The Book of Wanderings
14 hrs. 15 min.
Description
The author of the ubiquitous “gariki,” on the contrary, is extremely friendly with obscene vocabulary, and it is hardly worth letting children under sixteen read this little book—even though they are quite familiar with these words from harsh everyday life. Igor Guberman is being slightly coquettish when he places on the back cover the tirade: “These dry and inexpressive memoirs are worth reading only to those who are curious about the author himself, with his purely Levantine relaxedness of vision and thought...”
I, for one, am not especially interested in the author himself, yet the book still succeeds. Uneven—now at a gallop, now at a trot—with jumps from childhood memories through indecent jokes into heavy, rather viscous reflections on the hard Jewish lot. And then suddenly an energetic Russian three-letter word pokes its head out of the philosophical thickets, along with everything usually associated with it. And once again the reader is cheerful and carefree! As the narrative unfolds, Igor Guberman travels a lot on tours and business trips, speaks before varied audiences, and receives notes of all kinds.
He drinks a great deal of vodka, whiskey, and cognac, talks with various interesting interlocutors, repeatedly says unkind things about the Soviet regime that sent him to the camps for five years, and warmly recalls the women with whom he ever shared (or tried to share) a bed, as well as relatives and children.
With a caustic pen he brands an antisemite, but he does not spare his fellow tribesmen of the tribe of Israel either. The latter, perhaps, get it even worse from him than antisemites do—Guberman is merciless in this respect toward all sorts of vile characters.
At times an angry, at times an uneven book, but the author’s natural charm and his sinful sharp tongue pull the memoirs up to the proper level. It will most likely sell very well—especially since writer Guberman regularly emphasizes how beloved his “gariki” are—from Moscow to the very outskirts.
I, for one, am not especially interested in the author himself, yet the book still succeeds. Uneven—now at a gallop, now at a trot—with jumps from childhood memories through indecent jokes into heavy, rather viscous reflections on the hard Jewish lot. And then suddenly an energetic Russian three-letter word pokes its head out of the philosophical thickets, along with everything usually associated with it. And once again the reader is cheerful and carefree! As the narrative unfolds, Igor Guberman travels a lot on tours and business trips, speaks before varied audiences, and receives notes of all kinds.
He drinks a great deal of vodka, whiskey, and cognac, talks with various interesting interlocutors, repeatedly says unkind things about the Soviet regime that sent him to the camps for five years, and warmly recalls the women with whom he ever shared (or tried to share) a bed, as well as relatives and children.
With a caustic pen he brands an antisemite, but he does not spare his fellow tribesmen of the tribe of Israel either. The latter, perhaps, get it even worse from him than antisemites do—Guberman is merciless in this respect toward all sorts of vile characters.
At times an angry, at times an uneven book, but the author’s natural charm and his sinful sharp tongue pull the memoirs up to the proper level. It will most likely sell very well—especially since writer Guberman regularly emphasizes how beloved his “gariki” are—from Moscow to the very outskirts.
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