Jan 16, 2022
INTERVIEW BY PHILIP METRES — Born in 1947 and one of the founders of Moscow Conceptualism, Lev Rubinstein is among Russia’s most well-known contemporary poets and writers. He has been called the “Postmodern Chekhov.
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INTERVIEW BY PHILIP METRES — Born in 1947 and one of the founders of Moscow Conceptualism, Lev Rubinstein is among Russia’s most well-known contemporary poets and writers. He has been called the “Postmodern Chekhov.
Russian dissident poet Lev Rubinstein, 76, dies of injuries after being hit by car
Poet Lev Rubinstein, a key figure of the Soviet underground literary scene who later protested against Russian President Vladimir Putin, has died days after being hit by a car, his daughter said Sunday. Rubinstein, who was Jewish, is considered one of the founders of the Russian conceptualist movement, a literary “avant-garde” that mocked the official doctrine of socialist realism in the…
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World Festival of Youth and Students
Lev Rubinstein, born 1947 in Moscow, as photographed in 2017 by Natalia Senatorova. Courtesy of Wikimedia There should be at least some news to slightly brighten — like a mosquito-sized flashlight — the gloomy hopelessness of the current media landscape. So, this morning a news item flashed across my screen that seemed provisionally positive and even slightly heartwarming amidst the already…
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Lev Rubinstein, “Elegy” (1983), collected in Compleat Catalogue of Comedic Novelties translated by Philip Metres and Tatiana Tulchinsky
1 Sometimes you ask yourself, “Could something else be possible?” – and it seems at that moment that it could.
2 Sometimes you think, “This will never ever come to an end” – and the end is indeed nowhere in sight.
3 Sometimes you wonder whether it’s worth it to inhibit natural processes. And is it indeed?
4 Sometimes it wouldn’t hurt to point out the fact that something nevertheless is happening, isn’t it?
5 Sometimes it’s appropriate to note that at present, everything is coming together and a kind of patter, one might say, is becoming visible.
6 Sometimes merely a quick glance is enough to grasp, if not everything, then at least the very essence.
7 Sometimes you think: “What should I do now–take full responsibility upon myself for what’s happened? Well, so be it. And then what?”
8 Sometimes you feel that there is something in this that appeals and at the same time obviously repels. You’d like to know exactly what it is.
9 Sometimes you suddenly want to look inside, and when you do, you wish you hadn’t.
10 Sometimes something enters your head, and afterwards you’re literally not yourself.
11 Sometimes you dream something that, however you interpret it, it all means the same thing.
12 Sometimes chimeras haunt you from all sides, and you do your best to drive them away…
13 Sometimes you think about whatever you want, except what you really need to think about.
14 Sometimes you suddenly grasp very clearly that you’ll get nothing but what you’ve earned, and everything will fall into its appropriate place.
15 Sometimes a feeling comes that everything will be decided very soon. Later you remember this and think, “I’ll be damned…”
16 Sometimes a feeling arises that it can’t be otherwise.
17 Sometimes you imagine how it would be if everything were different, and you decide to yourself, “Really, what are you talking about!” and only wave your hand.
18 Sometimes you’re lost in thought literally all night long about unrealized possibilities and you don’t even notice when dawn arrives.
19 Sometimes you wonder why one would have confidence that everything will work out somehow.
20 Sometimes, finding yourself unwittingly listening to muffled voices beyond a wall, you think, they’re not going to say anything interesting, yet you strain to hear them–God, as if your life depends on it!
21 Sometimes you go up to a group having a vigorous conversation about something, and you listen to what they’re talking about, and then just walk off.
22 Sometimes someone passes by, saying something over their shoulder and disappearing, and whether you attach some meaning to it or not doesn’t really matter.
23 Sometimes you suddenly react fiercely to something that, at another time, you wouldn’t have even noticed.
24 Sometimes you suddenly understand that you won’t even get halfway, much less to the end. It’s really frustrating…
25 Sometimes a crazy idea suddenly appears: “Well, shouldn’t I just say it?”
26 Sometimes you wait for the most fitting moment to say it, but the moment never comes.
27 Sometimes you think to yourself, “Man, you just don’t have it in you to shovel it at them. That’s the whole truth. It’s not about the fucking ‘art’…”
28 Sometimes regarding someone’s mistaken interpretation of your idea, it’s fine to say, “Let them think what they will. Do I have to explain everything?”
29 Sometimes, at the mention of someone’s name, you feel how your face changes, and you’re afraid that someone might notice.
30 Sometimes you feel that you are saying or doing something that’s not right, but you still can’t stop yourself.
31 Sometimes you try to be utterly careful, but it won’t happen.
32 Sometimes you aim for the highest goal, ignoring the trifles of life, but nothing turns out that way.
33 Sometimes you succeed in rising above the world of passions, and you’d like to tell those still down below something consoling, but instead you only throw your hands over the abyss and keep silent.
34 Sometimes a phrase churns in your head and you try to drive it away. You’d better not: in it, there’s probably some secret meaning of what’s happening right now.
35 Sometimes you rush hither and thither in search of peace, but all you need to do is wait and it will come.
36 Sometimes you seem to be approaching something, but it moves ever further away.
37 Sometimes, approaching the forbidden line, you’ll think for a minute and then step over it.
38 Sometimes you literally can’t afford to lose a minute, but for some reason you keep putting it off…
39 Sometimes you should clearly give it a little time, but you only understand it afterward.
40 Sometimes you stare into the distance for a long time, trying to discover, identify something.
41 Sometimes you peer intently into the half-light, not hoping to find, not fearing to lose.
42 Sometimes you keep yelling and you can’t hear yourself.
43 Sometimes you keep looking around yourself and doubt the reality of what’s happening. But surely that’s wrong, though it’s tempting to think otherwise.
44 Sometimes you keep thinking and some sensible decision comes
45 Sometimes you keep waiting and yet nothing happens… but then, out of the blue, something pops up.
46 Sometimes you imagine that a hazel branch is a sign of everything impossible, unending rain is a sign of future times, and veiled light in a strange widow is a sign of the inscrutability of the way.
47 Sometimes you sigh and think to yourself. And you begin sighing again.
Lev Rubinstein, “Thursday Night (When Dreams Come True), 1985, in Compleat Catalogue of Comedic Novelties, translated by Philip Metres and Tatiana Tulchinsky
1 All night I was dreaming of the frontier regions of existence. Waking up, I could remember only something between water and land, silence and speech, dreaming and waking, and managed to think: “Here it is, the aesthetic of uncertainty. Here it is again...”
2 I dreamt that someone long gone and seemingly completely forgotten suddenly appeared and looked at me so kindly, so attentively that I woke up, my heart pounding...
3 I dreamt that I had to get up and see if she was sleeping. I woke up, and could not remember for a long time who I was thinking of. Then I remembered...
4 I dreamt that I had to hide in my shell for a while, and then, as they say, we’ll see. I woke up and thought, “Well, I don’t know, I don’t know...”
5 I dreamt that happiness truly knew no bounds. Waking up, I thought, “I wish it were true...”
6 I dreamt that you only have a real chance four times in life. Waking, I thought that there was surely something to this...
7 I was dreaming that the most important thing was to find the most adequate form of sympathy for each other. Then I woke up...
8 I was dreaming that the idea of a clear page is a short circuit to any consistent aesthetic experience. Then I woke up...
9 I was dreaming that one could proceed from the fact that our sense of self is a self of self-created personages, existing in their own time and space. And that it is exactly the starting point of such a sense of self that draws us together. Then I woke up...
10 I dreamt two whole arguments in my support, but of course I could not remember them...
11 I dreamt a third argument as well. But it also remained there in the dream...
12 I dreamt of the long-awaited coming of a hero. He often looked gloomy, yet his constant readiness to be happy was apparent as well. His open and keen relation to reality was very likeable.
Waking up, I thought that there was nothing to add to this.
13 I dreamt the rare flitters of fading hopes. Neither bright, nor warm, they silently smoldered down in the windless depths of the consciousness.
I got so used to them, my tired brain almost failed to acknowledge them, my head would no longer jerk up at their sight, my nostrils would not longer flare, my pulse would no longer quicken. It seemed that nothing could break my despondent calm. It seemed that nothing presaged any change...
14 I dreamt of an old park with trees immersed in thought. Along its shaded alley, a lonely figure moved toward me. I noticed it from far off and almost immediately guessed who it was. But you’ve probably guessed as well...
15 I dreamt that they were obviously not alone there. Someone prowled in the night without a sound, like a thief. “Quiet,” said Heinrich with his lips pursed, “did you hear something?” Both listened. All was silent again. It was as if lighting suddenly sliced through the dark...
16 I dreamt of the creaking floorboards and balding rugs of a small boarding house on the shore of Lake Bodensee. The weather during these days was rainy and unpleasant. The mistress of the boarding house was a good-natured and flabby woman about fifty years old. The table usually sat about ten or twelve guests. They were of different nationalities, habits, and interests. There was nothing to talk about, and lunch was stale. Boredom and despair reigned at the table.
Still, one of the guests grabbed my attention. He was a young, sickly-looking Italian, always silent, who would only rarely cast around a strange, obscure glance, as if something known only to him had momentarily awakened him from his usual stupor...
17 I dreamt of a massive gray Ministry of Navigation building. It was located just a couple steps from my old apartment. And my windows looked right out onto the same despondent square. Every morning and every night a faceless chain of clerks strode by my windows.
Could I have imagined back then...
18 I dreamt of little Kolya’s face, happy for no reason and the concentrated faces of his family, and the impatient face of the driver, and all the other faces--relatives, acquaintances, those barely known, and those not known at all. All of them were diffused in the dim consciousness of Konstantin, merged into one quickly revolving spot, and, as if cut down, he collapsed on the wet asphalt of a train platform, still empty in the morning.
19 I dreamt the situation was such that even if a clear and quivering voice did suddenly emerge amid the inarticulate din of the crowd, it would be lost in this gnashing as well. And those who’d manage to discern it would only exchange looks, nod knowingly to each other, and that would perhaps be the end, if not for the...
20 I dreamt that we all had to live by touch: here a loophole, here a fence, there a solid wall. And our life passes, from decision to doubt, from a nod to an interjection, from dream to toil...
21 I dreamt a light went out somewhere in the center. The voice that cried out in the wilderness no longer could be heard. The warmth dispersed, never to return. Only glass glancing at glass, fleeting, obscure...
22 Then I dreamt of caustic smoke, my own death mask. What will we give as a momento? What will we grab at the last moment? Paradise is not for us, so we don’t walk in pairs. It’s so basic it’s not worth explaining...
23 I dreamt my heart, each night, is pulled out of its sheath. What do we know? What can we do? Whoever knows should be silent...
24 I dreamt of an empty sky. We both felt lost in it. You said: “The swallow over there will now remember us until we die...”
25 I dreamt we said goodbye on the bridge. We’re tired now, and take a rest... All nature’s actions happen for a reason. No one will be delighted to receive us. Neither of us knows what will happen tomorrow, or the day after. Our final hour. We’re saying goodbye on the bridge...
26 I dreamt he’s buried in a grave, out of his mind. A candle burned, its flame recklessly long...
27 I dreamt he lay down in the sand forever. Who better than he could understand the earthly bustle? That nothing is what it seems... That what is said is beyond us. And here above the earth out dear comrade soars... We go the way water wouldn’t flow. Where brains fall off like leaves, and shrieks, and pitch dark. We’ll go there--it’s time, it’s time for us to leave this home. We wanted to live, but this is what it’s come to...
28 I dreamt at dawn of my balcony drowned in snow, overflowing with crimson, and my stallion’s nape marked with murderous fangs, the glare of wolves-- luminous fish sparkling, then disappearing--as they head for the woods. I heard my rifle’s parting cry echo behind my back, the crazed laugh of a fallen animal’s shriek. My ding horse, a white steam through a wide-open door, an unending blizzard, a trail overgrown with snow...
29 I dreamt my scarcely breathing ship was sinking fast, while in the storm I was engaged in a miraculous prayer...
30 I dreamt of nothing much-- just numbness and endurance. Let’s hide our beaks beneath our wings at this crossroads of winds. We know what things are worth, but when we leave the stage take up the pilgrim’s staff and bag-- who should we put in charge? And how should we proceed in the mist, an hour, a day, a thousand years-- giving the finger in our pockets, tête-à-tête with the cold wind?
31 I dreamt they were running fast-- All my remaining days, looming ahead, while I was left behind. The quiver of six transparent wings revealed me to myself, and I woke up...
32 I dreamt he was right here, sitting on my bed. He was here, clear as day, and yet he wasn’t. Who knows better than he that all has changed, and there’s no place for hope or an unbiased mind. The quiver of six transparent wings revealed myself to me, and I woke up...
33 I dreamt at dawn of a half-corpse, half-demon that stared with many eyes out from a gilded frame. He said: “Don’t wait in vain--a miracle won’t happen. Get out of here before it’s too late.” He said: “Follow me, I’ll show you the way.” I woke with a heavy head...
34 I was dreaming of a well-balanced sheet of paper, of memory gone to sleep. Lulled by dripping moisture I let another spring go by. My tongue was nursing a stingy definition of life’s meaning. But then a long ray fell on my blanket, and I woke up...
35 I dreamt that dreams can bring relief, yet take away something forever. And I woke up...
36 I dreamt of a phrase: “my blocked muse.” After I woke up, I lay with my eyes open for a long time...
37 I dreamt that recounting dreams you don’t remember is a kind of occupation. Waking up, I thought, “Why not?
38 I dreamt that I didn’t care who cried over which onion. Waking up, I thought, “No, I don’t care.”
39 I dreamt that if “today’s Thursday” is said on Thursday, then it means that today is Thursday. If “today’s Thursday” is said on Friday, then it’s either a lie or a mistake, or something else. Waking up, I thought that, really, what is said is as important as when it is said...
40 I dreamt that we were sitting here and doing the same thing that we’re doing now. Waking up, I thought that there really was nothing unusual about this...
41 I dreamt an uncountable number of various possibilities. Waking up, I tried for a long time to remember something, anything...
42 On the very brink between dreaming and waking, I dreamt that whatever exists, does indeed exist.
Waking up, I thought: “And that’s the way it should be...”
First it’s about the marked drop of enthusiasm in our ranks. Then it’s about the possibility of getting rid of our addiction to naming everything. Then it’s about the relevance of seeing things in just that way. And on top of that, you’ve got to figure out what’s allowed and what’s not.
*
from “First It’s One Thing, Then Another” by Lev Rubinstein (translated by Philip Metres and Tatiana Tulchinsky)
Russian poet Lev Rubinstein (b. 1947) is generally described as a conceptualist artist, and is associated, as a founding member, with the group called the Moscow Conceptualists. But before we begin to categorize his poetry, it is helpful to perceive that Russian conceptualism, at least as Rubinstein and others practice it, is not focused on a shell into which content is purposefully or accidentally “poured,” but is best conceived as a literary form into which very specific, even if quite disjunctive content is shaped by the poet into a more abstract expression of ideas.
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