, the magical tragicomedy (or black comedy) still has a happy ending in store for the dance troupe.

      • Fiction

        Sad Little Autumn

        by Mait Vaik

        Mait Vaik, who in addition to being a celebrated musician and the author of countless songs has stood out for his short prose, has written a curiously captivating book with Sad Little Autumn. The work is meticulously accurate (including his expert descriptions of various states of intoxication and the hangovers which follow) and conjures images of apathetic, angst-provoking emptiness. The author tasked himself with conveying sharply distressing emotions such as despair, hopelessness, ineluctability, and resignation. His male characters – fathers and sons; two middle-aged and two young – all find themselves in rather unenviable situations. One father is diagnosed with cancer; the other has been wading through the mires of alcoholism for years and finally reaches a point where he has given up seeking the way out. One son is a “functioning addict”; the other has been pushed into violent obsession by an ill-fated romance. As such, Sad Little Autumn presents us with a brilliantly written quagmire; one both mental and physical. It is accompanied by the bleakness of dense Soviet apartment blocks (familiar from Mati Unt’s Estonian literary classic, The Autumn Ball) and the removed carelessness of superficially cozier new housing estates. Vaik paints these environments in a seemingly casual but still precise and enjoyable style, just as he does the weather – mostly gray Estonian autumn days in which daylight is in steady decline. The men go about their depressing lives with defeated thoughts crowding their heads. Whenever they do communicate – to women, let’s say – then their attitudes are by and large irritable, almost or entirely unwilling to let conversation lead to a stillborn solution. Vaik’s purposeful cacophony of viewpoints requires the reader to stay on their toes if they want to keep track of whose head the author has jumped into now and whose story is being told. Nevertheless, as the author himself declares at the end, there is still happiness to be found in these characters penned by Estonia’s Houellebecq – or at least they do earn unexpected redemption in this life.

      • Fiction

        Congo Tango

        by Paavo Matsin

        Magical realism, slipstream, science fiction, alchemic literature – Congo Tango, Paavo Matsin’s fifth and thickest novel to date, has earned those epithets and many more. On the one hand, the plot is simple: the Tower of London’s ravens disappear and the search for them stirs up deep wells of trouble. On the other hand, Congo Tango is composed of numerous layers and secondary plots which whisk the reader away to Cairo, London, Prague, Budapest, and Brussels. The novel tells of an old Europe – one that tends to be forgotten. In it, we encounter individuals, objects, patterns of behavior, and attitudes which, if they have not petered out of existence already, have become highly eccentric. Obviously, this is deliberate. Fine hats and the fine differences between them in central London, old Jewish men debating the nature of God in a Prague café, and a composer’s apartment museum in that same city which is open for only a few hours on Tuesdays and has walls painted almost entirely blue are just a few examples of Matsin’s host of European oddities. Once he adds Brussels’ Congolese community and the La Sape subculture (along with the music of Papa Wemba) which ties its members to their motherland, the cocktail is exquisite. The reader realizes that indeed, what Matsin is doing beneath the cloak of a quest for lost ravens and the activities of a bloodthirsty angel who has gone astray is something much greater. It concerns Europe as a whole. Matsin demonstrates that as Europeans, we are often blinded by the allure of distant cultures while failing to notice the exoticism of our own – be it alchemy (one of the author’s favorite subjects) or simply the thick, interwoven blanket of culture that binds the whole continent together. In addition, Matsin questions the tenacity of the connections between Western and Eastern Europe. Every loose end is tied up neatly by the end of the novel – storylines that meanwhile unraveled are resolved, and the reader is left feeling quite mellow. Europe may be old and dusty, but the treasures that collected over the course of centuries still rest beneath that layer of grime. All it takes is a single blow for them to sparkle again.

      • Fiction

        The Inhabitants of the Curious Cemetery

        by Andrei Ivanov

        The Inhabitants of the Curious Cemetery is a panoramic novel which vividly brings to life the worlds of three generations of Russian émigrés in Paris. To recap, the Russian emigration began with the October Revolution and continued apace for two decades, meaning that by the start of the Second World War almost 80,000 Russians had established themselves in France. Paris quickly became the capital of the Russian emigration, not to be replaced by New York until the middle of the century. The novel contains multiple voices, including three first-person protagonists, whose voices start to overlap, to intertwine, and set off unexpected echoes. The novel’s main narrator is the Soviet émigré Viktor Lipatov (not necessarily his real name), a former dissident who spent several years in psychiatric detention, fled to America, and then arrived in Paris at the beginning of 1968, where he found work in the editorial offices of a Russian émigré newspaper. The second first-person narrator is Alexandr Krushchevsky, a doctor who was born to first generation Russian émigrés in Belgium, served as a volunteer in the Belgian army during the Second World War, was captured by the Germans, fled, and then lived in Saint-Ouen in France, where he mixed in French avantgarde art circles, before turning up again in Paris in 1968. The main protagonist of the novel, who brings the diverging stories together, is the multitalented Alfred Morgenstern, also a first-generation Russian émigré who was born in Moscow in 1896 before leaving with his family for Paris in 1906. A doctor by profession, he is also a pianist, an actor, a model, and an obsessive writer. Morgenstern and Krushchevsky are good friends, they are united by several shared experiences, and they share a secret which adds a subtle element of crime-fiction to the novel. The colorful lives of the Russian émigrés are portrayed from the perspectives of these three characters. We learn about the difficulties they have acclimatizing, the traumas inflicted on them by war, their struggle against Communism, and their homesickness. In this world, real-life and fictional characters mingle freely; at the risk of oversimplification one can argue that there are three types of characters in the novel: fictional characters, characters inspired by real-life people, and real-life historical figures. The three main protagonists are examples of the first type, embodying certain general features of the Russian émigrés, but lacking any specific historical counterparts. A whole gallery of historical figures feature in the novel, including Nikolay Berdyaev, André Breton, Paul Éluard, Théodore Fraenkel, Charles de Gaulle, Pavel Milyukov and Boris Poplavsky. It could be said that the city of Paris is the fourth character in the novel. Ivanov makes Paris almost physically tangible, and does so for all three of the historical periods which the novel covers. At the start of the novel, the author gives a captivating description of Paris life, through the words of the character Morgenstern. To provide a flavor of this, I quote at length: ‘Paris whips you on, kicks you up the backside, sprinkles you with rain, splashes you in puddles, plays pranks on you, spits swearwords at you, whispers gossip in your ear, grabs at coat hems and shopfronts, pulls you close, kisses you on both cheeks, fishes cash out of your pocket, waves its hat at you, looks you longingly in the eye, and then embraces you in its dark, satin night.’ (p. 44). Ivanov has gone to great lengths to ensure that all of the historical details are correct, including the physical environment (it’s clear that he has visited all of the novel’s locations), and the historical events. He has taken inspiration from a range of Russian émigré memoires and diaries, including those of Boris Poplavsky, Ivan Bunin, Felix Yusupov, Teffi (Nadezhda Lohvitskaya) and Anna Kashina-Yevreinova. In addition to the richness of historical detail, The Inhabitants of the Curious Cemetery is a homage to the art of the novel. Ivanov has found space for the majority of his literary influences here. There are multiple references to Dickens, in particular The Pickwick Papers to Dostoyevsky and Tolstoy, while Celine and Joyce interact in intriguing ways, as do Bunin and Nabokov. One can detect the stylistic influence of Mikhail Bulgakov, traces of Cormac McCarthy’s approach to form, as well as the influence of Goncharov’s Oblomov. But the greatest appeal of The Inhabitants of the Curious Cemetery lies in Ivanov’s command of language. No one else writes quite like Ivanov. Ivanov’s writing grabs the reader and pulls her into its embrace, wraps her in multiple narrative strands, leads her through labyrinths, providing intermittent flashes of light and relief, before dragging her back into its depths. The Inhabitants of the Curious Cemetery is Ivanov’s first full-length symphony, a work in which he demonstrates his talents in every literary form, and on every instrument.

      • Fiction

        The Horned Blue Beast

        by Andrus Kivirähk

        The Horned Blue Beast is a grotesque artist’s novel in which Estonian mythology is transformed into an untethered element of quotidian life. Dr. Friedrich Reinhold Kreutzwald published the Estonian national epic Kalevipoeg first in German, then in Estonian, in the mid-19th century. Kalevipoeg is something of a cornerstone work in the Estonian fine arts – its motifs echo in literature, art, and musical composition, and it laid the groundwork for the formation of national consciousness. In the 1910s, the young and talented Estonian artist Oskar Kallis, whose works blend art nouveaux and national romanticism, became the first to illustrate the epic. Kallis’s art brought about Kalevipoeg’s second coming and was a vividly-colored visual triumph for its hero of giant proportions. Kivirähk’s novel is a spellbinding interpretation of the creation of Kallis’s radiant illustrations. Written in diary format, the young artist conveys his semi-psychedelic encounters on the path to understanding Kalevipoeg. The protagonist doesn’t simply imagine the characters, but journeys alongside them in a mythological world while simultaneously growing distant from the real one – the streets of a harbor town preparing for a grim war. The epic’s oftentimes outrageous characters and their intrepid adventures literally clamor to be drawn and called into being for readers and appreciators of art. The ordinary world seems to stifle and fail to understand this, staying indifferent to the artist’s attempts to communicate the joys and spectrum of colors he finds in the mythological world. The artist’s wild, enchanting, and ultimately tragic story – one akin to a sensitive participatory experiment – poses the questions of how a person in the arts perceives the world and where the lines between the real world and their reality are drawn. By his final entries, the mirthful young man has turned into a full-fledged, bone-weary man whose last works of art are woven into topics far beyond his original absurd escapades – love and the quest for peace beyond the grave. Kallis died in early 1918 at the age of 25 on the Crimean Peninsula, where his teacher and romantic partner had him taken to recover from tuberculosis. Kallis had never left his hometown of Tallinn before arriving in Yalta, but his works – the creation of which Kivirähk has depicted in a clever and masterful way – were in close discourse with the finest artistic traditions of Europe and Scandinavia. Kivirähk’s powerful use of language brings the artist’s inner landscapes to life. The Horned Blue Beast is an uproarious tale which strums the deepest heartstrings – just as the author frequently does – and amazes the reader by how such a heartbreaking book can still be so cheerful.

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