.Just came across a piece of writing which somehow got me thinking that, well -- sometimes, oh man, I wish I were a Soviet emigre child, instead of someone who came to the US at age thirty! I wish Id been brought to the US, by my parents, from Leningrad or Moscow or Odessa or wherever else the case may be -- at age five or seven or eleven: a little child, yes, but wise way beyond my years, already full of keen insights and inner conflict and geo-psychological torment; already, even by the age of seven or eleven, having retained enough memories and insights into the ugliness of the Soviet totalitarian system to last me the rest of my literary life, feeling suspended between two worlds, as it were, the worlds of Russia and America, America and Russia, forever, and forever wondering as to who I am, in fact, who I am more of -- Russian or American, American or Russian? Dear hypothetical Soviet emigre children out there! God love you, but let me just resolve your doubts on this account, once and for all: you are Americans, at least the great majority of you; American English is your native language; your Russian, event if it has been retained by you by virtue of having had it spoken in your homes, with your parents and grandparents (who are the actual bearers of those poignant and funny memories you bring to life with so much personal emotional investment), tends to be lifeless and dull and automatic and cannot sustain you for more than a few minutes of a fluid conversation with a native speaker. You would never be able to write an essay or a story in it -- which is ok. The absolute majority of Americans would not be able to do it either, and you are Americans, which is wonderful, all irony aside, just the bees knees, and I am a US citizen, but you have no more direct connection to Russia than I do to the NBA: you have connection to the Soviet-Jewish or Russian emigre community in the US, and it is just not the same. So its ok to stop wringing your figurative hands and feeling oh so blue about how torn you are with regards to your identity. Nabokov never wrote about his inner torment and being torn, about the ferocious struggle taking place within his being concerning his true identity. Neither did Brodsky. You know why they didnt? Because they were grownups and knew who they were and knew, too, that talking about your inner torment (especially a somewhat artificial, manufactured one) is a little, well, unseemly.. There is no need to negotiate any complicated paths between the two supposedly severed halves of your lives, your past and your present. Your lifeline has never been interrupted. You are talented, ambitious people. Please be cool. I wish you all the happiness and literary success in the world.
Posted on: Mon, 26 May 2014 03:33:24 +0000
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