What I am reading
this is the highly subjective way I read and interpret literature
(I mostly read classic belles-lettres, but you’ll find some examples of trashy readings here and there as well)
This book is strange, but hey, which one isn't?
This was a very strage book and I am not quite sure whether I actually understood it.
Venedikt Erofeev (the author) wrote a story about one day in the life of the alcoholic Venedict Erofeev (the protagonist). Erofeev wakes up in some staircase with a hangover and he decides that he finally wants to see the Kremlin. But, as always, he ends up at the Kursky station without having found his way to the Kremlin. He starts drinking again.
With his bag fully stocked with cheap soviet alcohol, like every week he enters the train to the small town of Petuški, where his beloved girlfriend/acquaintance/wife/friend (I don't really know) is waiting for him (is she waiting? I don't really know either).
During his journey, he keeps on drinking – alone and with his travel companions (I guess..) – and as the level of his drunkenness rises, the story gets more and more confused and confusing.
There comes the point where you just stop knowing what is going on – in terms of where he is, who he is, where he is going, why he wants to go somewhere, whom he is talking to, whether he is actually talking to anybody, what time it is, … really, I don't know, but reading was fun!
