S Novym godom - svetom - kraem - krovom!

It has been a longstanding regret of mine not to be able to read the magnificent Russian literary tradition in the original. Brodsky's exhilarating essay on Marina Tsvetaeva's "Novogodnee" (the brilliant, joyous opening line of which is the title of this post) was another occasion to reflect on this. Brodsky is such a great essayist combining an artist's reckless courage and style with a critic's discerning, detached eye. 

I have only rudimentary Russian - having studied it for just two years at high school - but I have always felt that there is such a depth and vitality in the language that translations simply can't capture. And a great tradition it certainly is, this language of Pushkin, and that greatness undoubtedly at least partly explained by the horrendous social and political history of the the heroic, long suffering nation.

It is very strange to realize that Russia has actually never experienced an administrative system not morally corrupt, not venal, not brutal (whether or not clumsily disguised). There have been brief times of fresher air, of optimism soon to be dispelled, and never a strong and healthy civil society. Out of the darkness we have got these amazing flashes of genius and integrity. A high price certainly. And so the curious combination goes on: a magnificent nation docile under the control of cynical, ruthless pygmies. 

If this would be a permanent Russian Sonderweg, which I don't believe for a moment, it certainly would be a tragic, fruitless cul-de-sac. But that corruption was not the image that stayed with me yesterday having finished Brodsky's essay: it was of the exiled Marina Tsvetaeva and her angelic speech to stars, to Rilke.