Drunkards’ Dharma
Read an extract from Maxim and Fyodor here.
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Vladimir Shinkarev’s Maxim and Fyodor first came to light in 1980, published initially by the author himself using carbon-paper and a typewriter, and later by amateur underground presses using the same techniques. The distribution reflected the necessarily covert methods of the time, with pages passed hand-to-hand between readers. This system – known as samizdat, or ‘self-published’ – was a method frequently used in the Soviet Union for printing and disseminating controversial or illegal literature. In St. Petersberg (then Leningrad) particularly, Maxim and Fyodor immediately became a cult phenomenon – a cry for freedom and a rallying call, because while it contains little explicit denunciation of the by-then-crumbling Soviet system, it extols a life championing free-expression over Party-devotion and dogmatic repetition, intuitive understanding over rational reasoning. By 1980 the Russian language had been systematically deconstructed by a succession of isolationist, authoritarian, and predominantly Stalinist party chiefs, to the extent that life was supposedly reducible to a selection of twee clichés and maxims. Against this backdrop, Shinkarev’s audacious and vibrant style must have leapt from the page like a new form of life – a new way to live.
Briefly, the heroes of Maxim and Fyodor are two Russians recently returned from Japan, setting about a career of alcoholism and the pursuit of Zen. Indeed, the book is a succession of inebriated sartoris, separated by arguments, fights, non-sensical ramblings and desperate quests for the next drink. But this heroic, sad, and often terrifically funny tale is imbued with a profound sense of liberation, freedom, individualism, self-direction, and self-worth.
In truth though, this is not really a story. Shinkarev doesn’t ask us to follow a narrative. That is not his purpose, but his literary multiplicity is certainly part of his appeal. The novelty of his approach is remarkable, and the sheer diversity of his styles surely unprecedented within a single work. It is part character-sketch, part scream of dissent, and part joyous paean to liberty. It is told in a variety of forms: from straight prose and poetry, to screenplay and drama, to diary, manifesto and haiku. And indeed perhaps the most coherent handle on the meaning of the book is to understand it as a sort of extended haiku, an allegory for the discovery of meaning in nothingness:
“Zen,” said Pyotr, a devotee of elegant but dim-witted similes, “is the ability to pour two glasses of vodka from a quarter bottle.”
“From an empty bottle,” Vasilii chimed in.
Maxim transferred his gaze to Fyodor.
“And not drink the vodka,” stated Fyodor.
Gratified, Maxim nodded and said: “And not pour it into glasses.”
It is clear that the book is a product of a particular time and space – it is certainly a product of its environment. The horrors and constraints of the repressive totalitarian system of control, from which Maxim and Fyodor emerged are impossible for us, as citizens of a democratic and relatively pluralistic state, fully to appreciate.
Nonetheless, even without truly knowing the full extent of the depths from which Shinkarev’s cry emanates, we can still enjoy the freedom of its expression and the artistry of its creation, and draw wisdom from the values it upholds and causes it champions. Because the ideas it espouses are not material realities particular to a place and time. They are ways of being-in-the-world, applicable to all people, at all times. True, those ideas are inspired or induced by a particular state of affairs, and equally they are manifested in ways at which we might baulk. Nonetheless, the insights on offer are pertinent to one and all.
By 1984, following the underground publication of his second book – Mitki – he founded a group of artists and writers (under that same name) committed to the ideas he explored in his books. The group – libertines by Soviet standards – championed art, humour and free expression, under the slogan: “The Mitki don’t want to defeat anybody, which is why they will conquer the world.” They remain active in St.Petersberg – Shinkarev amongst them, now an abstinent alcoholic – and whilst their thinking may not make the waves it once did, its messages are as pertinent as ever. After all, as Fyodor points out in his journal – “There may be clever people about, but it makes no difference.”
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Read an extract from Maxim and Fyodor here.
