The New Yorker has a piece, or collection of small bits, by Daniil Kharms (“So It Is In Life” Aug. 6, 2007), the Soviet era writer whose work only surfaced in Russia more than 30 years after his death in 1942 and more recently in English. I’m not so sure The New Yorker’s selection is a worthy introduction to Kharms whose absurdist style has to be caught in the right context to be thoroughly enjoyable:
The Literary Saloon has additional Kharms links.At two o’clock on Nevsky Prospekt, or, rather, on the Avenue of October 25th, nothing of note occurred. No, no, that man who has stopped near the Coliseum is there purely by accident. Maybe his bootlace came untied, or maybe he wanted to light a cigarette. Or something else entirely! He’s just a visitor and doesn’t know where to go. But where are his things? Wait, he’s raising his head for some reason, as if to look into the third floor, or even the fourth, maybe even the fifth. No, look, he simply sneezed, and now he’s on his way again. He slouches a little and his shoulders are hunched. His green overcoat flaps in the wind. Just now he turned onto Nadezhdenskaya and disappeared around the corner.
A shoeshine man with Eastern features stared after him and smoothed his fluffy mustache with his hand.
His overcoat was long and thick, of a purple hue, either plaid or striped, or maybe, damn it all, polka dot.
(1931)
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