The Easter Parade
11 hrs. 7 min.
Language
Russian
Author
Richard Yates
Author
Richard Yates
Narrator
Irina Yerisanova
Narrator
Irina Yerisanova
Description
You are lonely from birth to the very end, with nobody to help you overcome that loneliness. However—no dramas, no hysteria.
Richard Yates, the least known—Esquire’s bitter remark—of the great American writers, died in 1992 from complications after surgery on his lungs. By that time, his sturdy, well-crafted prose had already been largely, firmly forgotten. Yates was destined to receive the status of being “rediscovered” only in 1999, after an article by his fellow writer Stewart O’Nan. The article was titled “The Lost World of Richard Yates,” and it raised the question of how a critically acclaimed writer—beloved by Vonnegut—could be so uninteresting to the general public. No clear answer was found: life is unfair, life for a writer is unfair twice over. The article’s title—“The Lost World”—nevertheless brilliantly describes Yates’s literary legacy. His books, the earliest of which appeared in 1961, seem to have forgotten time. Beyond their covers, intellectual wars rage; new styles are born and die; even the ice floe of literature cracks, ready to spread into pieces—but inside everything is neatly assembled, as if the objects were packed up before leaving. The everyday life of America in the 1950s is preserved in them lovingly and carefully: together with the characters we enter rooms, touch fabrics, feel dampness, cold, heat. If you lift the tin lid of this can, you can sense an aroma somehow familiar from childhood. These are preserves—but of very high quality.
Richard Yates, the least known—Esquire’s bitter remark—of the great American writers, died in 1992 from complications after surgery on his lungs. By that time, his sturdy, well-crafted prose had already been largely, firmly forgotten. Yates was destined to receive the status of being “rediscovered” only in 1999, after an article by his fellow writer Stewart O’Nan. The article was titled “The Lost World of Richard Yates,” and it raised the question of how a critically acclaimed writer—beloved by Vonnegut—could be so uninteresting to the general public. No clear answer was found: life is unfair, life for a writer is unfair twice over. The article’s title—“The Lost World”—nevertheless brilliantly describes Yates’s literary legacy. His books, the earliest of which appeared in 1961, seem to have forgotten time. Beyond their covers, intellectual wars rage; new styles are born and die; even the ice floe of literature cracks, ready to spread into pieces—but inside everything is neatly assembled, as if the objects were packed up before leaving. The everyday life of America in the 1950s is preserved in them lovingly and carefully: together with the characters we enter rooms, touch fabrics, feel dampness, cold, heat. If you lift the tin lid of this can, you can sense an aroma somehow familiar from childhood. These are preserves—but of very high quality.
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