(4.25/5)

This book presents a snapshot of Soviet life circa 1955, two years after Stalin’s death. It is introspective and meandering, full of characters that feel very real and come from a wide variety of backgrounds, nationalities, and classes. The story takes place in the cancer ward of a Soviet hospital and many of the characters are grappling with cancer diagnoses and the grueling treatment they must undergo.

There isn’t a clear plot to this story. It felt much more like a character study of each of the characters. We explore their life history, their perspectives on communism and the Soviet Union, and also their hopes and dreams as people. I loved all of the intriguing and thought-provoking commentary on medical ethics, informed consent, existentialism, how people find meaning, the flaws in the Soviet government, and the human condition. So much of this book made me look inward and reflect on my own humanity, where I find myself on these issues the characters discuss, and what I felt about the characters’ perspectives too.

Unfortunately there were also some slightly unsavory aspects of this book, specifically the relationship that one character has with several women. It also was a bit too long, in my opinion. I love a literary fiction novel that explores a character’s (or multiple characters’) psyche, but why is it over 500 pages? I think this could easily have been cut by 100 pages without losing anything significant.

I am glad to have read this and will definitely be thinking about many of the themes and topics it discussed, but the few flaws I saw did take away from my enjoyment overall. I still recommend it for anyone who enjoys Russian literature and especially if you love reflective writing without a clear plot structure.

Look, maybe if I were not a real-life special education teacher of 9 years who also has an interest in pivoting to policy work (iykyk), I would have been more charmed by this book, but I doubt it. Nicole actually was the only character I liked, and she only said one thing that was patently false! The rest of the time, I did actually feel like she was decent representation for the profession, and she did not deserve to be so ill-used! I’m sorry, Nicole!

While there were a few decent scenes, this book to me felt like a white woman trying to write Yellowface but for TV writing, and if there was a message, other than “look how relatably fucked-up I am haha heehee” or perhaps “crossing all kinds of boundaries as an unchecked narcissist is totally fine and okay if you deploy enough self-deprecating humor (humor is generous here) and clogged toilets to balance it out,” but alas, this was all she gave us. I just don’t think a book can be sarcastic for literally the entire time and expect to win hearts and minds, and I don’t think that’s a hot take, actually.

Also I am still mad about the lady TV star saying, direct-quote, in a book published in the year of our lord 20206, “Autistic would be funny.” This book can fuck off, it was exhausting to read, and idk babe, look around at this dumpster fire, we’re all already fucking tired.

This book is like an epic lucid dream

You don't think about it too hard, you go along for the ride, and at the end you feel something.

[warning- this book contains: yearning and poetic prose]

🎧was only able to listen to it this time around but would for sure reread it with 👀 if only to annotate and enjoy it all again. 🌃🌇

i grew up in Bangkok, in its warm and brutal beauty. its symphony of sputtering engines and scent of smoke, petrol, sweet-sour fruit. the pale pink glow of the polluted sky at ‘golden hour’ – that bewitching time of day that soothes for a moment the ache of any sorrow. so much of me is composed of love for that city, and perhaps that’s why this book was both so moving and so disappointing.

the scope of this book is incredibly ambitious. it traces a plot of land from the 19th century into the distant, dystopian future, crossing genres from historical to contemporary literary to scifi. the aim, i’m guessing, was to capture the entire lifespan of a city, from birth to death and beyond. a wonderful concept only partially realised. to do so would’ve required more words or, preferably, more economical ones.

the book draws on the city's textures with evident care and affection, and some passages are incredibly beautiful — a musician hired to play for spirits, a quiet student fleeing from bullet fire, a missionary in the feverish grasp of cholera. the prose is lush, loving, reverent. my issue is that it is almost too lush. the author is clearly talented at descriptive writing, but the effect is somewhat like a snapshot; it freezes time and removes us from its immediacy. it is aesthetically stunning but emotionally distant. in fact, the entire book comes across more like a series of postcards than a narrative. while its loveliness is never in doubt, loveliness alone cannot carry a story, especially not one of this length.

in terms of structure, the chapters are caught in an awkward middle ground — too short for much to happen, too long to sustain the pace of a vignette collection. the chapters jump back and forth through time without clear pattern or purpose, and the sheer number of characters and perspectives means none of them quite stick. the city itself is vividly conjured, but its inhabitants remain more like illustrations of the kinds of people that live there rather than believable characters that i could actually get to know and feel invested in. the start and end were interesting enough, but the middle 50% was a genuine slog.

at times the writing even felt composed for foreign eyes. there was something romanticised and disingenuous about how the author rendered illness, grief, violence, the mundane, even street dogs, in lyrical prose, everything imbued with a whole, impenetrable dignity. it felt deliberately literary rather than reflective of real life — the real lives that came and passed. the construction worker felt symbolic of all construction workers rather than a man with his own joy and anguish. life may always be poetic, but it is certainly not always beautiful. there is meaning in letting ugly things be ugly.

i get the intention: this is a book about a city rather than about the people in it. but knowing a city’s history, its buildings and streets, its rivers and rain, the noise of its festivals and the taste of its food, is not enough. to truly know a city, you need to know the minds and hearts of its people, and that's what felt out of reach.