The New Soviet Fiction: Sixteen Short Stories
This volume contains sixteen short stories written by sixteen of the most prominent and promising writers in the Soviet Union today.
drawing on a slide, while that which was alive would immediately begin to tear and flash, evading the eye. It was as if you heard only the brass or the per cussion in the orchestra but never the violin, the solo— the accom paniment drowned out the melody. However, musical comparisons are inappropriate, since the whole record was turning in the reverse direction, unpleasant to the ear, parodic to the eye. He saw flags and crowds, shots and battles, leaders and tyrants; time broke against these
wouldn't want the reader to confuse Gennady Petrovich Matyu khin, their real author, who died quite some time ago, with V. Kone tsky, as I am somewhat afraid of maritime medical commissions and landlubber critics. I am retaining the author s title for this story, “ Cat-Strangler Silver.” “And the mighty expanse envelops me menacingly, re flected in my inner self with a terrible strength. . . . ” (Matyukhin did not indicate the name of the author of the epigraph. Its N. V. Gogol.— V.K.) By
drink, especially when he had a hang over, but to herself she figured that by about age forty her son would grow out of it. No one understood Shurochka. In the television shop Shurochka sat at the reception desk, her job was considered smart and fashionable, but, well, you couldn’t exactly talk to a customer. Finally the crowd dwindled. The technicians, moving off to the staff room, clacked their dominoes from the depths of the shop. Shurochka re laxed. To the left of the long reception desk
presidium of the Academy of Sciences with a request to petition the General Kommittee Beryozka* (GKB), as well as the prime minister of the Society for the Protection of Monuments and Nature, to decree that the His torical Institute and the Council of Ministers send the next time flight, Raskhod-3, to the Pushkin era in order to have in hand for the jubilee a genuine enlarged photographic portrait of Alexander Sergeyevich Pushkin, and also a recording of his voice, was unanimously approved. They
but very pale. I can’t see in the pres ent, no less into the past from the future (a tense even English hasn’t thought up), I have to go not into the visible but into the knowable— downstairs where my son is, where the light switch for the attic is. I went downstairs. Let the hero spend some time without me, and he will land in time. . . . So if he slowed down to our time speed, if a minute became a min ute and an hour an hour, and the sun rose again from the east, that means he is already