(Photograph of Maxim Osipov by Elena Anosova for the New Yorker)
This beautiful portrait drew me in. The light seems like afternoon reflected off snow. The wood, the smoke hanging in the air - such a beautiful capture. Everything opposite to where I am. I have never lived in a place where it snows. Visitor, yes, but never struggled with the slush, the wet, the snow the cold. And the wooden walls and the desk and the cabin. Where I sit, everything is white around me - the desk, the walls, the white-framed window shutters blinding off the green tree and blue sky and white clouds outside. Nothing brown and warm. Hence the very idea is beautiful in its other-ness. At times the opposites are interesting because they represent all that you are not. In that, complementing you.
Maybe I am wrong with all the assumptions above. May be. The portrait released that chain of thought. I kept staring at it for a bit and then since it mentions Chekhov in the first breath, I had to read more. The promise of such write-ups is delightful.
This article by Joshua Yaffa introduces Maxim Osipov to the English speaking world. It mentions that he is a doctor, a practising cardiologist in the Russian town of Tarusa, 101 kms away from Moscow. Living in the quiet provinces. Writing, publishing, essays and this collection : "Rock, Paper, Scissors". Added to my wishlist.
The mood of the portrait, and generally the idea of Russia, the earthy, snowy feel to the books - be it the Hunter's sketchbook (another one halfway read, on my wishlist), or other Russian short stories, they are like comfort food. The idea of a cold evening, hot chocolate, snug blanket, cosy thick socks and the book. The idea.
It helps that it is the beginning of winter in our hemisphere, and although I live nowhere close to snow, the light slants more these days, and the roads are full of fall leaves, and the breeze can at times pierce through you, making the idea of a book of Russian short stories in a cosy setting all the more attractive.
Here is a sample of his writing from one of his essays - the complete quote is from the New Yorker (article linked above) -
" A year and a half after his first essay appeared in Znamya, he published an elegiac follow-up called “Complaining Is a Sin,” in which he describes receiving an early-morning summons from the hospital. “Cold, fog,” he writes. “Ten minutes later, you run into the office, shove the plug into the socket, everything is noisy, you put on a robe, look at the canvas-colored twilight outside the window, and say to yourself, ‘One, it won’t get any better, and, two, this is happiness.’ ” "