К Фифи Эдуарда Лимонова

Всегда считал, что Эдуард Вениаминович отличный такой, злой писатель, особенно книжки 70-х и 80-х – но при этом так себе поэт. Но последняя книжка стихов непримиримого оппозиционера всему и вся меня развеселила, слов нет. Как будто ему восемнадцать лет, и он – молодцеватый такой козел, даже сказал бы, старик Козлодоев в молодости.

Чего стоит вот такое его стихотворение:

Мне зуд шампанского в крови

На сером утреннем рассвете

Бог похоти швырнул: “Лови!”

С ней кувыркайся словно дети!


Ты пахнешь медом и мочой

И молоком столь нежно-сладко

Раздвинь же ножки и раскрой

Стыдливый вход в тебе, лошадка!

Вот что поэт пишет о книжке сам. А вот, судя по всему, и сама Фифи )))


The death of Bunny Munro by Nick Cave (finale)

Part 3: Deadman

Strangely enough, Cave turned out to be quite a thrilling read. I know it resembles Welsh a lot, by both content and to certain extent style, but still, quite gripping. Part 3 is madness and rage, death and repent. Oh well.

The death of Bunny Munro by Nick Cave (continued)

Part 2: Salesman

I keep on slowly turning the pages – while part 1 was all Irvine Welsh and stuff, now, part 2 is all Glengarry Glen Ross, which I like like like like like like like. Basic rules of the trade, sonny. Ain’t no John Galt – simply put – I want your dollar, I want your dime. Goes on like this:

‘It’s like this, Bunny Boy: if you walk up to an oak tree or a bloody elm or something – you know, one of those big bastards – one with a thick, heavy trunk with giant roots that grow deep in the soil and great branches that are covered in leaves, right, and you walk up to it and give the tree a shake, well, what happens?’ […]

‘I really don’t know, Dad,’ says Bunny Junior, listening intently, retaining the information and knowing, in time, he will probably understand.

‘Well, nothing bloody happens, of course!’ says Bunny, and he slows the Punto to a halt. ‘You can stand there shaking it till the cows come home and all that will happen is your arms will get tired. Right?’ […]

‘But if you go up to a skinny, dry, fucked-up little tree, with a withered trunk and a few leaves clinging on for dear life, and you put your hands around it and shake the shit out of it – as we say in the trade – those bloody leaves will come flying off! Yeah?’

‘OK, Dad,’ says the boy, and he watches as one of the youths pulls back the edge of his hood and reveals a white hockey mask with a human skull printed on it.

‘Now, the big oak tree is the rich bastard, right, and the skinny tree is the poor cunt who hasn’t got any money. Are you with me?’


For those who want to steal the book (in Russian) – here’s flibusta link.

For those who want to buy – awesome iPad App on iTunes.

I did both )))

The death of Bunny Munro by Nick Cave

Nick Cave – definitely a better singer than novelist. Still…

Part 1: Cocksman
Funny how Cave tackles Kylie in the book

“Bunny turns on the radio and Kylie Minogue’s hit ‘Spinning Around’ comes on, and he can’t believe his luck and feels a surge of almost limitless joy as the squelching, teasing synth starts and Kylie belts out her orgiastic paean to buggery and he thinks of Kylie’s gold hot pants, those magnificent gilded orbs, which makes him think of riding River the waitress’s large, blanched backside, his belly full of sausages and eggs, back up in the hotel room, and he begins singing along, ‘I’m spinning around, move out of my way, I know you’re feeling me ’cause you like it like this’, and the song seems to be coming out of all the windows of all the cars in all the world, and the beat is pounding like a motherfucker”

A bit on this in his interview

PS: official site

No mires debajo de la cama de Juan José Millás

Now, what a strange book. A first I thought I’m gonna give it up entirely – but after long and boring part 2, I guess I got an acquired taste.

Just to explain – part 2 is about living shoes. Thoughts and pains and ramblings of shoes and subsequently legs separated from the bodies – and later, people dying of fear by just looking under the bed, hints that thoughts may kill (or not?) and that certain things repeat themselves.

Part 3 I loved – dynamic enough for me – and part 4 I suffered through, just to see where it ends. Page 207.

Strange book, by all accounts – however, it gave a name to this blog, huh – people steal, well, I stole

Riña de gatos. Madrid 1936 de Eduardo Mendoza

Mendoza’s last book is quite amusing – though I wiki’ed Antonio Primo de Rivera et al – no Duque de Igualada alongside him, as I could’ve predicted

As usual for his works, Mendoza adds a spy novel angle to its tale – it’s full of action and mystery – but don’t be fooled – it’s a not a story of fake Velazquez and spies from Lubyanka – it is one about popular revolt hanging in the air, both communist and fascist – coupled with Mendoza’s love for Spain and Madrid in particular. Quite amusing indeed – te pegas al libro y ya…

Reminded me of La Comedia Ligera – rather than Mauricio – though, I have to say, I poorly remember both



Couldn’t think of a better name…