From Publishers Weekly
While the Soviet space program, that repository of Party and national pride, provides Pelevin the setting for his satire of Communist-era Russia (see Omon Ra, above), he takes on contemporary Russia by employing one exquisite metaphor for post-Soviet anxiety and sustaining it through the course of his narrative. The Yellow Arrow, a Russian train with no visible beginning or end, hurtles toward its destination, a ruined bridge. It's impossible to get off because the train makes no stops. When passengers die, their bodies are ceremoniously tossed out the windows. Characters include Andrei, who desperately wants to get off the train while still alive; Grisha, who is brutally mugged between two cars; Anton, bohemian painter of beer cans; and Sergei, who gets religion and becomes a "bedeist" ("They believe we're being pulled along by a 'B.D.3' locomotive... travelling toward a Bright Dawn"). Together, they reflect a post-Soviet realm in disarray, its people groping for political and moral direction while criminal mafias and extremist politicians gain ground. From time to time, people escape the train's stifling communal space by climbing out onto the roof, where they communicate in wordless gestures. A surreal metaphysical tale? A political allegory? Or a parable about the inseparability of life and death? It's all three, as Pelevin fuses pungent, visceral imagery reminiscent of Maxim Gorky with an absurdist comic outlook that harks back to the wave of Russian avant-garde fiction of the 1920s and '30s. Written in 1993, this beautiful and mysterious novella tantalizes with its multiple meanings.
Copyright 1996 Reed Business Information, Inc.
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From Kirkus Reviews
An enigmatic novella, whose suggestive central image strikingly encapsulates the character of post-Soviet society and, more generally, the fate of man--from the prize-winning Russian author of Omon Ra (see above). Protagonist Andrei is riding on a train called the Yellow Arrow, whose destination, he learns, is a ruined bridge. Passengers die, their funerals are held on board the train, and their bodies are thrown ``out there'' beyond the passing embankments. ``World culture takes a long time to reach us,'' Andrei's fellow travellers complain, enduring their closeted state as best they can by practicing an indigenous ``folk art'' (the train does a thriving business in handpainted beer cans) and also the religion of ``bedeism'' (the belief that they're being pulled along by a ``B.D. 3'' locomotive). One thinks, inevitably, of a cramped and repressed population unable to break free of its imprisoning environment--but Pelevin's wry fable earns a convincingly wider resonance. Andrei guesses that the train may be named as it is because its lateral motion visually resembles the vertical descent of falling stars (``yellow arrows'') in the foreordained transit from incandescence to extinction. He shares the common yearning to journey ``out there'' past his compartment's windows, while knowing he can do so only when his own portion of the train's journey is concluded. Imagine Hermann Hesse with a robust sense of humor, and you'll have an idea of the complex emotional texture Pelevin manages to create for his story's climactic moment--a climax that daringly evokes, and does not suffer from comparison with, Tolstoy's great short novel The Death of Ivan Ilyich. A brilliant parable that treats a dauntingly abstract conception with vivid specificity and clear-eyed humanity. --
Copyright ©1996, Kirkus Associates, LP. All rights reserved.
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