The New Soviet Fiction: Sixteen Short Stories
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This volume contains sixteen short stories written by sixteen of the most prominent and promising writers in the Soviet Union today.
to Petersburg, I’ll live there for three years and wait for his return. . . . ” And we, sympathizing with the hero with all our heart, will not make him not recognize the poet again in his cap— young, handsome, in a red blouse. . . . He is striding along the village path and throwing his famous iron cane in front of him :* he throws it, catches up to it, picks it up. He’s in training to keep his arm from trembling when he has to shoot. . . . Damn it, it’s gone off into the bushes. . . . The poet
Kerim-muallim was sincerely amazed. “ What for?” “ Farida doesn’t like his name!” Kerim-muallim looked askance at his son and said only, “Terrific!” Abdulla was covered in a cold sweat, a noiseless groan escaped from Abdulla’s chest: Oh, you fool, you’ve lived so long in this world, and your head is still missing the stuff called brains. Like a cock you fanned your tail and puffed out your chest! Didn’t you know that the world is rotten, that life is deceptive? An annoyed Kerim-muallim was
she came to the place where two movie tickets were neatly affixed to the page, she couldn't hold back and began to sob and weep bitterly, because Zuleiha's girlfriend and her beloved— a shifty fellow— had gone to the movies for the last time with these tickets and they were a reminder of her unhappy love. Shargiya had spread an old shawl on the table where they had re cently eaten the dolma, and she was ironing baby diapers. The baby was lying in his little wooden crib and as before he was
yacht stopped, circling around the anchor chain, which disappeared verti cally into the depths. Together, Vasya and Lenny the Greek, both wet from head to toe, took down the mainsail and the jib, then began to ferry the whole group— two and three at a time— in the dinghy to the rocky shore, which was covered with slime and mollusks. A charming picture opened up beyond the ridge of rocks: the shore and a fishermans reed hut, buried in clumps of wild grass, the heady scent of which carried as far
so she wouldn’t see; cover ing her face with her hands, she gasped at every audible blow. When the barber crawled under the ficus, Bolshakov dragged him out, hitting him so that he wouldn’t crawl in that direction anymore. Bolshakov didn’t strike with his feet. He probably knew that he could kill; even igo VLADIMIR MAKANIN with his hands he used only half his strength. Finally even Rafik begged: “Thats enough, Vyacheslav Petrovich.” His handsome enemy and rival was sprawled on the floor in