The premise of the book is great and the author really delivers. Great read. Highly recommended. .

"The word that I’ve been using to describe The Man Who Couldn’t Die, Marian Schwartz’s translation of Slavnikova’s 2001 novel Bessmertniy (“The Immortal”) is “dense,” but not in the sense of being difficult or academic or obtuse (a third meaning of dense that circles ouroborically around to meet the former in the archetypical scholar with head so far up rectum that he can no longer see the sky) but in the sense that Slavnikova’s book contains so much, including a generous helping of witty, imaginative asides like the one I just used, except Slavnikova uses her frequent offhand similes and metaphors as a kind of cherry-topper or summation for her descriptions of the demented cast of characters who occupy District 18. But while The Man Who Couldn’t Die displays that strain of Dostoyevskian humor and Gogolian grotesque which are the inheritance of many modern Russian greats, what lifts this book to the eminence of a masterpiece is its thematic density; there is so much in the book to unpack, so much hidden life that the author reaches for and shows, however ephemeral and inaccessible (and yet subliminally present) that hidden life is to our workaday experience." [...]

"The mother’s way of seeing this dysfunctional marriage is very different from Marina’s, a point Slavnikova most dramatically makes by having the son-in-law be described as “Seryozha” whenever Nina Alexandrovna is sympathetically observing his haggard appearance or feeding him breakfast, and always having him referred to as “Klimov” whenever Marina is pondering the ghost-like ways they seem to slide past each of other and scarcely acknowledge each other’s existence; though notably, Klimov is first referred to as an “anesthetized shade” when Marina is caustically criticizing him for doing housework, and is first referred to as just Klimov in the context of his being a 'skeptic' of Marina’s scheme to separate inside and outside time within the Kharitonov’s apartment. At this early stage we are also told he once had a 'wildly lucrative (despite the sewer smells) video store at the train station,' and in this sentence he is referred to as just Seryozha, indicating perhaps that it is Nina Alexandrovna who is thinking of this and bringing to mind a time when Seryozha Klimov was not so useless after all; and as critical readers we may further ponder if Slavnikova does not use the Nina Alexandrovna’s superficially naïve secondary perspective throughout the book to call attention to blind spots in Marina’s single-minded engagement with the new order, to make us wonder if Klimov is not simply (and over-determinedly) considered useless, but is also neglected by a wife who cannot not truly see him." [Full review to be posted shortly on my website]

I wasn't expecting this to be so much a domestic melodrama. The titular man barely features in the novel and I am still unsure as to why his family felt that they couldn't age the apartment beyond Brezhnev. Something about the book prevented me from really feeling a connection to any of the characters. The story has good details about life in Russia after the fall of the Soviet Union, but the world felt very small. Not bad, but also made the story very slow paced and claustrophobic.

The "man" of the title is a Soviet war veteran paralyzed after a stroke. In the early 1990s, with Russia adapting to a brave new post-communist world, the man's stepdaughter Marina and his wife Nina try to hide the collapse of the Soviet Union from him, worried that the shock might just be too bad for him to bear. This novel is characterised by a bleak and dark humour - a sort of "Goodbye Lenin", but darker and more trenchant in its observations. Marian Schwartz's translation brilliantly renders the biting wit of the original. However, despite my admiration for the writing, the novel took a lot of effort to finish. Perhaps I was not in the mood for it. My star rating reflects my enjoyment rather than the work's actual quality.

The absurd is a constant theme in Russian literature, from Tsarist times to the Soviet period to post-Soviet times, and this novel from acclaimed Olga Slavnikova is a good, if for me not successful, example of the genre. The narrative is built around Alexei Afanasevich Kharitonov, a WWII veteran now paralysed and bedridden after a stroke. His wife and step-daughter want to keep him alive – to continue to receive his pension - and do all they can to prevent him ever discovering that the Soviet Union has collapsed. Beyond this central spine to the story, we also follow Marina, the step-daughter, as she navigates her way through the complexities of the new media environment and has to come to terms with the new democracy. Local elections are being held and are explored in some depth, including the corruption and increasingly absurd stratagems to get votes, and the social critique here is certainly damning and recognisable. Unfortunately I just didn’t get on with this novel. I couldn’t relate to any of the characters, and although I can see that it is an insightful satire on the immediate post-Soviet era, I found it neither amusing nor entertaining. At least some knowledge of Russian history and politics is almost essential, but even though I have that, and even though I found much in the novel that was recognisable, I still found little to enjoy.

A bleak and biting social critique and satire that the Russians always manage to elevate into art. Deftly translated by Marian Schwartz, this is the story of the wife and daughter of a paralysed veteran—the man who couldn't die. Surviving on his pension, they try to prolong his life in a temporal suspended reality where the Soviet Union still exists. In doing so, the author spins a stark tale of ennui, corruption, and the failed promises of democratic capitalism with black humour and a clear-eyed ruthlessness that sugarcoats nothing about the human experience.

Thank you NetGalley and Columbia University Press for this ARC in return for my honest review.

Well, being Russian, I was very optimistic about this book. I am very interested in contemporary Russian literature, and it was a great opportunity to explore translated Slavnikova.

I did not enjoy it as I expected. Russian writers love to create long sentences trying to put everything in and overcomplicating it. I don’t believe it works well in Russian and I think it was terrible in translation. Some sentences last whole paragraph and I was lost when I finally reached the dot. I had to come back and re-read breaking it up in few part to get the sense.

I also felt like there was no real plot and no real character development. I was frustrated reading it, as I didn’t understand what the novel was about and who? Was it poor Marina struggling to find her place under the sun? Was it veteran Kharitonov as synopsis says? Was it about corrupted elections? Was in tumbled Russia in those horrible 90s? There are more questions than answers.

I was pushing myself to finish it in search of at least one answer.

Nope. Nothing.

If you're a fan of classic Russian literature, you might like this book. It is very Russian - long, flowery sentences and descriptions of bizarre scenarios. Set right after the fall of the Soviet Union, it describes the poverty, the disrepair, the get rich quick schemes, the political corruption, and the depressed state of Russia in this new era.

The book is mostly about a corrupt campaign scheme in a local election. The "man who couldn't die" is actually only a minor character at best in this novel. The premise of "keeping everything the same for the dying old man" is not well supported by the plot. However, the writing and characterization is excellent.

Excellent writing in language and style. The translation seems to keep the original’s detail. It seems almost modernist in the lack of dialog and concentration introspective. There is the acquired taste of Soviet literature in this late novel. It is almost like the isolation and sudden freedom in life is reflected in literature.

The Man Who Couldn’t Die: The Tale of an Authentic Human Being is not a casual reading. It is a deeply introspective and slow to grasp book, and as such it is not for everyone. But a meticulous reader will discover that it is a book that worth the time and the effort.

It is early 1990s and a time of high uncertainty. The collapse of the Soviet Union and the accompanying economic upheaval, triggered a national identity crisis, confusion and disorientation. People had the feeling that the world was collapsing around them. Survival, especially for those who had a bleak job situation and "no marketable skills" depended on making new adjustments; sometimes people had to balance between being flexible and staying true to whatever your personal convictions are; sometimes they had to make a hard choice between the two.

Olga Slavnikova tells the story of two women, wife and stepdaughter of a paralyzed veteran in the early 1990s. In the chaos of post-Soviet society and in order to continue to receive his pension, which was their main source of income, they try to prolong the life of the old man by creating a world that doesn’t change. The Soviet Union has never collapsed and Leonid Brezhnev is still the General Secretary of the Central Committee of the Communist Party. But the old man, and life, have other plans.

“One way or another, Marina prohibited anything that might arouse negative emotions (in this sense, her stagnation had achieved perfection).”

After the fall of the Soviet Union, a few powerful and well-connected people snatched, with the help of a “loans-for-shares”program, introduced by Yeltsin, critical enterprises and the media, reaping incredible wealth in the process. At the same time, these oligarchs attempted to shape the country politically. Using their newly acquired wealth they helped finance Yeltsin’s election campaign. Failing health and internal pressure forced Yeltsin to resign on December 31, 1999. His chosen successor was the then-Prime Minister Vladimir Putin.
It was in this climate, of cronyism and corruption, of fraud and deception, that Marina caught up in a local election campaign that gets out of hand.

The prose in The Man Who Couldn’t Die is fantastic. Dense and lengthy, it reminded me of Péter Nádas’ stylistic technique. The psychological intimate acuity of Slavnikova’s descriptions are imbued with a profound emotional depth.

Finally, I would like to say a few words about the translation. A translation is a door to a new world, not accessible, unless you speak the language, any other way. The Man Who Couldn’t Die: The Tale of an Authentic Human Being, is masterfully translated by Marian Schwartz, an established and award-wining translator of Russian fiction. Schwartz has translated Ivan Goncharov, Mikhail Bulgakov, Venedikt Erofeev, and many others. Her translation of the Russian classic Anna Karenina is genius.

Thank you to Columbia University Press, Marian Swartz and NetGalley for the opportunity to read this wonderful book.

With the death of the Soviet Union, a loving family have to contrive to keep it alive in their family home, making it look like nothing had changed for their ill elder member, who would be too aggrieved of the change they remain ignorant of. They even have to conspire to make their own TV news, and maintain the drudgery of Communism, while outside their four walls the country bursts into progress, happiness and newfound freedom. That, obviously, is Goodbye Lenin!, but oddly the same situation is evident here, as a WW2 veteran with a stroke remains in bedbound ignorance of Brezhnev's death, and any futuristic alterations in the outside world. The two scenarios are remarkably alike – although I don't think anybody would accuse Russia of bursting into happiness.

What this book does is burst into the oh-so typical modernist style, of over-long, overly-complex sentences, to disguise lack of narrative. There really are swathes of this that could be ignored for the sake of the core story, of what happens when family members get caught up in political things. I found it hard to justify staying with this at times, as I also found it hard to understand the political sides and whose machinations were against whom. The result of it all is that, paradoxically after I bemoaned the lack of story, the end scene felt like too much of a rush to justify it all. This dense, literary read is an acquired taste. One and a half stars – I'll stick with my film, which is easy to say as it's my favourite of all time.

The Man Who Couldn't Die is an interesting piece, but it's probably not going to be one that appeals to all readers. It is a deeply introspective work that considers not only the human psyche and metaphysical conundrums but also modern-era politics. In the latter respect it is a timely work, as it could also be said to represent more recent events in the Western world. I enjoyed the dilemmas the piece posed; however, at times I felt somewhat distanced from the characters. I would have liked to have established a stronger connection with them. Then again, that separation may have been a conscious decision on the part of the author. Either way, this is not an 'easy' or light read, so I would only recommend it to those who like a good dose of heavy introspection and philosophy in their literary fiction.