The Blizzard: A Novel
Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
Finalist for the 2016 PEN Translation Prize
Long-listed for the 2016 PEN Translation Prize
A New York Times Book Review Editor's Choice
A dazzling, utterly distinctive saga from Russia's most celebrated and most controversial novelist
Garin, a district doctor, is desperately trying to reach the village of Dolgoye, where a mysterious epidemic is turning people into zombies. He carries with him a vaccine that will prevent the spread of this terrible disease, but is stymied in his travels by an impenetrable blizzard. A trip that should last no more than a few hours turns into a metaphysical journey, an expedition filled with extraordinary encounters, dangerous escapades, torturous imaginings, and amorous adventures.
Trapped in an existential storm, Vladimir Sorokin's characters fight their way across a landscape that owes as much to Chekhov's Russian countryside as it does to the postapocalyptic terrain of science fiction. Hypnotic, fascinating, and richly drawn, The Blizzard is a seminal work from one of the most inventive authors writing today. Sorokin has created yet another boldly original work, which combines an avant-garde sensibility with a taste for the absurd and the grotesque, all while delivering stinging truths about contemporary life and modern-day Russia.
Vitaminder’s tattooed shoulder with alcohol and gave him a shot. “It’ll get better.” He removed the hypodermic. “Why did you roll him up in a rug?” the doctor asked. The Vitaminders looked at one another. “To calm him down,” Slumber answered. “Like in a cradle.” Bedight yawned. “We rubbed sheep fat on the soles of his feet, too,” said Lull Abai. The doctor didn’t comment on that bit of information. After the shot, Drowsy’s cheeks grew rosier. “Can you move your arms and legs?” asked the
sensing that something unusual was happening, stood stock-still. “How’s it goin’ in there?” Crouper knocked on the hood. The roan neighed. Then the three inseparable black bays neighed; then the buckskins; then the sorrels, then the grays, and finally—the slow chestnuts. Another five minutes passed, and the sharp sound of an electric knife pierced the darkness. The Kazakh deftly cut a low door in the shed wall and pulled it aside, letting light and warmth in: “Scared ya?” “Naw.” Crouper
The horses, still chewing the oat flour Crouper had given them, lifted their heads and snorted, watching alertly. “If ye say so, I reckon we’ll be off…” “I say so, friend! Let’s go! We have to hurry to do some good for people! You understand me?” asked the doctor, clapping him again. “’Course I understand.” “Then let’s be off!” He let go of Crouper, who immediately busied himself with the sled and set to strapping down the travel bags. “Hide this one way back!” said the doctor, nodding at
The doctor couldn’t hear him. Crouper gestured to the right of the sled. “Let’s go!” the doctor commanded. Crouper rose reluctantly. The wind had scattered the last burning branches. The doctor wiped off the snow from the seat and was about to sit down, but, on seeing that Crouper was pushing the back of the seat to get the sled moving, he came around to help him. “One, two, oooooffff!” Crouper shouted in a weak voice as he pushed. The horses barely managed to get going. The sled slid along
work right, and something cold and strong was preventing him from finding the pince-nez. Finally he located it and pulled it to his face. Suddenly, he heard loud human voices outside. The matting was torn abruptly from the hood. Two human silhouettes hung over the doctor’s head, blocking out the sun. “Ni hai huozhe ma?” one of the silhouettes asked, not sure whether the doctor was still alive. “Wo kao!” The other man laughed. Frowning, the doctor put the pince-nez to his eyes. Two Chinese men