Photo by Susanne Schleyer · autorenarchiv.de

Alisa Ganieva

  THE MOUNTAIN AND THE WALL   (an excerpt) The Mountain and the Wall A novel by Alisa Ganieva Translated from the Russian by...
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Igor Sakhnovsky

Did you catch it? What does that smell remind you of, in your opinion? This rose smells of lemons, Spain, and death. She turned around and walked off back to her bench, as though to say, what’s the difference what it smells like?

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Mikhail Kuzmichev

“I’m a murderer and I was going to murder you, too, which is why I fell in love with you. I mean, I really did fall in love, so I could kill you, but then I realized I wouldn’t be able to, and that I should kill myself instead. Can you understand what I mean?

Photo by Sergey Kostyrko

Katia Kapovich

Under such heavy guard, I started walking toward the exit, my head bowed, feeling upon myself the disapproving silence of the crowd. It was people like me that were destroying America, bringing the country to the very edge of economic collapse.

Photo by Alexander Proletarsky

Vladimir Kozlov

Igor came out of the living room. There was a lipstick smudge on his cheek. “She didn’t get it, still didn’t get it, and then she forgot it,” he said. He put his arm around Natasha’s waist and led her back into his room.

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Yuri Mamleyev

Walking past a pole, out of the blue he punched a solitary lad wandering nearby right in the jaw. Though the blow was hard and the lad sprawled into a ditch, it was delivered with such inward indifference, Sonnov might as well have been poking the emptiness, except that a physical shudder passed through his bulky body.

Photo by Max Avdeev

Zakhar Prilepin

“What the fuck did you do this for?” One of the policemen, the fat one with emphysema, still couldn’t calm down. “The fucking fuck. Did you build any of this? What right do you have to destroy it?” No one was in a hurry to answer his question. Lyosha gazed calmly ahead, and you could read on his face that he didn’t feel the need to answer anyone’s questions. Sasha could have answered, but his busted lip stung, and he kept licking the blood.

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Hamid Ismailov

I am Moscow’s underground son, the result of one too many nights on the town. My mother Moscow (though everyone called her Mara, or Marusia) was born in some little Siberian town or other, maybe Abakan, maybe Tayshet and, with that town’s strange name in her passport, she picked me up in the year of the Moscow Olympics

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Yekaterina Mikhailovskaya

Great Anets, how vile these Indifferents are! Their eyes are lifeless like a corpse, their hair is dirty and disheveled, their skin is pale, their gait is sluggish, and they’re silent as if they’d swallowed their tongue.

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Vladimir Lorchenkov

“It doesn’t exist. There’s no such thing as Italy,” he categorically declared as he made his rounds. He’d dramatically smack his trowel against the clay, keeping rhythm with his own argument. “The whole thing was invented by international swindlers!”

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