A Hero of Our Time (Penguin Classics)

There is quite a lot to say about this marvelous book (the tale) and about the nicely-bound "Everyman's Library" hardcover edition in particular, noting just a few caveats. If my review seems overly wordy it's only on account of my personal enthusiasm for the work. Here are my thoughts about both the story and the edition, (including the translation by Vladimir and Dmitri Nabokov), in that order. The account is a fairly simple one, a fact which engenders much of its appeal -- here we have an exceptional novel of historical fiction: A Russian Army officer (Pechorin) is assigned to the Caucasus Mountain region military forces where the Russians and their often tenuous Cossack allies are engaged in a partisan conflict against their Islamic adversaries, principally the Chechens. Pechorin's saga is at times conveyed directly and sometimes by either of two specific narrators, (which has yielded a shrewd literary conveyance by Lermontov.) The reader learns little of the actual war but of Pechorin's unusual personal experiences and of period Caucasus societies' cultural proclivities we reap a bountiful harvest. Love, duels, corruption, robbery, murder, treachery, gambling, voyages, heroics, and social gala are all facets of this arresting tale. An environment of festive social events, such as dances, especially at the region's medicinal spring resorts but still at the nucleus of a brutal military campaign, might surprise some readers. But these episodes lend a notable enhancement and backdrop to the overall story, much as they do in Tolstoy's War and Peace or in Dostoyevsky's The Brothers Karamazov . Lermontov abruptly kills off key principal characters in the joyful spirit of John O'Hara, ( Appointment In Samarra Butterfield 8 Hope Of Heaven ) if I might be permitted that anachronism... or perhaps the reverse is more likely true. And Lermontov's wry and darkly witty dialogues will appeal mightily to contemporary readers of this 1840 work: "'Carefully we carried the wounded girl to Pechorin's quarters and sent for the doctor. Although he was drunk, he came, examined the wound, and announced that she could not live more than one day; only he was......' 'She recovered?' I asked the junior captain, grasping him by the arm and involuntarily feeling glad. 'No,' he answered, 'the doctor's mistake was that she lived two days.'" (Page 51.) While the account is told from a sequence of diverging perspectives, the entirety of the tale has been fit together from five mini-stories, (much as one encounters in Wilke Collins' The Moonstone (Modern Library Classics) , or in Sara Jeanette Duncan's The Pool in the Desert .) This is also the same sort of Russian literary journey as we joyfully read in Enchanted Wanderer (Lyeskov), Fathers and Sons (Turgenev), and The Cossacks (Tolstoy.) In Lermontov's book, truth is stranger than fiction and there are scores of underlying truths found throughout this extraordinary fictional work. It's certainly no fairy tale but a magical sort of atmosphere does covertly blossom from Lermontov's praiseworthy locution. The notion of Pechorin being "a hero of our time" achieves a dual end: it lauds this purely satirical book title, and this proclamation (in the context of the story) serves to illustrate a great deal about the era, the region, and the singular societies in which Pechorin existed and subsequently embarked upon during his remarkable and sundry pursuits. I did wish to point out to prospective buyers just a few unusual peculiarities regarding the "Everyman's Library" edition (© 1992) of this book. First and foremost, this translation by Vladimir and Dmitri Nabokov is artfully conveyed -- the reader will find it smooth sailing. However, and I make this comment in some bewilderment coupled with all personal humility, it appears to me that the Nabokovs failed to fully grasp the more diminutive nuances of the very book that they were translating! How did I arrive at this conclusion? The foreword by the Nabokovs expresses a less-than-lukewarm enthusiasm for this outstanding literary work. And to compound this anomaly, their confused and long-winded commentary, which casts Lermontov's writing style and delivery in a negative light, is in itself as inarticulate as it is unjustifiably reproachful of the author. We encounter a pernicious crescendo to all this as the Nabokovs apparently regard their own (subjective) assessments of the work as absolute - they go along further in perceptibly degrading the views of other critics which, from their lofty view, ostensibly amounts to nothing at all worthwhile. This clumsy assertion in the Translator's Foreword [the reader is not actually informed which translator wrote it] exemplifies a number of similarly inelegant entries: "In the worst story of the book, `Taman' (deemed by some Russian critics the greatest, for reasons incomprehensible to me), Yanko is saved from utter banality when we notice that the connection between him and the blind lad is a pleasing echo of he [sic] scene between hero and hero-worshipper in `Maksim Maksimych'." (Page 11 -- The parenthetical jab above comes directly from the Nabokovs, not me.) The translators also launch into some tactlessly chosen comments in their Endnotes, (which, by the way, are only intermittently helpful), which more or less fall into a vague category which might be adequately characterized as "condescending remarks." Some of these observations have little or nothing whatever to do with Lermontov's text and can only serve to stroke the translators' egos - here are two clear examples: "[Endnote] 124. `Otdelyayushchei,' `otdelyayushcheisya'. It is just like Lermontov and his casual style to let this long and limp word appear twice in the same, final, sentence." (Page 186 -- Only the English equivalents of these words actually appear in the text.), and, "[Endnote] 54. The allusion is to `La Femme de Trente Ans' in `Scènes de la Vie Privèe 1828-44,' a vulgar novelette, ending in ridiculous melodrama, by the overrated French writer, Balzac." (Page 180.) Is Balzac overrated? I could not begin to judge this contention one way or another but the Endnote comment in this instance clearly has no relevance to Lermontov directly or to his writings and was thus unnecessary and unfortunate at the least. But these semi-elitist remarks and unmerited criticisms do not actually embody my chief concern: the translators infer in their Foreword and/or in the Endnotes that Lermontov occasionally made locution mistakes and errors of either logic or fact. They additionally insinuate that he plagiarized here and there which is entirely untrue. Awarding credit where it is due, it's providential that the Nabokovs translated Lermontov's work literally enough that I entirely understood what the author was (alternatively) obliquely, symbolically, metaphorically, and shrewdly imparting in each of these instances, even if the translators apparently did not. This edition also includes an Introduction by T.J. Binyon. Other than the biographical background on Lermontov which it provides I did not find this digest to be particularly coherent either. For some unaccountable reason, the instant critiques of this work, (which was Lermontov's Magnum opus), seem to have inspired an exaggeration of perceived "mistakes," and/or "shoddy writing." Based upon my own encounter in reading the story, nothing could be further from the truth. So to summarize this facet of my review, I most emphatically recommend that folks skip past the Translator's Foreword, the Endnotes, and Binyon's Introduction until after they have concluded their reading of Lermontov's story, all of which I feel that most booklovers will find to be as lucid an account as it is delightful. But do not fail to read the "Author's Introduction" which is the very antithesis of the other commentaries, delivering a witty bulwark of charm in its merciful brevity! In Lermontov's wonderful tale we glean an insight into a region, an era, and into cultures about which, regrettably, so little has been written. This is a straightforward read that almost anyone can enjoy. You'll also find, as they exist in all post-1991 "Everyman's Library" editions, a mini-biography, a chronology of historical events, and a literary context outline, as it applies (in this case) to Mikhail Lermontov. Even given my tepid critique of both the Nabokovs' and T.J. Binyon's contributions (the Nabokovs' artful translation into English from the Russian excepted) I can still favorably recommend this nicely-bound edition.

… to borrow the title from another famous Russian writer. I first encountered the name “Lermontov,” in Alexander Werth’s “Russia at War,” which I read half a century ago. It was my first reading that indicated that the Second World War was more than an Anglo-American affair; indeed, what occurred on the Eastern Front was the most brutal, savage, and deadly war of all time. Ol’ Joe Stalin had his back to far more than the town of Orel. Famously, he made his “Holy Mother Russia,” speech, trying to rally all elements in society including the Church, and he rattled off the famous Russian cultural figures, certainly Puskin and Tolstoy. Oddly, I remember only the two I had never heard of before, Lermontov and Glinka. And now, I can find no reference to that speech via Google, and apparently did not mark it in my 1000 page copy of Werth’s book. Thus, it is only from fussy memory that I can recall my commitment to read Lermontov someday, which I fulfilled half a century later. It was the Caucasus themselves that were the final catalyst for reading Lermontov’s classic and widely influential novel. Also, the social customs in the spa town of Pyatigorsk, with the mountains dramatically in the background. I’ve been fascinated by such towns due to my annual pilgrimages to Aix les Bains, a two-day stop over, caused by the “decalage” of weekends between Saudi Arabia and France. Lermontov, billed as the “poet of the Caucasus,” and the second greatest poet after Pushkin, died young, at the age of 26, in 1841. He died in a duel, ironically much as was depicted in this novel, proving, once again, that youth really is not “bullet-proof.” He was a central figure in the Romantic Movement, “married to a hefty volume of Byron.” One has to wonder how many extra points his reputation acquired due to his dramatic exit in one of human being’s dumber rituals, as in, “you insulted my honor… I demand satisfaction… at six or twelve paces… etc.” Lermontov had been previously disciplined for his role in a duel with the son of the French ambassador. For the Russians, the Caucasus had the flavor of the “wild American west.” The scenery was in such contrast to the endless Russian steppe, with more than a passing resemblance to the Rockies. It was a standard assignment for Russian officers, as depicted in the novel, since they were attempting to “pacify” those seemingly always obstreperous native tribes (something that is still going on today). Grigori Aleksandrovich Pechorin, an alter-ego for Lermantov, is “the hero.” To get there, the author uses the literary device of a story within a story, as travelers are attempting to cross through the mountains. Maksim Maksimych narrates the story of Pechorin, and he passes it off as his own, once Pechorin’s diaries were found, after he died in a trip to Persia. For me, I found the device a bit tortuous. Bela, who is a Circassian, and therefore Muslim, as well as the daughter of a prince is “acquired” by Pechorin in a horse deal. Hum. Time honored traditions of the spoils of military conquest. But jealously will lead to her loss. Soon we are into the descriptions of the rituals and rivalries of society in Pyatigorsk, a pale foreshadowing of Proust’s classic work, almost a century later. Princess Ligovski, 45, from Moscow, is taking the airs, as it were, with daughter Princess Mary. Grushnitski, a wounded “war hero,” age 21, is Pechorin’s rival for her affection, leading to the seemingly inevitable duel. Unlike in real life, in the novel, the alter-ego wins. A plausibly written story about a particular clash of cultures, both external and internal to Russia. The climactic moments involve a duel, a ritual that makes me want to scream over its stupidity, but alas, seems to be an engrained part of the human condition, continued on today in some less dramatically lethal forms. And for its place in Russian literature, if not Stalin’s speech, 4-stars.

If you are intimidated by Russian literature, perhaps the place to begin is with Lermontov, whose only novel, A Hero of Our Time, is a quick read, but a worthwhile one. The story is about an army officer, Pechorin, something of a bad boy, who is effectively internally exiled to the Caucuses and has some well-described experiences there with women, fellow army personnel, and various Cossacks, along with local "natives." His view of life is one of boredom, so much so that he states with regard to one of his beautiful love interests, "I'd give my life for her, but she bores me." A princess falls in love with him, but he toys with her affections. He takes nothing seriously. including life. The "hero" is somewhat based on the life of the author, who was a military officer exiled to the Caucuses and out of favor at the Russian court. There is a huge irony about this story in that a duel figures prominently. A duel ended Lermontov's own life--and we will never know what great literature he may have produced had he lived. This is a book for thinkers because of the author's insights about life and his pithy observations of human foibles. But if you hate cynicism, this book is not for you. ASIDE: The AI overview of this book's reviews, shown above, contains an egregious error because of some reviewer's lack of geographic knowledge. It states that the action takes place in "the Balkans" which is about 1,500 miles the actual location in the Caucuses. It's the equivalent of saying that Bonfire of the Vanities, a rather famous New York novel, takes place in Denver, Colorado. This is an object lesson of AI sometimes being a "garbage in, garbage out" production. Take note.

To further appreciate the point of view of 19th century Russians and their sharp divisions of class, if not race and definitely also of religion, read this work by Mikhail Lermontov. As with "Tales from the Underground" and Pushkin and Tolstoy and "Fathers and Sons," etc., we see enduring themes of man's communication with an understanding of other men. Curiosity is the joy. Russian literature of this time is so much based on empathy, which is much more important to have than sympathy, which can be superficial. Ernest Gaines once promoted Russian literature to see these interactions as universal and fundamental. The way 21st century Americans text and tweet and selfie and post, barely able to communicate face to face without saying "like" and "awesome" and "you know" ad nauseam, they need to listen to Gaines and to read these Russian greats, virtuosos that they are. Once you get past the establishment of the narrator, the translator will bridge you through to the "psychology" of this novel and you will recognize the times have changed and our methods of interaction have deteriorated, but what we wish to encounter when we meet strangers and old friends has not changed. Instead of being lost in a different century with a foreign people, the themes will rise to the top, no different from the best Shakespeare.

It would have been good to have other things this Russian author wrote, such as his poetry included. The book is so brief and so narrow a focus that it wets our appetite. A sad biographical note.

A Hero of Our Time introduces a most memorable character, Pechorin, who, had the novella been named after him, would stand shoulder-to-shoulder with Eugen Onegin in fame. He derives from the same tradition as Onegin, that of the 'superfluous' man, though he moves beyond his predecessor (and prefigures others) in the degree to which he reeks havoc on a personal level. The novella consists of stories only nominally connected, and it is fair to say that the second half is better than the first. The centrepiece is the diary of Pechorin which contains a full narrative of his 'adventures' at a small holiday town. It just has to be read to be believed: it is 'lady-killing' and 'white-anting' at its clinically destructive best. Readers of Eugen Onegin will notice similarities, though the prose form allows much deeper characterisation, for which one is certainly not sorry. Lovers of later 19th-century Russian literature will appreciate this book in its prefiguring of characters and of settings in, among others, Turgenev, Dostoyevsky, and Chekhov. Lermontov died young and in a very Romantic fashion (a duel); one can only be sorry that he did not live to write more.

Lermontov is a sleeper by which I mean that he is lesser known and read outside Russia than other immortals. This novel was recommended to me by a Russian friend from Georgia and I was delighted to find a germinal work influenced greatly by Pushkin and Lord Byron. I read Hero of Our Time after Pushkin's Eugene Onegin. Both Puskin and Lermontov were mad for Byron's poetry as he had earned a certain rock star status. Pushkin was intrigued by blending poetry into the novel as a literary structure in Eugene Onegin. Lermontov's hero, Pechorin, and Pushkin's Onegin have much in common -- both are lovers named after Russian rivers. They both achieve the character type which became known as the "superfluous man" -- an intellect with charisma who finds his gifts are insufficient to influence his world in the way he has imagined. He becomes an outcast or misfit, in a sense, operating outside the conventions of morality and society -- disdainful of both -- with a clear sense of the futility and absurdity of his life. In Pechorin's case the young soldier chooses to influence his life but does so without hope. Perchorin's superfluous man emerges the underground man of Dostoyevski. This perspective is expressed multifariously in the next century in Camus' Stranger, the characters who in habit Beckett's tragicomedies and in the invisible man of Ralph Ellsion. Perhaps his experience in the Russian military created this sense of despair. His exile to the Caucasus Mountain between the Black and Caspian Seas ultimately had an uplifting affect upon Lermontov from the sheer beauty of the landscape which is memorably described in this novel. Like Pushkin, Lermontov was killed in a duel, in the latter's case at the tender age of 26. Chekhov was said to have remarked, "Still a boy and he wrote that." Lermontov is a must read to understand how the superfluous man personified in Lermontov has so influenced writers of diverse genres who followed him.

I wanted to explore the russian novel, so I found a list of recommended russian novels and this was number one. I had already read War and Peace and Crime and Punishment but this book is really the father and mother of russian realism. It is in the russian realism and descriptive style. As such it is more a study in psychology which is really interesting as it predates William James and Freud by at least 50 years and could teach them a thing or two! What is interesting that while this was going on in Russia, the same thing was going on in England. I guess it was because they were looking at each other instead of their cell phones or Ipads!! I strongly recommend these novels for any one studying psychology as their power of observation is that powerful. Todays books are primarily entertainment one of many, but these books are classics, I mean how can you even put James Patterson in the same ball park as Leo Tolstoy.

Fue una gran descubierta, despues de haber leido Pushkin, el antecesor de Lermontov. Un estilo original tal como el protagonista. Lo recomiendo para todos los lectores interesados en la literatura rusa y su desarollo atraves de los siglos.

One great story. Russian novelists never missses when it comes to look inner self through stories. Long live our Byronic hero.

The Everyman's Library edition is very good.

Ótimo

Interesting and entertaining.