Routine

The hero of “Routine” grew up on barren land. He is a shadow of the gods of the past—a depressive emanation wandering through ruins in search of traces of a feast. But every party turns into a dark, transgressive experience; amorous escapades leave only empty traces of semen splashes, and his calling turns into routine. Yet in this book there is everything except dullness: it doesn’t provoke pity—it acts directly, insults, wounds, and terrifies you down to convulsions. “Books and girls can be taken to bed,” Walter Benjamin wrote. And perhaps only “Routine,” among all contemporary Russian prose, would open the door to a German critic’s private rooms.