Boris Pilnyak 1894–-1937
(Pseudonym of Boris Andreyevich Vogau; also transliterated as Pil'niak, Pil'nyak, Pilnjak, Pil'njak, and Pilniak) Russian novelist, short story writer, and travel writer.
A prolific writer, Pilnyak is remembered today for his controversial short stories that explore the impact of oppressive political policies on the lives of ordinary citizens. His examination of Soviet Russia and the consequences of the Russian revolution earned him political disapprobation from Communist authorities and eventually resulted in his arrest in 1937. Pilnyak's short fiction is often compared to that of Anton Chekhov, Mikhail Bulgakov, Fyodor Dostoevsky, and Ivan Turgenev.
Pilnyak was born in Mozhaisk, Russia, on October 11, 1894. His father was a country veterinarian who inspired Pilnyak's interest in nature and animals. At the age of five, Pilnyak began to write short fiction, and his first two short stories were published in 1905. In 1913 Pilnyak attended the Nizhnii Novgorod Academy of Modern Languages; he later earned a degree in economics from the Moscow Commercial Institute in 1920. His short stories were regularly published in a variety of Russian-Soviet periodicals. Pilnyak's second novel Golyi god (The Naked Year) was published in 1922 and garnered Pilnyak critical and commercial success. In the late 1920s Pilnyak came under attack from the Soviet authorities for his undoctrinaire view of the Russian revolution. His novella Povest' nepogachenoi luny (1926; The Tale of the Unextinguished Moon, and Other Stories) inspired official condemnation because it was perceived to portray the death of the popular Soviet-Russian army commander General Frunze. The appearance of another controversial novella, Krasnoe derevo (1929; Mahogany), resulted in Pilynak's expulsion from the Union of Soviet Writers. In the 1930s Pilnyak attempted to rehabilitate his reputation but was not successful. Pilnyak was last seen in October of 1937 when he was arrested, convicted, and allegedly executed on charges of “fascist” activities and espionage by Soviet authorities.
Major Works of Short Fiction
Pilnyak employed a complex narrative style that utilized such literary conventions as flashback, lyrical digressions, the frame story, mixed tenses, leitmotifs, symbolism, and dialect. Thematically, his short fiction often focuses on the interaction of humans and nature, particularly the primal and instinctive laws of nature and the ways in which they affect animals and humans. For example, the story “Above the Ravine” chronicles the life cycle of a bird as she mates, gives birth, and begins the pattern again. The tale “Snow” illustrates the life of a middle-aged, attractive, intellectual woman named Kseniia who is considered a failure because she has decided to remain childless. Her male counterpart, however, is viewed as a complete human being because he has given up his relationship with Kseniia in order to marry a simple peasant woman and have a child. Thus, he has avoided the corruption of culture and may enjoy a life in harmony with nature. Several of Pilynak's stories are thinly veiled explorations of the sociopolitical situation in the Soviet Union. The Tale of the Unextinguished Moon portrays the death of General Gavrilov, a famous Soviet hero, after undergoing surgery ordered by a high-ranking Soviet official. This episode is perceived to reflect the true story of a popular Russian soldier, General Mikhail Frunze, the commander-in-chief of the Red Army, and his death after an operation ordered by the Central Committee of the Communist Party.
Pilynak's short fiction is often praised by commentators for its sympathetic, sometimes comic portrayal of peasantry and the ordinary people affected by the Bolshevik revolution. However, some critics have condemned his work as derivative and academic and his tone as allusive and difficult. Scholars have traced Pilnyak's prose development from a pre-Revolutionary narrative style—which is characterized by fragmentary composition, an absence of coherent plot, haphazard use of language, and abundance of digressions—to a more subdued, compact form. Thematically, reviewers have noted Pilnyak's focus on time and memory, the impact of nature and culture on civilization, the role of sexuality, the theories of Sigmund Freud, and the repercussions of political policies and parties on citizens. In fact, Pilnyak's political ideology is fertile ground for commentators, as many have tried to place him within the context of other Soviet dissidents and authors of the time. Considered a Slavophile, his attitude toward Europe and the United States has also attracted critical attention. Many scholars perceive several of Pilnyak's works as explorations of Russian identity, particularly the effect of the Soviet system on the Russian population.
S poslednim parokhodom i drugie rasskazy 1918
Povesti o chernom khlebe 1923
Angliiskie rasskazy 1924
Mat' syra zemlia [Mother Earth and Other Stories] 1924
Tales of the Wilderness 1924
Povest' nepogachenoi luny [The Tale of the Unextinguished Moon, and Other Stories] 1926
Kitaiskaia povest' [Chinese Story and Other Tales] 1927
Raplesnutoe vremia 1927
Krasnoe derevo [Mahogany] 1929
Sobranie sochinenii 8 vols. 1929–30
Izbrannye rasskazy 1935
Rozhdenie cheloveka 1935
Golyi god [The Naked Year] (novel) 1922
Mashiny i volki (novel) 1923–24
Korni iaponskogo solntsa (travel essays) 1926
Kamni i korni (travel essays) 1927
Volga vpadaet v Kaspiiskoe more [The Volga Flows to the Caspian Sea] (novel) 1930
O'kei: amerikanskii roman (travel essays) 1932
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SOURCE: “New Russia or Old?,” in Nation, Vol. 120, February 11, 1925, pp. 163–64.
[In the following unfavorable assessment of Tales of the Wilderness, Krutch maintains that Pilnyak's stories “are singularly barren of either intellectual or emotional content.”]
Prince Mirsky begins his introduction to Tales of the Wilderness with the statement that the English reading public knows next to nothing of contemporary Russian literature and then, as he proceeds to discuss the prose writers since Chekhov, comes very near to saying that they are not worth knowing. Dismissing Merezhkovsky, Andreev, and Artsybashev as “second- and third-rate writers,” he proposes Remizov and Pilniak as representatives of the best which contemporary Russia has to offer; but of them and their school he says that they have little except a self-conscious and fastidious style to distinguish them. Both from this introduction and from the tales themselves we learn that they are devoted to meticulous, rather pointless studies of the mean and grotesque aspects of contemporary life and that, lacking the social ideas of their great predecessors, they have created a sort of inverted aestheticism which toys with ugliness without exactly knowing why it does so. A certain gift for clear-cut description they certainly have, but their stories are singularly barren of either intellectual or emotional content....
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SOURCE: “Politic Views,” in Spectator, Vol. 222, June 14, 1969, pp. 788, 790.
[In the following excerpt, Capitanchik offers a mixed assessment of Mother Earth and Other Stories.]
‘Human kind,’ wrote Eliot, ‘cannot bear very much reality’. One of the more baleful aspects of contemporary Russian society is its treatment of writers who do not accept that great flight from reality, the view of the revolution as the beginning of universal justice. Boris Pilnyak, some of whose stories are now published in translation for the first time, was an experimental writer, interspersing incantatory imagery with reports from documents, who welcomed the revolution as an expression of Russian history, not as a communist achievement. Vilified, in 1926, for his Tale of the Unextinguished Moon—in which he describes the killing of a famous general by means of a surgical operation, the parallel of what may have been an early example of Stalinist paranoia—he expunged his guilt by becoming impeccably orthodox, but was arrested nonetheless, in 1937, and is now known to be dead.
The title story of this collection, Mother Earth, is an evocation of elemental forces; the Bolshevik forester Nekulyev struggles with hungry ‘citizen forest thieves’ and with Cossacks fighting the revolution. Mahogany, about a post-revolutionary provincial town which lives partly by selling the...
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SOURCE: “A Note on Pilnyak's Tale of the Unextinguished Moon,” in Soviet Studies, Vol. 24, No. 4, April, 1973, pp. 550–53.
[In the following essay, Frankel elucidates the moral of Pilnyak's Tale of the Unextinguished Moon.]
Boris Pilnyak's Tale of the Unextinguished Moon is usually summed up, briefly or in some detail, simply as a story which relates in fictional form the death of Frunze. Pilnyak's Gavrilov, like Frunze, is a famous general who is ordered by a high political figure (in Frunze's case it was said to be Stalin) to undergo an operation which medical advisers deemed unnecessary. In both cases the general died. Pilnyak is described as being either politically naive or personally courageous in depicting this event. His introduction disclaiming a connection between the death of Frunze and his own fictional tale is noted with a smile, as this is understood to be a feeble attempt to escape blame.1 And this is generally the sum total of attention given to the story.
But, in fact, it would appear to be far more than a retelling of the story of Frunze's death, and more than a finger pointed accusingly at Stalin. Pilnyak's introduction is intended not so much to say that Gavrilov and Frunze are not similar—after all, they are—as to say that his version of the episode has a deeper significance, that one must go beyond the historical event itself and...
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SOURCE: “The Tale of the Unextinguished Moon,” in Boris Pil'niak: A Soviet Writer in Conflict with the State, McGill-Queen's University Press, 1975, pp. 20–51.
[In the following essay from her full-length study, Reck examines the controversy surrounding the creation and publication of Pilnyak's most renowned works.]
An ear cocked for the rumours, an eye on the papers, which in the first days of November were filled with accounts of Frunze's death, biographical articles, and reminiscences of friends and comrades in arms, Pil'niak set about writing The Tale of the Unextinguished Moon.1
As time was to show, the story marked the beginning of the end for its author, although the end was still over a decade away.
To say that the Tale was inspired by Frunze's death and the rumours surrounding it is to understate the case. The events of real life—actual and rumoured—were the stuff of which the story was made. As for the question, “Was it murder?” Pil'niak leaves it without an explicit answer. The reader must decide for himself, just as an individual Muscovite had to decide for himself whether or not to give credence to the rumours of foul play in Frunze's death. But the evidence as Pil'niak selects and arranges it leaves little doubt that a murder has been done.2
A few examples will show how closely Pil'niak...
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SOURCE: “Mahogany and Soviet Critical Opinion,” in Boris Pil'niak: A Soviet Writer in Conflict with the State, McGill-Queen's University Press, 1975, pp. 82–6.
[In the essay below, Reck discusses Pilnyak's novelette Mahogany and the criticism it generated.]
In a report on the literary “war” in Moscow, Walter Duranty informed the readers of the New York Times that Mahogany had been “saluted with howls of joy by the White Russian press abroad.”1 His information must have come from Moscow newspapers or other Soviet sources: there is no evidence of such a reception in the émigré press. Mahogany, this “essentially insignificant satire written for the few” received little notice abroad until it became “a great sensation.”2 The only major review of the novelette to appear before the literary “war” broke out was by Georgii Adamovich in Poslednie Novosti.3 Far from being a howl of joy, it was a coolly negative appraisal of the novelette against the background of Pil'niak's chronic difficulties with Soviet critics and literary officials.
In a quandary as to the genre of Mahogany, Adamovich proposed, with reservations, to classify it as “a poem in prose.” In his view the work was a “maudlin [v umilenno-grustnom stile]” lament for the past, judiciously interrupted here and...
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SOURCE: “Varangian Times,” in New Leader, Vol. 60, No. 11, May 5, 1977, pp. 9–11.
[In the following essay, Hyman provides a positive review of Pilnyak's short fiction, asserting that “at his best, Boris Pilnyak was a matchless captor of the historical moment in all its rich life, a master of the full range of comic rhetoric, and a unique poetic voice in fiction.”]
“Boris Pilnyak,” the pen name of Boris Andreyevich Vogau, born in 1894, was part of the teeming growth of fictional talents that mushroomed after the Russian Revolution and Civil War, including Isaac Babel, Evgeni Zamyatin, Yuri Oleska, and many others. Like a number of them, he modeled his writing on Andrey Bely's St. Petersburg, which pioneered a new sort of poetic and symbolic novel. At least five volumes of Pilnyak's work were published in this country in the 1920s and early 1930s, without gaining him any substantial number of American readers. The most important of these is The Naked Year, his phantasmagorical novel of the revolutionary year of 1919. After 30 years of neglect, we now have another selection from Pilnyak, Mother Earth and Other Stories (Praeger), translated and edited by Vera T. Reck and Michael Green. It contains three of Pilnyak's most significant novellas, as well as a variety of short stories. It may at last gain for Pilnyak an American public, although the allusive difficulty of his...
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SOURCE: “Boris Pilnyak: The Untimely Symbolist,” in Soviet Russian Literature: Writers and Problems, 1917–1977, Oxford University Press, 1977, pp. 59–66.
[In the following essay, Slonim discusses Pilnyak's political beliefs and how they were expressed in his fiction.]
Chronologically, the first significant panorama of the Great Upheaval was presented in The Naked Year (1922), a novel consisting of a series of flashbacks and close-ups of an aristocratic family, an anarchist's bohemian colony, peasants, uprisings, fratricidal strife, and various episodes of cruelty, lust, famine, physical frenzy, and mental exaltation. The author of this strange yet attractive novel, which blended crude naturalistic descriptions with complex philosophical flights and extravagant stylistic devices, was 28-year-old Boris Pilnyak (1894–1938?), one of the most discussed Soviet writers of the NEP period. In his autobiography he says: “My true name is Vogau. My father—a country veterinarian—comes from German settlers of the Volga region; and my mother from an ancient now extinguished family of Saratov merchants. She graduated from Moscow Teachers' College. Both father and mother were close to the Populists of the 1880's and 1890's. On my paternal side I had German and a tiny bit of Jewish blood in my veins, on my maternal side, Slavic and Mongolian (Tartar). I spent my childhood in the provincial towns of...
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SOURCE: “Pil'njak's ‘The Third Capital’: Russia and the West in Fact and Fiction,” in Slavic and East European Journal, Vol. 22, No. 1, Spring, 1978, pp. 39–51.
[In the following essay, Avins contends that “The Third Capital” is important “for its extended treatment of the contrast between Europe and Russia present in a number of his other works.”]
The Russian preoccupation with Europe is reflected in the works of many Russian writers and expressed in many forms. It appears in eighteenth-century adventure tales, travel writings, and satire, and in contemporary poetry and prose. Often the writer's look westward is simultaneously an act of introspection—a probing of Russia's identity. This is true of Odoevskij's Russian Nights (1844), which mingles philosophical dialogues with the fantastic; it characterizes, too, fiction like Dostoevskij's “The Gambler” (1866) and Leskov's “The Left-Handed Craftsman” (1881). Dostoevskij, whose novels also involve Russia's interrelationship with the West, addresses it more directly in Winter Notes on Summer Impressions (1863) and other journalistic writings. The novels of Turgenev and Tolstoj might be cited as further indications of the theme's diversity and pervasiveness.
A new phase in the history of this issue begins with the Bolshevik Revolution. One landmark of the era is Blok's poem “The Scythians,”...
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SOURCE: “Rerouting the Train of Time: Boris Pil'nyak's ‘Krasnoye Derevo’,” in Modern Language Review, Vol. 75, No. 1, 1980, pp. 138–47.
[In the following essay, Falchikov explores the roles of time and memory in Pilnyak's Mahogany.]
At the end of the fourth chapter of his five-chapter novella Krasnoye derevo Pil'nyak comes out with a cliché which nevertheless seems to provide an important clue to an interpretation of the work. Describing a futile attempt by one of the characters to catch a train by making a cross-country journey by horse and cart, Pil'nyak finishes the chapter with the words: ‘Akim, the Trotskyite, missed the train, just as he missed the train of time.’1
In taking this otherwise unremarkable phrase as the title of my enquiry, I want to suggest that Pil'nyak's central interest in Krasnoye derevo is the problem of time and memory and that in his setting of this work on the eve of collectivization he was trying to capture a particular and unique moment in time and preserve it before it was committed to oblivion by the ‘march of historical progress’ and discarded by the already incipient process of rewriting history into the Orwellian ‘memory-hole’.
The circumstances in which Krasnoye derevo was written (and remained unpublished in the USSR) have been extensively recorded, most recently by Vera...
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SOURCE: “Pil'nyak: The Fatal Confusion,” in Three Russian Writers and the Irrational: Zamyatin, Pil'nyak, and Bulgakov, Cambridge University Press, 1982, pp. 87–136.
[In the following essay, Edward traces the theme of the irrational in Pilnyak's fiction.]
The examination of a specific theme in the work of several writers calls for an approach which should be both extensive and intensive: extensive, because it must range over a wide field, and therefore precludes the close study of his entire oeuvre which concentration on one author demands; intensive, since detailed discussion is required where the irrational is most fully and characteristically expressed. The problem is one of selection of material. It is fairly easily resolved in the cases of Zamyatin and Bulgakov, as their major works are clearly identifiable, and they are the ones in which our theme is most developed. The difficulty arises with Pil'nyak. He has a lively interest in manifestations of the irrational even in his least distinguished writing, his reportage, and critical opinion is divided as to which of his works is the most important and of the greatest literary merit: The Naked Year (Golyy god), Machines and Wolves (Mashiny i volki) and The Volga Flows into the Caspian Sea (Volga vpadaet v kaspiyskoe more) deserve Henry James's description ‘loose baggy...
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SOURCE: “Ice and Icon, Spengler in Russia: Boris Pilniak, ‘The Third Capital’ (1923),” in Border Crossings: The West and Russian Identity in Soviet Literature, 1917–1934, University of California Press, 1983, pp. 35–47.
[In the following essay, Avins considers Pilnyak's contrast of Russia and Europe in his story “The Third Capital.”]
The two basic terms in the political formulas of the day, “we” and “they,” fit a variety of categories—ideological, class, national. Blok's essay “The Collapse of Humanism” shows the chameleon quality of the first person plural. The pronoun both distinguishes the Russian intelligentsia from the masses and denotes a national collective. Toward the end of his essay, Blok turns from the part to the whole. Seemingly contradicting the assurances of Russia's European nature in “The Scythians,” he lyrically describes what separates Russia from Europe. “We have no historical recollections,” he writes, “but great is the memory of the elements; our expanses are still fated to play a role of greatness. We have listened thus far not to Petrarch and not to Hutten, but to the wind rushing across our plain; the musical sounds of our cruel Nature have always resounded in the ears of Gogol, of Tolstoy, of Dostoevsky.”1 He even more bluntly contrasts Russia's potential with Europe's in an elliptical diary entry: “Europe (her theme)—is...
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SOURCE: “Works,” in Boris Pilniak: Scythian at a Typewriter, Ardis, 1985, pp. 95–114, 127–131.
[In the following excerpt, Browning provides a thematic and stylistic analysis of several short stories by Pilnyak.]
In general, Pilniak wrote rapidly and prolifically. His mind and pen raced from work to work; many were typeset prematurely, while their author hurried on to new projects.1 Consequently, Pilniak's performance is uneven. When writing with great vigor, concentration, and integrity, he produced excellent art, occasionally with surprising speed but usually only after the discipline and refinement characteristic of longer periods. In what follows I examine what are, in my opinion, [a few of] the author's … best works. … The selection is, certainly, subjective. The criteria used were essentially whether the work is of consistently high artistic merit and whether its message is significant. Many good but not superior works are omitted, as is all of Pilniak's weaker writing. Where appropriate, however, reference is also made to salient artistic and thematic features of other works in the writer's corpus.
“ABOUT SEVKA” (COMPLETED BY 1915; PUBLISHED 1915)2
Although little that distinguishes Pilniak's subsequent style (sound orchestration, rhythmic word chains, implicit allegories or symbols) is present in “About Sevka,” the...
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SOURCE: A review of Chinese Story and Other Tales, in World Literature Today, Vol. 63, No. 3, Summer, 1989, p. 500.
[In the following essay, Lewis provides a favorable review of Chinese Story and Other Tales.]
The style of Boris Pilnyak's fiction has been described as disorderly and emotional but appropriate for the troubled times and events it treats. The stories translated for the collection Chinese Story and Other Tales would confirm that judgment, especially “Chinese Story” itself. Written in what at first seems to be a form of internal monologue, it later becomes apparent that the text is a diary kept by a Russian visitor to China in the year 1926. As the narrator-diarist says on the opening page of the story, “There are a great many Chinese everywhere … you cannot understand where they are going, where they come from, and what is the purpose of their constant movement.” These lines might well express any cultural outsider's view of the very different surroundings he confronts, no matter what the culture.
The claim on the flyleaf that Pilnyak prophesied the Chinese revolution in this story may not take into account that a good deal of the chaos and oppression the narrator sees in the China around him is owing at least in part to the characteristic propensity for a foreigner's eyes always to see illogicality and disorder. By his own repeated admissions, the...
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SOURCE: “A Rush to Remember,” in Times Literary Supplement, July 21, 1989, p. 808.
[In the following review, Laird offers a mixed assessment of Chinese Story and Other Tales.]
With the exception of one charming early tale, “A Year of Their Life,” all the stories in this volume [Chinese Story and Other Tales] date from the 1920s. Anyone wishing to feel what it was like to live through that decade in Russia would do well to add Boris Pilnyak's account to Bulgakov's or Pasternak's. His sense of the present—the latest moment—is extraordinarily vivid, as if someone from the future had called out to him “Remember everything! Because all this—and you yourself—will very soon disappear.” Thus Pilnyak, in a rush: “Alcohol in the town was sold in two forms only—vodka and sacramental wine … cigarettes were Cannon, eleven kopecks a pack, and Boxing, fourteen kopecks a pack. … Steamers called twice a day. …”
In fact, it is not so much the future foreseen as a sense of “the future in the present” that prompts—or emerges from—this kind of reportage. Pilnyak is a modernist in the simplest sense: he writes of newness (new century, new country); change, speed, automobiles, cinemas; he takes on board a raw version of Freud (one of the stories is about incest between mother and son); and sees the past through modernity's prism—suddenly the...
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SOURCE: A review of Chinese Story and Other Tales, in Studies in Short Fiction, Vol. 26, No. 4, Fall, 1989, p. 564.
[In the following essay, Day offers a favorable review of Chinese Story and Other Tales.]
In Mother Earth, Pilnyak's loving testimonial short story of Russia's “fields, forests, swamps, coppices, hills, distances, years, nights, days, blizzards, storms, calms,” Arina Arsenyeva the tanner has fallen from bourgeois comfort in the post-revolution years. Her comfortable childhood home now houses workers, and she herself works hard hours in the tannery:
The house was as it had always been, but her days were different—very spacious; there were neither clerks nor bookkeepers nor father nor mother. Work had to be done at all costs. Everything had to be cut to a new pattern. The house was the same, but the pies had vanished, and where the dining room (a place to eat those pies) had been stood workmen's bunks, and Arina was left with an attic, a suitcase, a basket of books, a bed, a table, a rifle, samples of leather. …
Arina's plight is a good example of Pilnyak's vivid portraits of Russian life in the 1920s. Pilnyak was born in 1894 in Moscow Province, and apparently he was executed at Stalin's order in 1937. His career is sketched briefly in Reck and Green's informative introduction, and the attitude...
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SOURCE: A review of Chinese Story and Other Tales, in Village Voice Literary Supplement, Vol. 5, October, 1989, pp. 5–6.
[In the following positive review of Chinese Story and Other Tales, Francia maintains that “underneath the seemingly rambling passages is a passionate, inquisitive intelligence, gifted and large enough to let a certain amount of disorder flourish.”]
While Stalin was consolidating his hold over a still young Soviet Union, Boris Pilnyak—one of the finest Russian writers of a generation that included Mikhail Bulgakov, Yevgeny Zamyatin, and Yevgeny Katayev—was president of the All-Russian Writers' Union's Moscow branch. Pilnyak was never comfortable with the Communist Party, nor was it comfortable with him. Party overseers viciously attacked Pilnyak whenever iconoclastic themes appeared in his writing. The passionate novella Mother Earth, for example, showed signs of Freudianism, still a taboo subject today:
Mother Earth, like love and sex, is a mystery: for her own secret purposes she divided mankind into men and women; she lures men irresistibly; the peasants kiss the earth like sons, carry her in small bags suspended from their necks, talk softly to her, cast spells in her name to charm love and hatred, sun and day. The peasants swear by Mother Earth as they do by love and death.
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Browning, Gary. Boris Pilniak: Scythian at a Typewriter. Ann Arbor, Mich.: Ardis, 1985, 259 p.
Critical analysis of Pilnyak's work. Browning includes a selected bibliography.
Ciesol, Forrest. Review of Chinese Story and Other Tales, by Boris Pilnyak. Bloomsbury Review 10, No. 4 (July-August 1990): 25.
Favorable review of Chinese Story and Other Tales.
Graham, Kenneth. “Miner's Monument.” Listener 81 (12 June 1969): 835.
Negative review of Mother Earth and Other Stories.
Hoggart, Simon. “All Russian.” Guardian Weekly 101, No. 25 (20 December 1969): 18.
Review of Mother Earth.
Jensen, Peter Alberg. Nature as Code: The Achievement of Boris Pilnjak, 1915–1924. Copenhagen: Rosenkilde and Bagger, 1979, 359 p.
Explores Pilnyak's work within a sociopolitical context.
Reck, Vera T. Boris Pil'niak: A Soviet Writer in Conflict with the State. Montreal: McGill-Queen's University Press, 1975, 237 p.
Full-length critical study of Pilnyak's career.
“Russian Literature since the Revolution.” Spectator Literary Supplement 133 (29 November 1924): 838–40.
Review of Tales of the...
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