The Possessed: Adventures with Russian Books and the People Who Read Them Paperback – 5 Apr 2012

I, Melachi ibn Amillar, being of unsound mind and body, did read Elif Batuman's "The Possessed: Adventures with Russian Books and the People Who Read Them" (2010) in April 2013. The book gives an account of her travels, acquaintances and readings while enrolled on a postgraduate course on literature and languages in California. If that sounds a little odd, well so is the book, ranging from Stanford to Turkey to Uzbekistan and Saint Petersburg. Now, the central question, or joke, of the book is posed on page 57: "As a six-foot-tall first generation Turkish woman growing up in New Jersey, I cannot possibly know as much about alienation as you, a short American Jew." I, Melachi, have not read as much Russian literature as Ms Batuman, but have slept with more Russian women than her. Or so one imagines. But why, in short, would anyone care what I, or Elif Batuman, has to say about Russian literature? Perhaps cognizant of the answer to this, we are instead treated to the tragi-comic travails of jetsetting academics, in the manner of a David Lodge. Oddly, the narrator does not seem at all possessed -- she will go anywhere and do anything, providing she can get a grant. I assume there is some real scholarship going on as well, though, perhaps mercifully, we are spared this. As a travelogue with a linguistic bent it is interesting in parts, though rather haphazard. There are no cats in the book. There is a long section at the end about mimeticism involving a summary of the entire plot of "The Possessed" (the Russian novel, already rather well-known, I would have thought), the characters of which she seems to compare to those of her classmates, which I did not quite get.But the strange thing about the book lies in the writing style. Just as the academics are portrayed as obsessed by their topics, when they clearly are not, the chapters are littered with bizarre statements that look as though they might be clever or amusing, but in fact are just strange. It is as though the text were translated from a Turkish original full of untranslatable wordplay. The style is so remorseless that it develops an horrific charm of its own. "I didn't care about truth; I cared about beauty. It took me many years -- it took the experience of lived time -- to realize that they really are the same thing." (p.10). Quite. "[they] disinfected and bandaged his knee in a visibly efficient fashion." (p. 14). Not invisibly? And this splendid non-sequitur, on which I pondered deeply: "He had been chased several kilometers cross-country by a wild dog. He must be the kind of man who likes women, I remember thinking." (p.15). And: "'little feet'... Pushkin is not here referring... to his own feet. Nonetheless, I saw a pair of Pushkin's boots once in a museum, and they were very small." (p.89). "The gypsy looked at my palm and told me to beware of a woman called Mary ." (p. 91). Mary? "In Moscow, for the first and last [last?] time in my life, I dated bankers. Things didn't work out with the first banker [pray tell, perhaps?], but I still remember the second banker fondly... Rustem was saving up money to pay for parachuting lessons." (p. 93). Melachi does not know why Rustem wanted such lessons, but one suspects, and cannot blame him.

I knew very little about Russian literature so I thought this could be an interesting book to read and I did find It interesting reading if not for the reasons I'd expected. Part autobiography and partly about Russian literature this book is full of surreal and inexplicable incidents which remain in the reader's mind after the book has been finished. There are useful lists at the end of the book of authors quoted in the text and of sources used which might send the reader off into new areas of exploration.I found the author's summer in Samarkand, which forms the middle section of the book, intriguing reading. I particularly loved the description of a game called Perfect Chess `. . . in which each player has, in addition to the standard pieces, two giraffes, two camels, two siege engines, and a vizier . . .' Then there was the author's recurring nightmare about being sent to stay with a family of penguins to learn their language. I also loved her description of the reconstruction of an 18th century ice palace in St Petersburg.Did I learn anything about Russian literature? Yes quite a bit. I'm now not sure whether I want to read any of it, except Chekov's short stories, because it all seems quite depressing. The book is intriguing reading because of its insight into other cultures which were certainly unfamiliar to me.

I loved Elif Batuman's book! It is a hybrid - part autobiographical novel, part research diary; it is packed with knowledge (gained or being acquired) and ideas, and it will make you laugh out loud. It tells about Russian classics, Uzbekistan and Uzbek culture and abut the vagaries of US graduate life, but, above all, the author's all-consuming love of things literary and her fresh take on lit-crit received wisdom will keep you under its spell from cover to cover.

A bit hard to get into

Great book. Really funny and learned and tolerant and slags the New Yorker. Something that needed doing. I shall read her other books

What to say about this book, other than give it a try, especially if you like Russian writers. Quirky, funny, erudite and interesting.

Great book, well written, and draws you in to stories of Russian writers.... not a subject I had much interest in before. Batuman has enormous creativity and big ideas

This is an entertaining - often slyly funny - account of the life of a would-be novelist who has to find an alternative career as in linguistics or literary education. I imagine many in that vast industry will recognise the blagging and dodging you need to do to get grants, trips, odd teaching jobs, etc. And the episodes, as anecdotes, are entertainingly told, though I should add that the writing is unfailingly superb. Along the way there is a challeging engagement with (I suppose) literary theory, told as a coming of age story. Or rather as a forsaking of youth story. There is not much in that is entirely implausible, but I think you best read this as a novel, rather than think it gains anything by having "really happened". There is a fair enough dollop of Russian literature in it, but not really that much, and most of that obscure. There is a LOT of Uzbec literature in it (I am not sure why), and this turns out to be Arabian Nights type folkloric tales, which border on the boring. They resonate with some of the synopses of Russian literature, so perhaps the thing is the story telling, but I was not really convinced by this excursion to Eastern literature (but the incidents recounted on the way were highly entertaining). Why did she set out the action of the Demons at such length, and append to it a scholarly critique? Was this something she did in her search for a Literary Study job, didn't get it but decided to write anyway. Or is the whole point of the book? She certainly creates amazing resonances. Altogether an easy read but a challenging post-reading task of wondering why.