Stone Maples
15 hrs. 6 min.
Language
Russian
Author
Lena Eltang
Author
Lena Eltang
Narrator
Stanislav Ivanov
Narrator
Elnara Salimova
Narrator
Maria Lutovinova
Narrator
Olga Baulina
Narrator
Pyotr Vlasov
Description
The heroine Sasha Sonly has a small hotel in Wales, and she also has Russian roots on her mother’s side. Sasha collects herbs, studies folklore and magic, and keeps a diary in which she talks to her dead mother. For reasons unknown, the villagers consider her the murderer of her own sister.
…when you love someone, you know about them something strange, and you feel it intensely, and you see all the murky sediment of their dreams, the green haze at the bottom, and the heavenly power struggling to see through it. But you’re not afraid—the strange seems explainable to you, and the wild feels almost manageable. And if they ask you: how do you put up with it? Or just—what is it like? you don’t even understand right away what they mean.
Like other novels by Eltang, “Stone Maples” pretends to be a detective story, but in reality it’s a blend of philosophical and psychological prose.
I’ve always envied her masterful indifference: neighbors admired her flower beds and whispered behind her back about her illness, but she didn’t even remember their names. She was like a blade tempered to absolute cold—impenetrable and shining. Impatience and мучительна скука boiled inside her like acid in a retort—but only we two knew about it…
…when you love someone, you know about them something strange, and you feel it intensely, and you see all the murky sediment of their dreams, the green haze at the bottom, and the heavenly power struggling to see through it. But you’re not afraid—the strange seems explainable to you, and the wild feels almost manageable. And if they ask you: how do you put up with it? Or just—what is it like? you don’t even understand right away what they mean.
Like other novels by Eltang, “Stone Maples” pretends to be a detective story, but in reality it’s a blend of philosophical and psychological prose.
I’ve always envied her masterful indifference: neighbors admired her flower beds and whispered behind her back about her illness, but she didn’t even remember their names. She was like a blade tempered to absolute cold—impenetrable and shining. Impatience and мучительна скука boiled inside her like acid in a retort—but only we two knew about it…
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