Diary of a Loser Read online

  Diary of a Loser

  Edward Limonov

  Eduard Limonov

  Diary of a Loser

  © Эдуард Лимонов

  © translated by Alexei Pavlenko

  Alexei Pavlenko

  Translator’s preface

  More than any other writer today, Limonov extends the great Russian tradition of rebel-writers. Limonov has become the champion of a legacy which spans from Avvakum to Radishchev to Dostoevsky to Mayakovsky to Gorky to Solzhentitsyn. As was true with each of his predecessors, Limonov – his life and his works – projects an image of scandal and struggle to his contemporaries. Many are scandalized by his exposure of what they consider shameful; others are embarrassed by his uncompromising political position. Yet, in spite and because of this his defiant voice is instantly recognized by millions. The distinguishing quality of this writer comes from his life and his writing converged into a signal feat of rebellion – it threatens the authorities both political and literary. Just as with the other rebel-writers, Limonov is now in prison. Unlike Gorky and Solzhenitsyn, however, who in their later years were ensconced in a comfortable settlement with the status quo, Limonov grows more defiant with age. In The Diary of a Loser, 1983, Limonov is prophetic in his expectation of his old age:

  Retirement Insurance Policy! Indeed! Me, fishing at some creek in Oklahoma, drinking Schlitz-lite, wiping my bald skull, sniffing the old cunt, my wife-granny?

  Oh, no! It’s better to be a lone wolf, to have a clear vision of the rubber-insulated electric chair in your future, and in spite of that, rejoin my guys and cry out in a hoarse voice: Kill ‘em! For that is life! Kill ‘em all! Those who are not with us are against us!»

  This is a first English translation of The Diary of a Loser in its entirety. This is a surprising fact since it is Limonov’s only major book written during his sojourn abroad (1974-1991) which has not been translated. The other two novels (It’s Me, Eddie, English translation in 1983; His Butler’s Story, translated from French in 1987) belonging to the New York trilogy have appeared in French, English and other European languages. Moreover, The Diary is widely recognized as his best literary achievement. The Diary displays Limonov at his best both as a lyric poet of rare intensity and originality, and as a prose writer of an extraordinarily compact and memorable language. The Diary stands as the only work where these two voices – the «I» of the sophisticated lyric poet, and the «I» of the tough, ruthless and sarcastic prosaist – coexist to create a cohesive narrative. In fact, throughout the narrative, Limonov manages to interweave three related but distinct stories: the heroic life of the protagonist (Eduard’s future), the desperate account of his love for Elena (Eduard’s past), and the day-to-day trivia of the present that makes Eddie’s story poignant and tangible.

  The Diary’s first entries overlap with It’s Me, Eddie; the final entries describe Eddie’s employment at the millionaire’s house, the subject of His Butler’s Story. While The Diary is linked to other parts of the trilogy by its themes and characters, it stands apart in its form. The entries are succinct, two-three paragraph recordings of Eddie’s life: his fantasies, his real experiences, varied impressions of New York, and political and philosophical statements.

  There is no apparent sequence to the journal’s entries; gradually, however, there emerges an image of the narrator and his story. The reader learns that Eddie is a lonely Russian poet living on welfare in a hotel subsidized by the city for the «underprivileged.» (Eddie slept in the streets before he moved into the hotel). He is a defiant loser, humiliated by, yet scornful of, the New World, and this civilization which he wishes annihilate. «And it’s not just to the ground as it says in the International.» But go «deeper, uprooting, leaving behind no trace, just dust – destroy it like the conquerors destroyed ancient cities and then plowed over it.»

  Eventually, Eddie finds work, gets off welfare, starts a relationship with the millionaires’ housekeeper, rents an apartment and seems to begin his integration into American society. But as the finale of The Diary shows, the promise of successful integration is a ruse. Eddie will remain true to his nonconformist identity; he will remain loyal to the «glorious tribe of losers.»

  The main value of this book – the feature which will insure its posterity – is the vivid and accurate portrait of the protagonist. Though this hero does not enjoy the respect afforded to the established characters of the Russian literature of the 19th century, Eddie’c very lack of established-ness coupled with his defiance in the face of personal loss makes him one of the most viable protagonists of the 20th century. Eddie has become an aspect of Russian consciousness, particularly that of a Russian abroad. Now, in one way or another, every Russian has to deal with the Eddie within. This is why, ultimately, this book had to be translated.

  In translating this work I have tackled the problem that plagues every translator: How to reproduce in another language the impact the text carries in the original. The main challenge here was to re-capture the distinguishing quality of Limonov’s narrative mentioned earlier: the interweaving of the two voices, one lyric, even tender, the other tough and abrasive. As can be expected, I ran into particular difficulty translating the expletives which according to their context were used pejoratively or endearingly. Russian is blessed with a rich lexicon of «strong words.» Moreover, every Russian specimen of mat (four letter word) can be used as a verb in all of its inflections.

  The other difficulty was in translating the words Limonov borrowed from English: party, drink, T-shirt (tishotka), and others. This parallel edition of The Diary makes it easy for the reader to judge how I managed in this translation to match the original.

  It was my great fortune to have assistance from my friend and colleague at Colorado College, Neale Reinitz. An expert on Edmund Wilson and 18th-century English prose, Neale proved invaluable in finding just the right English words when no dictionary proved useful.

  I thank my student Suzanne Sataline who proofread the final copy of this translation. She has made numerous incisive suggestions every one of which has made this translation better.

  I’m grateful to Vasily Gydov, the manager of this project.

  Alexei Pavlenko

  Dedicated to losers

  From the Encyclopedia Britannica

  «Typically, losers settle among the people of various nations. This great and valiant tribe is scattered all over the world. In Anglophone countries they are referred to as «losers,» that is those who have lost out. This tribe is far more populous than the Jews, though no less enterprising or brave. They are exceedingly patient: it’s not uncommon for them to feed on hopes all their lives… One characteristic feature should be noted: after achieving success, men and women of this tribe easily renounce their own kind, adopt the customs and the way of life of the people among whom they’ve become successful, and then nothing reminds them of when they belonged to the glorious tribe of losers…»

  *

  If you write all day long and in the evening turn on the only two lamps in your cell, then step out onto the narrow strip of the hotel balcony and position yourself there, leaning as far as possible towards the street and the sky, then you can see from the corner of your eye: people, it’s as if they had come to see me, as if it’s a celebration. It works too, if you crowd the table with glasses.

  And people? Where are the people? Well, they’re on the left and the right, sitting in such a way that they can’t be seen from the window, beyond the reach of your gaze…

  Snow

  Rustle in the morning. Snow. Through the half-closed eyelashes, without his glasses – near-sighted – from a lonely hotel bed, with anxious interest: snow.

  Suddenly he rememberes his two wives. With one he stared out the windo
w – young he was, twenty two – kissing luxuriously and languorously. Luxurious this woman was, languorous. They stared at the snow. The scent of some kind of perfume, an October-novemberish phonograph record, and sadness. With the other one too, he more than once – out into the open window – catching the flakes with hair and lips. How happy he was!

  Aimless motion. Instead of reading with a dictionary, a smart American book that’s good for his ambition, he wastes a whole hour staring at the window recalling his high-school knowledge. The altitude of the clouds, maybe it depends on the wind? And over the Atlantic too? It melts in the water? Emptiness. The poor fish! Cold. The poor dead in the ground. Br-r-r! Frightened, he bares his arm. God forbid dying in winter. Snow. Apparently all day long.

  Nowhere to go. Parents aren’t waiting – there are none. Friends aren’t waiting – there are none. The lover isn’t waiting – he or she doesn’t exist. The work isn’t waiting – there’s none – it’s merged with me. Drinking buddies aren’t waiting – I quit drinking. It stinks. Why get up at all?

  What’s funny is that it snows upwards too.

  Bangs over his eyes, he sways and strokes – through the pants – the useless prick.

  There was this girl. Ugly. Used to call her at night, then go to her. Pounced on her right by the door. She was ecstatic, then asked to meet during daytime. Said she loved me: ruined everything. In the mornings, in the American room with Beardsley, Yves Montand slowly sang. It was much better at night. Without taking off his coat, right on the floor.

  «Strawberry Jam,» $1.79. In the mornings, toast – butter and jam. The appealing scent of toasted bread. What do I need this all for, Eduard Veniaminovich – son of Veniami’n Ivanovich – baptized in accordance with the Russian Orthodox rite, born in 1943?

  I take a knife, I sit and stare. For hours I would stroke it, and when I had a drink, I would kiss it. What do I want, what do I pray for? No idea. And – it does happen – before the burning candle, to the Fiery Jesus I pray for love. To the young Jesus, give me love!

  Basically I can’t say a single prayer properly, and, besides, I know very little about these things.

  There was this other girl too. Daughter of a well-known man. The girl fascinated me. For the first time in a long while. I knew I was in love – became very stupid. Fifteen years difference, only four meetings, two kisses – what pathetic arithmetic! Telephone, the monster. Parents interfering; she herself not that interested. Our worlds moved at different tempos. In her age everything is sleepy and barely moving. In mine, it’s an insane spinning. In the case of this girl it’s all uncertain. It didn’t break, just got lost somewhere in the phone wires, rolled into some hollow, some ditch and is just lying there. It.

  The snowfall isn’t as dense now, there’s more air between the flakes, their shape has changed. With the light in my room and the two spots on my left contact lens, it’s as if I’m immersed in some Egyptian gloom, in the infirmary illumination, in that other light.

  I’m in a Chinese blouse of violet silk. Picked it from the ground by some doorway. Didn’t even need to wash it, it was clean. Maybe a drunk left it, or someone picky got rid of it. It fit. I love it. And it’s silk. Silk I like.

  There was this guy. Danced. A nice guy, very. Will give you anything you ask. Five or six years older than I. Stayed with him once. He was affectionate. Too furry though, and his prick, pardon me, was too big. «I came,» he said, «inside of you.» So you did, big deal. Gave me cufflinks in the morning. Gold. It was sad. I like it when it’s sad. Why didn’t I stay with him? (And I didn’t.) Well, do you know, I hate the quiet life. With him the quiet life awaited me. I always flee from the good.

  Shall I have a piece of candy? Yesterday I bought some Russian candy on First Avenue downtown. I wouldn’t bother if it were just for me. There is this girl – a daughter of an alcoholic and a murderer; I bought it for her; she likes candy. Instead of her American name, I refer to her as Nyushka. «In my past life,» she says «I was a religious prostitute in Greece.» She was a cat too. Took off for New Orleans. Twice was all we saw of each other. The dreams she had – the last one about being raped by seven men! She was beautiful.

  There was – for 24 hours – this other one. So thin and tiny, where does she get her energy? Kept pushing me into bed with her – hilarious. She got me in there, lay down, white breasts, a twenty-year-old woman. And what a woman! We sat at Johnny Day’s – a restaurant in the Village, drank wine. «I love you,» she said. «You are my kind, the only one.» Came back, went to bed, only two hours before the flight (she was flying off). Like some wild creatures, couldn’t pull us apart. Barely let go. Wrote her a letter: my prick, I wrote, is longing for you, it misses your c. She replied. It happens.

  Crazy about white. Four pairs of white pants – and I want more. In winter too, I wear white pants. Once in the rain, on grimy uptown Broadway, at night, a half-drunk Russian intellectual told me with admiration: «You’re like a ray of light in this dark kingdom. All around is grime and there you are – stunning – pressing on in your white pants. Right on!» Paid me a compliment. The snow now is barely visible: horizontally swift, fine. In a day, I’ll be born. My birthday. I shall spend it alone, writing something refined, feasting on meat and wine. Then I’ll go to Eighth Avenue and choose myself a prostitute. An inexpensive one. Most likely white. Semi-beautiful, semi-vulgar.

  It stopped snowing. My bed, though neatly made, appears to have a flaw, a deficiency. I see it by looking at it from a distance but it’s impossible to explain. And at the moment the thunder rumbles. Now, suddenly everything is illuminated, now it’s dark again.

  *

  If you go out of the hotel about one in the afternoon and head downtown along any avenue, you’ll keep on walking into the sun. And it’s warm, even if it’s February.

  *

  Sometimes, even in the eyes of the very rich – especially women – I see a wild sorrow. They are well-bred, diligent, they never tell, never betray. But this is when I want to embrace a dried-up old woman – a former beauty – press her gray head to my chest and stroke her short snow-white hair, saying: «It’s okay, my little one, hush, it’s all right. Let go; well, there’s nothing we can do. Hush, my little one!»

  *

  to A.M.

  I remember some names.

  Especially Manfred and Siegfried.

  I don’t know where they came from, but they – these names – are within me.

  Manfred is sitting on a bank; Siegfried is swimming in a lake.

  «Pretty white lilies,» says Manfred.

  «I don’t know where to swim,» cries Siegfried

  «Swim towards my voice,» cries Manfred.

  Siegfried comes out of the water. Manfred throws a sheet over him and dries him.

  Drying him, he kisses him at the same time. Descending with kisses along Siegfried’s pure skin, half-way down to the ground he discovers something. His lips remain at that spot.

  The music of the forest accompanies this prolonged tryst.

  Whatever they wear afterwards, no matter what outfit…

  Whether they’re offered a carriage or they ride in a car…

  I love the evening sky. The narrowing summer evening.

  The quiet melancholy of my own past youth.

  And – unexpectedly – you, my lovely friend.

  My pale, flower-like dancing friend.

  *

  Kitchen gardens on the Lower East Side. Turnip and carrots.

  Garlic blossoms in Harlem. A Fifth Avenue garbage tree lets its fruit drop on the ground

  The wind shakes the golden, swampy bamboo groves of the East Village.

  The birds are chirping, the dragonflies buzzing.

  Mister Smith and Mister Johnson are marching in the rubber hunting boots along the washed-out Broadway left bank. From time to time, Smith aims his rifle and shoots at a duck fluttering out of the thicket.

  The busiest spot is where the sign «West 49th Street» remains. This is the only place
to cross to the other bank of Broadway. There, in the ruins, game is bartered for coffee and sugar, and fur for fish and bones. They also sell clothes, it’s in great demand.

  It’s April. Feels good. Mm-m, sweet air! Finally, we can get warm. The inhabitants of the once great city, scratching themselves, soak in the sun.

  *

  Do you happen to like the term «civil war»?

  I love it.

  Great discovery

  I love insanity. My entire life is proof of this. It’s not logic, it’s ecstasy I cultivate. My morbid sensations give me pleasure.

  And when I need to torture somebody, I come out at night and look for a victim.

  A few times already, I’ve tried some things and was delighted.

  Today, I found a dollar on the ground. Then I bought myself tulips.

  Day before yesterday, I stabbed my wife. She got off cheap, though.

  I have a mysterious relationship with this woman. It appears simple at first glance – she left me a year ago. But what can a crowd really know about her and me?

  Some things exist invisible to the eye.

  One of us is a victim, one of us is a torturer. From time to time, we switch the roles. Even the most intelligent won’t be able to make anything out of this. Only the devil can make sense of it. He’s the one who made this mess in the first place.

  On the face of it, it appears as though it’s she and Limonov. But I’m telling you: it’s a lot more complicated.

  Occasionally, I go out for a walk with the collar up on my fur coat. To the passers-by, these are merely boots and hats in the store windows. For me, these boots and hats have long ceased to be just that; they are sharp and mysterious symbols and signs that prophesy and menace, and sometimes I run for life, as though they really pursue me. And they really do, especially those black, knee-high boots on 45th street; they scare me. They exude a melody, an odor, and they smile.

  The amusing city I live in now has a lot that I like. It, New York, is quite spacious. Its trash is the most beautiful in the world. A man I know tries to draw trash. But for now it doesn’t come out well. That is, he’s a good, solid artist, but you have to draw trash as you would flowers. There was one artist I knew – he was crazy – oh, how he drew flowers! He was my friend; he slept under the grand piano occasionally. Actually, this was so long ago that I get a headache.