TLDR…However if I had, I would probably say things like, for an apathetic layabout, Oblomov can be exquisitely eloquent and his vision of an ideal lifestyle is essentially rather engaging. I simply can’t see him as a figure of fun nor as an anti-hero – he sounds to me like an Epicurean, in the philosophical sense, and stays true to his utopia, however lowly it might be. If this were a book about sloth and the entropy of the Russian aristocracy in the mid-19th Century it would not be as riveting as it is. I read it as a carefully and compulsively crafted study in clinical depression: Oblomov is a man without agency and drained of all energy. He is an innocent and a depressive. Throughout, I was hoping he could find the energy somehow to drag himself back to health. Olga, at the height of her frustration, names this as a depression (‘Oblomovitism’ as Stolz calls it) and clamours to find its ‘cause’. The cause is not the issue. It can just happen (as Olga later discovers when she is ‘unhappy because she is too happy’). The point is to identify it and, I suppose, either work around it, sympathise with the afflicted and keep trying – roles that Stolz irregularly performs. I reckon Oblomov finds the perfect solution in the end anyway.Some might see Oblomov as emasculated; others might see their way to calling him a gentle soul ill at ease in the rough and tumble of this world – I fall into the latter category. Oblomov thinks and feels far too much and far too sensitively to engage – he has no resilience, no outer membrane to protect himself so survives in the only way he knows how, by retreating.Goncharov keeps reeling out the line with his main character like a skilled fly-fisher, hitting the surface of the water, waiting, then striking. Sometimes it’s a false move but I don’t think he is as ambivalent about Oblomov’s morality as he appears to be. Oblomov is an unepic hero, a sensitive depressive in the Wordsworth vein tricked up to resemble a debauched lazy aristo, feeding off the toil of others and wasting away his life. Yet, Oblomov is the victim, not the perpetrator or the parasite. Life has leached away all his energy, drained his existence of all colour. Once Oblomov becomes inauthentic, i.e disingenuous and starts equivocating with Olga, the novel becomes unbearably but deliciously frustrating: Goncharov skillfully tilting the rudder, forcing the reader to experience the same exasperation that Olga feels.And then this almost five star novel totally loses the plot. Goncharov fluffs it during the soporific forest of uninterrupted black ink that flows and flows during the Stolz/Olga narrative. The whole thing becomes needlessly Midsummer Night Dreamy – fairy dust here, vapours and attacks of nerves there. Defeat is snatched from the jaws of triumph about 80 pages from the end of the book. The denoument feels like the final part of the Lord of the Rings films – a bladder-bursting, happy-clappy marathon finale in the shire. Stolz as a character lost his potential as a headliner once Oblomov had reanimated in the middle of the novel. He was then a fine but secondary character - and that sat comfortably. Why then is he brought back to deliver a monotonous polemic, mooning around like a lovelorn teenager and agonising over ‘what is love’ or ‘what is truth’? Oh Stolz I don’t care!! And Stolz’s introspection, mirrored on his face, is so badly written by Goncharov you feel the poor man must be having a grand mal seizure – first he felt panic, then he felt wonder, then sadness, then solitude until all the wrinkles on his face disappeared and all the mice on the mouse organ fell asleep and he was content once more…Jeez, enough already. This formulaic passing of the seasons on characters' faces became way too sketchy a fair distance before the finishing line. The hothouse atmosphere of a meticulously realized character-driven study is carelessly flung open during the final notes of the coda: the intensity is dissipated via a wishy washy contemplation of generic abstracts by a minor character in the novel. Beyond bizarre.Check this out, as Stolz ruminates (at greeeeeeat leeeength) about love: ‘What is the natural shade and colour of this ubiquitous and all-permeating blessing, of this sap of life?’ Oh Stolz I DON’T CARE – it’s mauve alright. The colour of love is bloody mauve. Now can we move on please? Oh he dribbles on, as does Olga, who is half crying, half laughing, half contemplating and half sighing all the time – she has more simultaneous moods and faces than a container-load of Russian dolls. Oh and Stolz is still there in the background waffling on about the nature of ‘woman’, sounding like Christina Rossetti reviewing Watership Down.And I don’t think it’s the fault of the translation (mine was the Magarashack) as there had been some cracking purple prose and absolutely magical passages pelting along earlier during Oblomov’s courtship. Stolz and Olga’s internal monologues descend into incessant self-analyses that are utterly unrealistic with each of them acting like emotional alchemists, adding a tincture of modesty, a splash of constancy here, a sprig of fantasy there, all bound together by the solid base of an ‘even flow to life’. Oh what a load of shite! Olga’s ‘fever of youth’ must be limited but also allowed controlled expression decides Stoltz as he acts as some kind of wife whisperer, trotting his young spouse around the ring on the lunge rein, training her in the ways of the world. The whole narrative ossifies, becomes self-reflective and reflexive and expires from exhaustion literally 30 pages from the end. It crucifies me. This was a solid 4.5/5 star read all along and the ending was so turgid, so, so…oooh just bad.There’s nothing worse than devoting yourself to a book, being indulged by it, looking forward to the final caresses and then the book sheds its skin, loses interest and slinks off into the shadows just before the climax - after all that effort and time spent reading it. Maybe it’s just me. Well, how about this: ‘They often sank in silent amazement before the eternally new and resplendent beauty of nature.’ OMFG….they’re at a grubby seaside resort in the Crimea not on the banks of the Limpopo River or at Angel Falls in Venezuela. WTF Goncharov? I just want to know about Oblomov. I don’t want to read the literary equivalent of a particularly nauseous Hallmark card with glitter and sparkles and big cow eyes. Overwrought, overwritten and overblown – too, too much and too, too long. Voltaire, in a similar setting, took a few pages to put Candide to bed; Goncharov labours over it for almost 100 pages. The longest final approach ever which has caused this excessive rant. Grrr. I hate being disillusioned at the last minute – finally finding the golden ticket and then discovering the chocolate has past its sell by date.Anyway, Oblomov is a masterpiece until its final few chapters. Or was it just me? Cut it in half and call it ‘Regrets’ as a comedienne once said.
Finish Powerball brilla meno di GoncarovHo sprecato almeno dieci minuti della mezz'ora che ho a disposizione all'internet-caffè, a inventarmi un titolo accattivante per questa recensione. All'inizio avevo pensato a Oblomoviglioso, poi ho alzato lo sguardo e i miei occhi si sono posati sui bicchieri fumanti che la banconiera toglieva dalla lavastoviglie con mani in apparenza ignifughe. E TA-DAAA... il plagio dello spot pubblicitario si era ormai compiuto.Adesso viene la parte difficile: tener desta la vostra attenzione, sempre che il paragone col brillantante l'abbia effettivamente catturata.Ciò che mi muove a volervi convincere, non è solo la grandiosità di questo romanzo, ma è soprattutto la profonda indignazione nel veder dimenticato il nome di Goncarov nel firmamento letterario. Contemporaneo di Turgenev e Dostoevskij, ospite del loro stesso mecenate, frequentatore dei loro stessi salotti, a detta loro persino “conversatore brillante, spiritoso e autoironico”, ha scritto la sua prima importante opera (Storia comune), a soli 33 anni. Quasi la stessa età della lettrice che in questo momento sta cercando i ridare prestigio all'illustre autore, mentre ordina il secondo caffè ristretto della giornata.Eppure tra i celebri letterati russi, per non so quale conventio ad excludendum, Goncarov viene citato poco e niente. Sgomento assoluto!!(In pratica sarebbe come fare un elenco dei recensionisti indecentemente frivoli, e non citare me! Sgomento inaudito!!)In Oblomov, ciò che conta non è l'ambiente ma l'atmosfera, non è la staticità dei fatti, ma l'inossidabilità di certi meccanismi dell'anima che suonano più attuali di quelli che potete vedere in una puntata di “The Mentalist”.Il'jà Oblomov è un uomo che ha fatto dell'apatia uno stile di vita; attorno al suo modus vivendi gravitano personaggi che alla fine della storia vi sembreranno “di casa”. E proprio perché “familiari” vi permetterete di giudicarli. E di trarne delle conclusioni.Le mie sono le seguenti. E siccome personali, sono ovviamente anche soggettive.1)”Chi si assomiglia si piglia”. I poli opposti si attrarranno pure, ma alla fine il meno si sposa col meno e il più col più.2)E' inutile girarci attorno: noi donne, abbiamo indubbiamente un certo istinto materno, e possiamo anche divertirci a fare le crocerossine in qualche imprecisato periodo della nostra vita, ma chi seguiremmo in capo al mondo non è il “sensibilone” di turno, ma l'uomo pratico e di polso che ci tiene per mano nelle peripezie quotidiane, ma all'occorrenza ci smuove, ci strattona (ho detto “strattona”, non “tratta male”, lungi da me alimentare il falso mito del “Teorema” di Ferradini), ma soprattutto ci stimola. Allora ci sentiremo finalmente appagate, e siccome l'uomo di cui parlo non è né Indiana Jones,né Robocop, avrà sicuramente anche lui le sue debolezze e la sua sensibilità interiore, occasioni in cui potremo persino soddisfare il nostro istinto da chiocce.In parole povere, possiamo anche avere memorabili storie con artisti, poeti, intellettuali, e aggiungerei anche i Nerd (che adesso van tanto di moda), ma quello che volgiamo inconsciamente e non, è un uomo all'altezza delle rogne giornaliere, che davanti a un problema di gestione pratica, non vada in paranoia o si rifugi in elucubrazioni filosofiche, scaricandoci la patata bollente. Naturalmente il tutto va condito con l'aroma inebriante della moderazione. Gli estremismi si sa, in amore come nel carattere non vanno mai bene.3)Tutti quanti abbiamo vissuto un periodo in cui abbiamo perso tempo a “tracciare l'arabesco della nostra vita” senza però muovere un dito per dargli una forma compiuta. Comunque presto o tardi, nel bene o nel male, ci siamo mossi e scrollati l'inerzia di dosso.Guardiamo a questo banale momento come a un successo e rallegriamocene. C'è chi non si muove, o non ha la forza di farlo, e si condanna a vivere come una pallottola di pasta arrotolata.Si chiama Oblomovismo.Adesso mi direte che non vi ho parlato del libro, ma quale miglior motivo potevo darvi per leggerlo, se non quello che qualunque testo vi porti a fare delle riflessioni sul vostro modo di vivere, è un'opera ben riuscita?E non vi ho neanche parlato della rarità dei cuori nobili. Ma questo lo scoprirete da soli, qualora decidiate di accompagnare Il'jà nel suo piccolo mondo antico.Ah, un'ultima cosa. Le prime 100 pagine servono da preselezione per scremare il pubblico paziente da quello che vuole tutto e subito. Superato il dubbio di esservi immersi nella lettura di un testo teatrale, dove i personaggi entrano in scena uno dopo l'altro al centro del palcoscenico, potrete sprofondare nella poltrona e godervi lo spettacolo, perché da quel momento in poi... silenzio! Parla Oblomov.
Do You like book Oblomov (2006)?
Oblomov is cursed with a mixture of apathy, lethargy, and depression- something that can only be described as the disease of Oblomovka. His condition manifests itself in comical but gradually serious scenarios. The plot of the book might seem uneventful whilst reading, but once you reach the last page and contemplate what you have just read, you realize that the moral behind the story weighs plenty in terms of significance.Goncharov has a firm understanding of the impact of childhood in an adult's life, which is even more remarkable considering when this novel was actually written. The novel explores three other themes: friendship, love, and life as a noble. These three themes, needless to say, have Oblomov as their central character and expand according to how he deals with other people.Overall, this is one of the best Russian literary works that I've read, and I highly recommend it.
—Charbel
خيلي كتاب باحالي بود!وقتي ميخوندمش كاملاً تحت تاثير ابلوموف قرار گرفته بودم و مثل اون تنبل شده بودم! تا ميشستم به خوندنش خوابم ميگرفت!يه شب كه فردا صبحش بايد زود بيدار ميشدم ولي خوابم نميبرد، شروع كردم به خوندنش تا بخوابم. ولي از شانس من رسيده بود به اونجا كه ابلوموف عاشق شده بود و از اون تنبلي در اومده بود! مگه خوابم برد ديگه!!!:)
—Maryam Shahriari
My mother frequently used to accuse me of being "like Oblomov" when I was a teenager, and probably later on as well, so when I came across Oblomov in my father's attic this year, I thought I should read the book at last.It is the only book I can recall reading where the main character is still in bed 40 pages in, and still not washed and dressed when he falls asleep again at about page 100 (despite the scoldings from his faithful but truculent man-servant Zakhar who is perhaps the most entertaining character in the book)!But later on Oblomov is briefly roused from his torpor by a young woman with whom he falls in love. This was the most enjoyable part of the book for me, for the insight it gives into the social mores of mid 19th-century Russia. I think feminists would find the portrayal of Olga very interesting - as she tries to escape some of the constraints of the time. However, even love cannot keep Oblomov awake for long, and eventually Olga realises this and they part. Oblomov sinks definitively into lethargy, and yet finds some kind of happiness with a degrading marriage to his land-lady.I found the book very uneven: a long section, ostensibly a dream, narrating Oblomov's childhood at his estate Oblomovka might have benefited from some pruning. One of the book's other main characters, is Stolz, perhaps Oblomov's only true male friend, who first introduces Olga to him,. and then later marries her himself. Energetic and industrious, like his German father, he is clearly intended as a counter-point to Oblomov, but he is an artistic failure and I found it necessary to skip some of the passages towards the end describing his life with Olga.Nevertheless this is certainly a book well worth reading, and which is deservedly considered a classic of Russian literature.
—Alun Williams
