The book starts as a pseudo-surrealist consumer comedy (channeling Evelyn Waugh, who Shteyngart name drops, but more closely related to another New York Writer: Arthur Nersesian) and slips into a tragic farce of geopolitical affairs, globalization and war a la Joseph Heller (also directly cited in the text). But of course, being written in 2006, and as the parantheticals may have indicated, it comes with the full on tongue-in-cheek self-awareness of post-post-modern literature (god I hate myself just thinking that sentence), with Shteyngart appearing as a villain in the story, that is in fact the book's greatest weakness. The corpulently fat, incredibly wealthy protagonist, Misha Vainberg, who narrates, is a post-Soviet Russian Jew, son of the 1,238th richest man in Russia. Hence, he is an oligarch, and at thirty has done little with his life but eat, drink, and occasionally screw. What may turn off some is the ravishingly vile descriptions of his eating, his penis, his sex life, etc. An honest, declamatory style about the vulgar physicality of sex and food brings comparisons to another famous literary Jew, but Shteyngart is a full generation separated from Roth. Though we do get the full Freudian parental-purging pathos, as well as a witty, sympathetic but oft unflattering view of the Jewish diaspora, Shteyngart also manages to cram in the ravages of consumer capitalism upon an oil rich nation, a tender broken heart love story, a better-late-than-never bildungsroman about the loss of innocence in the face of geopolitical forces, a seething anti-militarism critique, a search for the Russian soul after perestroika, and, of course, an askance but astute look at NYC, circa September 2001, and the after effects of that fateful month on our place in the world.If this all sounds like too much for one little novel to bear, well, it would be if Shteyngart didn't write such hilarious, quick-moving, and charged prose. Misha moves from St. Petersburg (or Leninsburg, as he and his friends call it) to Absurdistan, in hopes of getting a Belgian passport so he can finally get to America to see his beautiful Spanish girlfriend from the Bronx. By maintaining a number of different settings for Misha (Petersburg and Absurdistan, but also flashbacks to his days in NYC as well as a quick chapter about his student life in Accidental College, a parody of Shteyngart's Oberlin) as well as an acutely self-centered narration, he sets all these topics in motion precisely juxtaposed to the mindless destruction caused by Misha's willful ignorance of political context and actual material meaning, reflected in his constant focus on vague philanthropic endeavor and 'multiculturalism'.Misha, a fat bumbling anti-hero for our time, adores the consumerist haven that is Absurdistan's capital (clearly influenced by Abu Dhabi), and even as Civil War breaks out and things start to crumble he maintains his gluttonous attitude almost to the end. When revelation finally comes for Misha, it is too late for Russia, too late for Absurdistan, too late even for America (the book ends on September 10, 2001, though it is written with the post 9/11 confusion and despair that became American politics)If this sounds like the book is a totally serious affair, I apologize: it's mostly comedy, I swear! The ending gets serious but there are hearty laughs to be had throughout. Its also an incredibly good read, and, though a slow starter, will keep you enthralled throughout its crazy serenade to all that is hidden, lost and destroyed by a world of nihilistic end-game squabbles over market share.
I must first say that I just hate reviewing books that I have given 1 star ratings. I know some reviewers out there enjoy the scathing review. I, personally, just feel like it is yet another an imposition on my time by a novel that was not worth my time in the first place.That said, I think my least favorite piece of this novel (and that is saying a lot) is that it ends on 9/11/01. The main character is trying to get out of the Middle East and into NYC despite having been banned by INS and he ends on an upbeat tone and thinks he has finally escaped Absurdia (oh wait, that is Absurdistan) only to bump into 9/11. Yeah...I know Shteyngart thought he was cute with that one, but really just not so much.So much of this book is taken up with gross descriptions. I am a person who enjoyed American Psycho and can certainly take graphic sex and gore (for example after reading "Zeke Stargazing" by Rachel Kimbrough and proclaiming it my current favorite short story my brother called me a sociopath). However, this novel focused on detailed descriptions of fat person sex and eating. As much as I like eating and fucking as the rest of the world, I really would rather not watch while it is done by the obese.Shteyngart thought he was being funny with the whole "golly burton" and probably thought he was avante garde and liberal with his notes on the absurdisms of American intervention overseas. Unfortunately, it was overdone and boring and repetitive. I understood that Steyngart was attempting to draft a novel about the Middle East and oil in the same way that Heller wrote about WWII, however it was a) presumptuous and b) just plain wrong to mention Heller in his text. Finally, I found it annoying that Misha's father was absolutely everywhere and knew absolutely everyone and that Misha only coupled with Gentile girls (despite himself writing a treatise on the need for Jewish pro-creation).Overall the language is not interesting, the plot is rambling and stupid, and the main character is self absorbed but not in a funny absurdist way, just a in a whining annoying way. Not worth the time.
Do You like book Absurdistan (2007)?
Good political and social satire makes you look at the world a little differently, with some laughs along the way. This did not. For the life of me, I can't figure out why this book got such critical acclaim. The humor was cheap and obvious (although sometimes actually funny) and I couldn't help feeling like Shteyngart robbed his main character from A Confederacy of Dunces, only without the keen ability to actually develop the character like Toole had (RIP). The most annoying part was that Shteyngart creates a character (Shteynfarb) who's supposed to be some kind of embodiment of his witty self-deprecation. Only, it really isn't all that witty and comes off more like the author's unwelcome and egotistical intrusion into an already tenuous plot. It's almost like he's begging the reader to be impressed by his wit. I have visions of Stewie from Family Guy writing this book and in a moment of misguided self-impression exclaiming "Oh my god, look how witty and intellectual I am!". The book had some redeeming sections where shallow wit and transparent satire gives way to moments of real thought. For those I can see that Shteyngart has (or could have) some real talent, were it not for his own ego.
—Joe Arencibia
This struggles only in how it starts and how it ends. Now I don't need a bow, ribbon, road signs, and a pat on the head when I read, but he soapboxed his way through this allegory, and it needed something firmer coming out the other side. It blurs at the edges and you're left nowhere when you spent all this time grounded in a very specific, real "somewhere." If you put in all that effort to bring us with you, keeping us tightly wrapped in this "Iraq" stand-in, you can't just let us drop into a vacant space; we spent too much time confined, defined by your metaphor. In another way, it's like getting the literary version of the bends--like when you surface to fast from deep under water, the pressure change is too much to bear. And reviewers kept calling it rip-roaringly funny--I was too busy being bothered by what was happening to really yuck it up, which is more a slight on the reviewers than Gary. Was I supposed to double-over at the fat Russian because he was fat, having sex with other fat people, or that he's white and likes hip-hop? That being said, Gary's strength is consistently pairing something so sad you have to laugh to weather the pathos, or so gruesome, if you don't at least chuckle and shrug somewhat, you'll shudder to your core. He sets you up with this almost-WB-cartoon-style violence (there's a moment where two secruity guards at the embassy in St. Petersburg are beating him up and he's so impervious to their punches because of how drunk and large he is that he just continues telling them the story of his life to them until they all wear themselves out and all collapse in a heap at the gate) then brushing you up against some ugly and awful scenes. Another good example of this "ha-ha!...oh man..." kind of thing is the mantra he gives the Svani people, which twists and contorts in its implication as it is repeated over and over and over and over again. Certainly worth a look-see, but don't expect Vonnegut.
—Ed
Really, it boils down to the fact that this was just a boring wank-a-thon. Boring. As shit. I can see how people would be impressed with this book though, since Shteyngart can emulate all of the writing styles of every single polular Russian writer of the past two centuries. Ok, dude, I get it, you can write like Tolstoy and Nabokov, I get it. However, if you're trying to impress me with that junk, it's a wasted gesture, since the people that get it are the same people who have already read Dostoyevsky, so they're already read some shit written in that style. Why would I want to read something written like that again? Also, this guy gets way too fucking postmodern with his pop culture references, especially the hip hop ones. Honestly, they make me feel uncomfortable, especially the parts where he raps. Speaking of postmodern, way to insert yourself into the story. Nobody's ever done that before! You are a real innovator, sir! You're like the fucking Neal Armstrong of indirectly making fun of yourself in an attempt at coming off like some actuallly cool dude. Good job!So, yeah, not a big fan of this book.
—Morgan
