Archive for December, 2013

‘I keep seeing Lenin all over’ (Mikhail Grobman)

December 27, 2013

I keep seeing that Lenin all over
Now fucking his wife in the arse
Now Armand giving him deep throat
On her bended knees with such class
And sometimes Trotsky as well
Lies down and scrapes in their game
Even though he’s hardly alive
He clambers in there just the same
But anyway what a strange sort of people
They were entrusted kind of offhand
Not with some Tropics of Cancer
But with our dear native land.
But it’s just that they’re no use
Behind the red Kremlin wall
Not going to tighten their belts
With us, so hungry and all
Now they’re playing some kind of games
Laboratory rats is all that we are
And they drink their vodka right down
With rare fruit and fine caviare
And when the armoured limousine
Is taking them off to the chase
I don’t expect help from just anyone
The Georgians have all of my faith

 

Мне повсюду мерещится Ленин

То он Крупскую в жопу ебёт

То Арманд преклонивши колени

Хуй у Ленина тянет взаглот

Иногда же и Троцкий в постели

Вместе с ними лежит и скрипит

Хоть и дышит-то сам еле-еле

А туда же ползет паразит

Что за странные люди однако

Им доверили шутка сказать

Не какие-то Тропики Рака

Им доверили Родину-мать

Но они безо всякого толку

За кремлевскою красной стеной

Не кладут свои зубы на полку

Солидарные с бедной страной

А играют в какие-то игры

Ставят опыты прямо на нас

И зараз выпивают поллитры

Под икорку и под ананас

И когда их везет на охоту

Бронированный лимузин

Я спасенья не жду от кого-то

Вся надежда моя на грузин

Death of an old woman (Aleksei Alyokhin)

December 26, 2013

She never loved her daughter or her son-in-law or her grandchildren
only the violets on the windowsill

any year they would flower marvellously
The angels that had been sent
spent four days rooting out the ingrained soul from the wrinkled body
they even called a surgeon

while in the end the Lord admitted her to those at rest

Over her coffin instead of a prayer
they read a recipe for apple pie

and she found herself in the same sanatorium in Sochi
where she and her husband stayed before the war

there he had already been waiting for her
since 1942 near the flowerbed with a large white vase

But the violets bloom
and the shadow of an old woman with the shadow of a watering can stoops over the windowsill
on a moonlit night

СМЕРТЬ СТАРУХИ

Ни дочь ни зятя ни внуков никогда не любила
только фиалки на подоконнике

у нее всякий год они дивно цвели
Посланные ангелы четыре дня
выкорчевывали застарелую душу из сморщенного тела
даже позвали хирурга

пока наконец Господь приобщил ее к отдыхающим

Над гробом вместо молитвы
прочли рецепт яблочного пирога

и она оказалась в том самом санатории в Сочи
где отдыхали с мужем перед войной

он уже ждал ее там
с 1942-го возле клумбы с большой белой вазой

А фиалки цветут
и тень старухи горбится с тенью лейки над подоконником
в лунную ночь

Journey (Mark Kharitonov)

December 25, 2013

The rails have come to life, got going, take apart
The bright sky, diverge and converge, multiplying.
The train, unhurried, carefully sniffing,
Disentangles a muddle of lines twisted together
Does not go wrong, chooses the only one–yours.Foreordained
The others hasten, separating, to evade you and be forgotten
Somewhere in places that you will not be, in regions
Of unknown possibilities, unconsummated encounters,
Unrealised desires. Merely this way,
Foreordained by the rails, is enough for you–
A precise slender line on space’s palm.

You are at the beginning of the journey–want to know what is to come.

You press your nose to the window, follow with your eyes
Vacant lots, coppices, fields, smoke-stained factory walls,
Rubbish dumps–storehouses for valuables, streams by dachas
That dive under bridges, kitchen gardens, railway workers’ huts,
Women with batons of rolled-up yellow flags.
A scudding cloud blocks the light, diagonals of rain
Draw dotted lines on the glass, suddenly with a shaft of light
The newly-washed sun blinds you, makes you screw up your eyes.
Space turns round after your progress
It does not fall behind, allows you to look in lavishly–
All the same, you will not exhaust it as an event in life.

You want to travel more than to arrive.

The telegraph pole counter clicks, between them
On waves of clacking the wires skip up and down.
The train cuts through space with a thin line,
From time to time it lets people off at stops,
And lets others on–in each place it takes samples,
Specimens of the humanity dwelling along the section.
A girl with a quiet smile, a dried scab on her lip
Becomes your brief fellow-traveller, but it is not you she will get off with.
Another one takes her place, offers you refreshments
You will remain with her…But why this feeling
That you’ve gone past life–someone else’s or your own?

You want to return once more, repeat everything again.

Embarrassed, you look out of the window. You’ve already seen this.
Houses, coppices, fences–models of reminiscences,
You can’t revive them any more. Pieces of glass, pebbles, pine cones
A collection of childish treasures, gathered during the journey–
Tedious refuse for disposal. The light comes on in the carriage.
A fly crawls over the glass in the pock-marks of earlier rain.
You don’t look beyond it–a semi-transparent reflection
Replaces the view from the window. In it you try to make out
The spot on your chin you found with your finger,
You cover a yawn with your hand. There is nothing else to fill
The extended interval. How long is there left still?

You’ve arrived, it’s time to get off. The rest is not for you.

Марк Харитонов

Марк Харитонов

ДОРОГА
Рельсы ожили, двинулись, разбирают по ниткам
Светлое небо, расходятся, сходятся, множась.
Поезд, не торопясь, осторожно принюхиваясь,
Распутывает неразбериху переплетенных путей
И не сбивается, выбирает единственный — твой.
Другие спешат, отделясь, увильнуть, затеряться
Где-то в местах, где тебя не будет, в краях
Неизвестных возможностей, несостоявшихся встреч,
Неосуществленных желаний. Тебе достается
Лишь этот уже предначертанный рельсами путь —
Тонкая четкая линия на ладони пространства.

Ты в начале дороги — знать бы, что впереди.

Вжимаешься носом в окно, провожаешь глазами
Пустыри, перелески, поля, закопченные стены заводов,
Свалки — хранилища драгоценностей, дачные речки,
Ныряющие под мосты, огороды, будки обходчиков,
Женщин с жезлами свернутых желтых флажков.
Свет заслоняет быстрая туча, диагонали дождя
Пунктиром прочерчивают стекло, вдруг из просвета
Ослепляет омытое солнце, заставляет щурить глаза.
Простор проворачивается вслед твоему движению,
Не отстает, позволяет щедро в себя вглядеться —
Все равно его не исчерпать как событие жизни.

Больше хочется ехать, чем приезжать.

Щелкает счетчик столбов, между ними вверх-вниз
На волнах перестука приплясывают провода.
Поезд прорезает пространство тонкой чертой,
Время от времени выпускает на остановках людей,
Впускает других — берет в каждом месте пробы,
Образцы человечества, обитающего вдоль среза.
Девушка с тихой улыбкой, засохшая корочка на губе,
Станет недолгой спутницей, но сойдет не с тобой.
Другая займет ее место, предложит тебе угощение.
Ты останешься с ней… Но отчего это чувство,
Что пронесло мимо жизни — чьей-то или своей?

Хочется снова вернуться, все опять повторить.

Смотришь смущенно в окно. Это ты уже видел:
Дома, перелески, заборы — макеты воспоминаний,
Их больше не оживить. Стекляшки, камешки, шишки,
Собрание детских сокровищ, подобранных по дороге, —
Скучный мусор на выброс. В вагоне включается свет.
Муха ползет по стеклу в оспинах прежних дождей.
Смотришь не сквозь него — полупрозрачное отражение
Заменяет вид за окном. Пробуешь в нем различить
Прыщик на подбородке, который нащупал пальцем,
Прикрываешь рукой зевоту. Нечем больше заполнить
Растянутый промежуток. Сколько осталось еще?

Приехал, пора сходить. Дальше уже не тебе.

Metamorphosis (Denis Beznosov)

December 24, 2013

The stone becomes a dove, sleepily
wings grow from the sides of a bell-tower.
In the sky a sun covered with mould
is gathered by wire into a triangle.

The tongue enters clay like a yellow jellyfish.
It sticks out its head from under the bed.
Between the houses an amputated dream is wedged in,
it goes down the street along Caravaggio.

Put half-whispers out of your head.
From a running start nails kiss your wrist.
The doctor rolls about the field, so that
reserve words beat against the wall.

But there will be no parquet over the threshold,
only cupboards in the corridor on the right.
Someone will stretch out on the room as a shadow–
the Jewish boy turns into a crab.

In this interval consciousness is not required.
The body is divisible and multiple in consequence.
White stars are painting the surroundings,
scorning the elbows of a square.

Метаморфоза

Камень становится голубем, сонно
крылья растут из боков колокольни.
В небе покрытое плесенью солнце
стянуто проволокой в треугольник.

Желтой медузой язык входит в глину.
Высунет голову из-под кровати.
Между домов сон отрубленный вклинут,
ходит по улице вдоль Караваджо.

Выкинуть из головы полушепот.
Гвозди с разбега целуют запястье.
Доктор катается по полу, чтобы
бились о стенку слова из запаса.

Но за порогом не будет паркета,
только шкафы в коридоре направо.
Тенью по комнате тянется некто —
мальчик-еврей превращается в краба.

В том промежутке сознанье не нужно.
Тело делимо и следственно кратно.
Белые звезды рисуют окружность,
пренебрегая локтями квадрата.

Geopolitics of clothing (Ekaterina Kanaikina)

December 23, 2013

Russia was born barefoot, and in a shirt
At once she jumped in the daisies and ran around the dirt.

Seeming merged with the shirt, Russia grew apace
About the collar she had Kolomna, Uglich and Mozhaisk.

Along Murom–a patterned braid approaches
And next door, Vladimir and Kostroma, a pair of brooches.

Ustyug was her earring–and Russia was in love
As gifts she got Pechora, and Dvina like a glove.

Winter. Christmas will be soon, and mummers at the door
Russia irons Vyatka, embroiders Tver some more.

The maiden folded Seversk in a wicker creel
And the girdle of Smolensk she tightened in dishabille.

–Let’s go mushrooming!–But I’ve got nothing to wear.–
–First plait satiny Ryazan into your hair!

The Kazan-Astrakhan headdress be sure to convey
And take Volga’s royal sceptre with you on the way.

Throw on white shoulders the furs of Siberia’s lands
For the Spring wind is stronger than Ermak’s mighty hands.

Heads still without tails. Siberia’s a thing begun
Look, what an Oreshek!–hold, lest it come undone…

Russia is making merry–pour Khatangas her way
The beautiful maiden is being tickled by Enisei.

Where’s the Smolensk girdle? Has it been cast aside?
Her homespun Okhotka, Ural coat is now too wide.

My beauty don’t be frightened, on a balmy Autumn day
Cover yourself with Estland, or with Livonia as you may.

Finland’s glove now stretches over your wrist
And Kamchatka in your pocket. The bells insist–

Long live Empire! Hurrah, Russia advances!
Through the window at ladies and English soldiers she glances.

Germans and Dutch she sees, more exalted than before
Swedes and the obstinate people, but now her gaze is sore.

The necklace of Kazakhstan harmoniously resounds
Russia on horseback untiring flies beyond the bounds.

Beautiful, with freckles, and as light as the steam
She takes as a plaything Crimea’s island dream.

Slippers of Kuban on sugared feet below
Ponytail Baltics and Karabakh’s the bow.

Russia’s red-brown hair was safe–at least, had been
Japan as a keepsake then cut off Sakhalin.

She wore an embroidered cloak, she scorned the wind, then,
With Bukharas and Khivas set along her hem.

With edging of Samarkand down along the sleeve
She drank down Agdam, asking no-one’s leave.

And her lips she wiped with the Northern lands
Russia played, she sang!…How, God only understands.

Like a giantess, according to her branded watch she grew
But listen…In the pocket a hole. Lithuania fell through.

Encouraged by example, Estonia jumped down there
Got caught up by mischance and dangled in midair.

Now Georgia fell, Moldavia with a bang,
Azerbaijan collapsed, then Karabakh went hang.

A torn-off sleeve got to call itself Ukraine
Forgetting about discipline, Russia once again

Didn’t mend that vexing tear–it was left undone
And continued her enjoyment, about the field to run.

Now the Kurile Islands are jumping through the tear
As quickly as they can, as to their mother’s lair.

You need a thread, a needle, and also dark of night
Close the gate and window, and sew that hole up tight.

Екатерина Канайкина

Екатерина Канайкина

Текстильная геополитика

Родилася в рубашке Россия, босиком.
И сразу — прыг в ромашки и по полю бегом.

Росла Россия, словно с рубашкою слилась.
По вороту — Коломна, да Углич, да Можайск.

По Мурому — дорожки узорчатой тесьмой,
А рядом — чудо-брошки — Владимир с Костромой.

Сережкой в мочке — Устюг. Россия влюблена.
В подарок ей сорочки — Печора да Двина.
Зима. Уж скоро святки да ряженые в дверь.
Россия гладит Вятку и вышивает Тверь.

Сложила Северск девка в плетеный туесок,
И подвязала крепко Смоленский поясок.

— Скорее за грибами!
— Куда в такую рань?!
Вплети сначала в косу атласную Рязань.

Казанско-астраханский кокошник не забудь,
Поволжский посох царский возьми с собою в путь.

Набрось на белы плечи сибирские меха.
Весенний ветер крепче, чем руки Ермака.

Орлы пока без решек. Сибирь — початый край.
Гляди, какой Орешек, — держи, не потеряй!

Россия веселится: ей Хатанги налей.
Красавицу-девицу щекочет Енисей.

Где ж поясок Смоленский? Никто его не брал?
Зипун широк ей женский: Охотка да Урал…

Красавица, не бойся, в осенний теплый день
Эстляндией укройся, Лифляндию надень.

Финляндская перчатка запястье облекла.
В карманчике Камчатка. Звонят колокола —

Ура, Россия едет! Империя, виват!
Глядит в окно на леди и аглицких солдат.

На немцев и голландцев восторженно глядит,
На шведов, на упрямцев, но взор ее сердит.

Монисто Казахстана заливисто звенит.
Россия неустанно на лошади летит.

Красивая, в веснушках, и легкая, как дым, —
Взяла себе в игрушки веселый остров Крым.

Кубанки-черевички на сахарных ногах.
Балтийские косички и бантик-Карабах.

России волос русый был прежде невредим.
Япония на память отстригла Сахалин.

Расшитый плащ носила, смеялась на ветру,
Бухары да Хивины пустив по подолу.

Каемку Самарканда пустив по рукавам,
Мила, но беспощадна, она пила Агдам.

И губы вытирала сплошь Северной землей.
Россия так играла, так пела!.. Боже ж мой!..

Росла как богатырка по фирменным часам.
Но чу… в кармане — дырка. Литовец выпал сам,

Поддержанный примером, эстонец прыгнул вниз,
Случайно зацепился и в воздухе повис.

Вот Грузия упала, Молдавия — бабах!
Азербайджан свалился и бантик-Карабах.

Назвался Украиной оторванный рукав.
Забыв про дисциплину, Россия впопыхах

Досадную прореху не стала зашивать.
Продолжила потеху — по полюшку скакать.

И вот уже Курилы в досадную дыру
Сигают, что есть силы, как в кроличью нору.

Иголку бы да нитку, да ночку потемней…
Закрой окно, калитку и дырочку зашей.

The Witch (Thomas Middleton), Lord Stanley 22 December

December 22, 2013

****

That toasting from your father's skull moment (picture from Little Goblin FB page)

That toasting from your father’s skull moment (picture from Little Goblin FB page)

Not for the first time, we are in the normal kind of foreign court,  rotten with corruption, treachery, traffic with unclean spirits, adultery, deceit and malice.  As suggested by the title, the characters repair to the witch Hecate to further their base plans, though one could ask what they manage to achieve thereby:

No, time must do’t. We cannot disjoin wedlock:
‘Tis of heaven’s fast’ning; well may we raise jars,
Jealousies, strifes, and heart-burning disagreements,
Like a thick scurf o’er life, as did our master
Upon that patient miracle, but the work itself
Our power cannot disjoint.

As compared with the plot summary here and the text here a lot of the witchy stuff had been left out, along with the subsidiary witches, thus giving no opportunity for pedantic comparisons with Macbeth.  Also the Duke has been made Francisca’s secret lover and author of her swelling belly, thus simplifying the plot and increasing the corruption–I like the sound of that!  We did however have the congealed smell of Christmas dinners from the pub below, which was quite appropriate for Hecate’s cave at least:

FIRST WITCH: The juice of toad, the oil of adder.
SECOND WITCH: Those will make the younker madder.
HECATE: Put in; there’s all, and rid the stench.
FIRESTONE: Nay, here’s three ounces of the red-hair’d wench.
ALL: Round, around, around, about, about
All ill come running in, all good keep out.

I thought the set and lighting worked very well together, so that about one-quarter of the playing area was Hecate’s lair and the rest was the kind of place where powerful degenerates hang out.  The production was clear, strong and well-paced.

I particularly enjoyed the sparkling if brittle cynicism of Charlotte Mack as Francisca  the adulteress, unmarried mother, and schemer against her virtuous sister-in-law; and the various layers of deceit required of Emma Richardson as the Duchess when her machinations went awry.

With a more-or-less universal happy ending, true lovers reunited and an extremely modest body count, this is great fun and funny and well worth seeing!

Try Books! read in 2013

December 19, 2013
Median Best Worst
Mrs Palfrey At The Claremont 9 6
A Month in the Country 8.5 3
The hare with amber eyes 8.25 1 1
Things Fall Apart 8.25 2 1
The Dark Room: A Novel 8
Dubliners 7 1 1
The Heart is a Lonely Hunter 7
The Garden of Evening Mists 6.75 1
Beyond Black 6.25 1 2
These is My Words 6 1
A Long Way Down 6 1
Hunger 4 5

The table shows the books read by Try Books! in 2013 and their median scores, along with the number of times someone gave it their highest or lowest rating for the year (remember ties!)  Previous analysis indicates that the median is a good enough indicator for our purposes.

Elizabeth Taylor, novelist (1912-1975)

Elizabeth Taylor, novelist (1912-1975)

Elizabeth Taylor and Mrs Palfrey At The Claremont are the clear winners here, while Knut Hamsun and Hunger were rather less successful.

Hunger Other
Palfrey Ali, Judy, Suzannah Howard, Stephanie
Other Christine, Linda Aruni, Dick, Jo, Jocelyn

The table above classifies people according to whether  Mrs Palfrey and Hunger were indeed their best and worst books respectively. As ever, this was complicated by not everyone having read (scored) every book, but Ali, Judy and Suzannah seem to be safely established as representatives of mainstream opinion.

It might be that the books which appear in both ‘Best’ and ‘Worst’ categories are good for provoking discussion, but in quite a few cases the dissenting opinion was actually submitted by email, and The Heart is a Lonely Hunter was very fruitful in provoking discussion, which you would hardly glean from the table.

Comparing this with the previous results suggests that the most popular books are those that people will engage with simply because they deal with human experience, even though as in If This Is A Man  they don’t have to be fiction, while genre fiction (These Is My Words) and high-concept productions (A Long Way Down) don’t do very well.

Perm State University Language and Culture Winter School

December 13, 2013
Perm State University snow scene

Perm State University snow scene

Karen Hewitt kindly sent me details of a proposed Perm Winter School to comment on.  I am in almost complete agreement with her comments below, and I would add:

i) they need to decide whether they’re aiming at real or recreational students. Looks like the latter at present, but whatever the answer is they need to be a lot more specific about course content/aims/methodology/etc

ii) it’s stupid to assemble people at the University and then take them off somewhere else for the ‘real business’. Give them lectures (if necessary through an interpreter) on the Permian Era and Extinction/Mikhail Fridman (was at PSU, pioneer of General Relativity)/those wooden statues/the armaments industry then and now/their experiences in Afghanistan/etc/–or just the time-honoured ‘Round Table’ with students (and/or staff). Or have a lecture course on something like Modern Russian Society…

iii) similarly to the above, I think something called a Winter School should have some superstructure of lectures, competitions, quizzes, tests, reading lists–not just classes and excursions

iv) they don’t say anything about tests or formal academic credits

v) you also need a ‘find your level’ guide–and something about how people will be assigned to groups

vi) I think the selling point has to be something like ‘Real Russia with Real Russians’, where your horses can gallop for 3 weeks in any direction without reaching another town, never mind country. All this stuff about Zhivago and bear statues is a bit embarrassing in my opinion

vii) they should say a bit more about the homestays–who the host families will be & what to expect

viii) while I’m dead keen on Aims, I don’t understand the ones given here and I don’t think I’d agree with them if I did

ix) they don’t say that they’re going to supply visa support/invitations–I presume they are

x) they need to say what the weather/temperature/hours of daylight are going to be (and that it will be nice and warm indoors).

Well, I have lots of thoughts, but you may have different ones that may be better advice. So I am attaching this draft, and if you have ANY comments, do let me know. Don’t worry about the mistakes in English and unidiomatic English. I can sort that out.

My comments would be – Remove the photo of the huge modern cathedral in Moscow and the lamppost non-Perm one. Put attractive photos of Perm streets/buildings in their place. AGREE

Better, in general, to do the lessons in the morning and the excursions after lunch. It won’t be too dark because Perm is such a long way west of sun-time. And you can think better in the morning. AGREE

You need some information about levels of Russian and teaching methods. And presumably there ought to be some time for homework and study. AGREE. Also class sizes, how they are made to be of ‘similar’ standard, what happens if there’s no-one else at your kind of level, who the teachers are. 30 contact hours (are these 60- or 45-minute hours?) is not much of a payload for a trip of two weeks.

I wouldn’t begin on Monday with the Perm University museum or botanical garden. Both are worth seeing, but neither is SPECIALLY striking in comparison with what we can do in Britain. Better to get a sense of the city and what will seem exotic to visitors. AGREE.

I think there should be a maximum of 2 day trips. Participants will spend a long time in the coach looking at white and black scenes. AGREE. Day trips are an easy way of getting a visiting group off your hands, but they need to engage with the local population if they’re going to learn anything.

I’ve been to all the places, and would rate the Museum of Political Repressions high on the list, for its intrinsic historical interest and because there is a good road with fine scenery. AGREE.

They are planning lots of theatre trips and cultural entertainments. But perhaps spending some evenings with ‘ordinary Russians’ would also be much appreciated. Or taking their hosts out to dinner. Or a barbecue in the snow…. PARTLY AGREE. Best if they can go to the theatre etc with ‘ordinary’ (even English-speaking) Russians and share the experience with them.

I think the price is OK. AGREE.

Remember that this visit will take place when snow lies thickly on the ground – so the participants won’t be able to see some of the things you saw – but they will be able to ski cross-country, for example.

Fortune’s Fool, Old Vic 11 December

December 12, 2013

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Kuzovkin and Olga Petrovna--picture from telegraph.co.uk

Kuzovkin and Olga Petrovna–picture from telegraph.co.uk

In this case I’ve rebuilt the play from scratch, cutting and changing things I didn’t like, wrote adaptor Mike Poulton in the really rather good programme to explain how he had approached Turgenev’s Nakhlebnik.  It didn’t tell you the story though, so I’ve hidden a synopsis away here.

That approach to adapting led to some strange inconsistencies, even leaving aside the preview symptoms.  Olga Petrovna (Lucy Briggs-Owen) was far too old and worldly-wise for someone who had left home six years ago at the age of 13.  That rather unbalanced the action because you didn’t get the feeling of her as a very young woman learning to live and having to use challenging life experiences as building material for her personality. That rather let the field open for the cut-rate Oscar Wilde of Richard McCabe’s Tropatchov, which was just overdone.  Consequently it was rather strange that in his humiliation Kuzovkin turned on Olga Pavlovna’s husband Eletsky, who had been largely blotted out by Tropatchov.

Then the Expressionist linen-cupboard where Kuzovkin was discoverd at the beginning didn’t lead to anything apart from Eletsky courting Olga Petrovna in dumb-show and thus contradicting the rest we saw of his character.  (And some generic comic business with much rushing around the stage in place of actual scene-setting.)

I’m not going to complain once again about the French of English actors–and Tropatchov’s is meant to be very bad, but Eletsky’s was hardly any better and Olga Petrovna was all the time calling her husband Paul (English) rather than Paul (French), which lost the point.

On one occasion, the butler Trembinsky wanted the draughtsboard cleared away that Kuzovkin and his equally humble pal Ivanov had just been playing chess on; someone referred to the Old Master dying 30 years ago, which made it difficult to see how he could even have been thought to be  Olga Petrovna’s father; in the second act, Eletsky wanted Kuzovkin to repeat to the awaited Tropatchov what he had said to the same Tropatchov  earlier that morning–on his mobile, perhaps…

But I enjoyed it and was touched by the  confrontation between Kuzovkin (both Lear and the Fool) and Olga Petrovna (still Cordelia, even if miscast); I thought that Iain Glen did Kuzovkin’s ruined nobility very well, and the rest of the cast will surely catch up at least to some extent.

I think that this will be well worth seeing later on in the run…and this blog has information about other Russan plays on in London, both this year and next

‘the future of mankind’ (Maksim Borodin)

December 11, 2013

the future of mankind
is like
a box of matches
with each cigarette
the matches become fewer
and fewer
while
everyone understands perfectly
that
the fag break ended long ago
and they need to go and dig
the hole
still deeper
the treasure
is yet to be found you see

borodin

Максим Бородин

будущее человечества
похоже
на коробок спичек
с каждой сигаретой
спичек становится все меньше
и меньше
при этом
все прекрасно понимают
что
перекур давно закончился
и надо идти копать
яму
еще глубже
клад
ведь еще не нашли