The Dream Life of Sukhanov Hardcover – Import, 5 Jan 2006

"Although it was early August, the air had already acquired that special, brittle and gentle, autumnal quality that made the world seem a breath deeper and a trifle less certain..." This segment is from the second page of the book, and the lovely, dreamlike prose is both indicative of how a wonderful terror engulfs the sensitive, deep reader throughout the work as well as an omen of how the intertwined subject matter develops, "deeper and a trifle less certain..." At the end, Sukhanov's dream life, his swirl of surreal imagery and of remembrance have so completely taken over that the reader is left very deep in a Russian Winter and certain about very little at all, aside from artistic vision and death.

Despite almost all the other critics' linking this to the glasnost period under Gorbachev when it is set, the book's themes are timeless and belong to no particular era or clime. Any artist, as Sukhanov has done, can "sell out" (Sukhanov's own phrase) his vision, whether it be to a repressive Soviet regime, a greedy Capitalist corporation or a ruthless Fascist dictator in order to gain comfort, security and prestige for him and his family.

I would only bother with this book if you are an artist or a passionate, lifelong devotee to art; for what happens in this book is that - due to a madness inherited on the paternal side - Sukhanov's artistic, epiphanic vision of art and the memories associated with it return to him with a vengeance, and there is no easy answer as to whether this is a "good" thing or no. The reader spirals along with Sukhanov (Is it upwards or downwards?) until the bitter, or is it enlightened, end.

After he leaves his wife in the dacha and begins hoofing it to the train station, stumbling, literally, into the small, dilapidated church to which he returns in the end (in his mind, anyway), Sukhanov has his most poignant moment of artistic vision/hallucination/ glimpse of the eternal:

"For here, in this stale backwater, on the outskirts of an insignificant village, in a church that now served as a warehouse for dim-witted dacha owners, on a wall ravaged by time and sun and frost, flowered a masterpiece created by an artist whom no one noticed, whom no one even knew - and yet, Sukhanov believed, as strongly as he had ever believed in anything, that by some miracle he had just been brought into the presence of the most original, most amazing mind ever to emerge from the dark ages of Russian art."

The sweeping prose of author Grushin who, thankfully, does not belong to the group of Russian writers to whom she's compared - Nabokov, Bulgakov etc. - but more to (if one must compare this book written in English to those written in Russian) Pasternak, Tolstoy and, particularly, the bittersweet lilts of Chekhov, leaves us with the tortured dilemma that if you choose your visions, or rather they choose you over sanity and comfort, that way lies a slow march to madness and death, with a redeeming few thunderbolts of god-like insight flashing across your via dolorosa.

A modern masterpiece.

Anatoly Sukhanov had it made. He has a beautiful wife, a luxurious apartment, chauffer driven limousine, and is editor of Russia's premier art journal. But what was the status of art in 1985 Russia? Anatoly's job was to extol an art form that portrayed happy mine workers, smiling women holding their babies, gallant soldiers defending Mother Russia. How does a man who was an aspiring artist in his youth stomach the promotion of such dross?

As the novel progresses Anatoly experiences a series of small, quirky incidents that start him on a mental reverie of his life. When you are young, and poor and struggling you are faced with a decision. Do you as an artist stick to your artistic ideals which are contrary to the regime's dictates, and risk living in poverty or worse or do you take the road that provides a decent living for your wife and children? As the pages fly by the current reality of Anatoly's life begin to meld more and more with his dreams of the past. We wonder, as Anatoly examines his past, if he is going to have a spiritual reawakening. Can he finally cast off his self imposed blinders? There has to be the remains of an artistic soul in this man whose job it is to denounce Matisse, and Dali as decadent, corrupt artists.

This is an amazing book. It is truly a literary work of the highest order. The writing is superb. Here is a Russian born woman writing in what is her third language. One immediately begins to compare the writing with that of Joseph Conrad and Vladimir Nabokov, and the comparison is highly favorable. If you love art, as I do, you will find this book to be especially enjoyable. This is truly a "10 star" book.

This is one of those rare stories where the writing trumps understanding of the plot or likeability of the characters. Grushin' s novel focuses on Anatoly Sukhanov, a man who has it all in late Soviet Russia. Once a young & gifted painter, Sukhanov sells out and chooses a comfortable life drafting stale criticism of Western art. However, because the novel takes place in 1985, the changing times shakes up his life forcing him to confront harsh truths once comfortably buried by Sukhanov's mind. I highly recommend this book, which is wonderfully relative despite the setting and subject matter.

I enjoyed this book tremendously being a Russian- born American modern artist. I hope it is that interesting for people who do not relate to history/culture of the writer. Pure joy!

Modern Nabokovian literature at its finest. Grushin writes in a manner that both entices and intrigues. And who doesn't love a good descent into madness? A+ novel.