Whaaaaaaat a book. Oh Vlad, you so bad. 

Blue Lard by Vladimir Sorokin, translated by Max Lawton. I hesitate to say I loved it because it feels like saying I love murder scenes staged by the criminally insane into red art installations. But I kinda do love those. So I think I loved this. Yeah. I loved it. Is it too cutesy to call it a murder scene staged by the criminally insane into a read art installation? 

ITo steal the blurb, it’s “an act of desecration. Blue Lard is what’s left after the towering masterpieces of Russian literature have been blown to smithereens, the most graphic, shocking, controversial, and celebrated book to be published in Russia since the end of Communism.” 

That’s a hefty description but it’s probably accurate. This book is an unhinged fever dream. Per Max’s “extroduction,” Sorokin himself can’t explain it all. Going in, I only knew what the blurb said: there’s a futuristic lab where clones of famous Russian authors write under duress and secrete “blue lard,” a scientifically unique substance harvested to power reactors on the moon. The blue lard is stolen by a figuratively and literally underground cult who sends it back in time to an alternate reality where Stalin and Hitler are best buds and Hitler shoots electricity out of his hands. 

Despite this, uh, memorable synopsis I’d gotten so distracted by the obscenities and beauty of the first 50 pages (“as he was a coffee table, so has he remained.”) that I forgot all about the plot until I stumbled onto it mid-page. And then I lost the plot again in the caves, disoriented by the layers and distracted by some truly crystalline writing. Because that’s how this book operates. Oh and it can be funny as hell. AAA, I’m looking at you. 

Maybe not worth saying it this late in the post but I would 100% not recommend this book to many people. It’s hard to read for 100 reasons. But if you’re into the grotesque and surreal and witty, you’d be into this. #2024books