Shishkin believes in the power of words to preserve human dignity, and to overcome death. His novels Maidenhair and The Light and the Dark, along with his short story collection Calligraphy Lesson, embody this belief. In The Light and the Dark, translated by Andrew Bromfield, a man and a woman write letters to one another from different ends of a century. They fall in love, their written missives powerful enough to overcome the obstacle of time. In Maidenhair, Shishkin’s most well known and celebrated novel, translated by Marian Schwartz, his eponymous hero (an interpreter) writes letters to his young son about a mysterious, imagined country. The novel’s branching storylines, which we discuss in our interview, include the diary of a famous Russian singer. Her life, largely forgotten, is resurrected on the page. All the while, Shishkin’s mesmeric use of language, most acute in Maidenhair, weaves a spell, creating what he refers to as an “ark” for the Russian language, and a last refuge for human dignity.
Alongside his prose, but very separate from it, Shishkin is increasingly well known for his strong anti-Putin stance. This first became public in 2013 when he refused to represent Russia at the American BookExpo in New York. He followed this with a slew of anti-Putin articles in the international press, including calls to boycott the Sochi Winter Olympics, as well as the World Cup hosted by Russia. In addition, Shishkin’s new non-fiction book, My Russia, War or Peace? makes clear his opposition to Putin’s regime. As the interview below reveals, he stands firm in his unequivocal support for Ukraine and does not hold back when he calls Russia a fascist country. While he does not want to sully his fiction with contemporary politics, Shishkin does, however, see a way to use literature as a political tool. He plans to launch a new literary prize called “Dar” (meaning gift) that will celebrate Russophone (that is, Russian-language literature) no matter where it is written.
Shishkin very generously answered my questions via email from his home in Switzerland, where he has lived since 1995. We discussed the themes of his novel Maidenhair, and why he believes politics has no place in literary prose. We spoke about the fascist nature of Putin’s Russia, and why culture is the enemy of the incumbent dictatorship. Shishkin also described his unstinting support for Ukraine, and expressed his strong views about the need to decolonize the country, to liberate the Russian language from Putin’s dictatorship and to preserve Russophone literature, music and art until such time in the future when they might help build a bridge to peace.
—Sarah Gear, Assistant Interview Editor
Your most well known novel, Maidenhair, is a beautiful, ephemeral text that grows out of entwined stories, snippets of memories, and glimpses of other worlds. The language it uses weaves a spell on the reader. Since it is such a complex novel, what do you see as its main theme?
It seems to me that all real novels are always about one and the same thing. Real prose does not have “themes”. If Tolstoy’s theme was “the Napoleonic Wars” and Varlam Shalamov’s was “Stalin’s prison camps”, we would be better off reading the work of historians than these authors. Both Shalamov and Tolstoy wrote about one and the same thing. Human life does not have a “theme”. The book that you write is like a tomographic image not only of your brain, but of all your life lived up until that point. As the years pass, life becomes about something else, and hence the book you are writing also becomes different. But this is not a different book, it is exactly the same book, written by another you.
Maidenhair is a classic novel about simple things. It is about overcoming death with love and words. Maidenhair is a type of plant—Adiantum capillus-veneris; somewhere in the South, in Rome, it is a weed, but in Russia it would die without human love and warmth. This wild-growing plant becomes the grass of eternal life. Numerous storylines intersect in the novel. I write about my work as an interpreter at a refugee reception centre: people from former soviet states come to Switzerland to seek asylum, and I interpret at their interviews. Nobody tells unscary stories there. This strand of the novel becomes metaphorical—it symbolizes Heaven, which these souls want to enter. To gain entry they recount what has happened to them. But Heaven is locked tight.
In another strand, the history of my family is intertwined with Anabasis, written by the ancient Greek [soldier and author] Xenophon. Anabasis describes the arrival of tens of thousands of soldiers at the Black Sea, which, it becomes clear over a couple of thousand years, is the sea of immortality. My heroes join them. I also write the biography of a real, famous woman who lived through the whole of the twentieth century, the singer Izabella Yurieva. Her life disappeared with her, but my words give her a new life—this is the only real resurrection, there can be no other kind. Only the word can become flesh. In the end, these storylines converge in Rome—in the eternal city, which is so fleeting for maidenhair, the grass of life.
In the novel, I want to link the love of the word with the love for the person that is inherent in Russian literature—a love that exists even for characters where there is probably not much to love, as with Gogol’s Akaki Akakievich. The written word is not only a sacred way of creating the world, but the only way to overcome death. In the epigraph to Maidenhair, I took a line from the Apocrypha: “For by the word was the world created, and by the word shall we be resurrected”. There is likely no other way to defeat death. The novel is about resurrection through words and love. Words alone are simply ash and pixels, printer powder, paper. Words must be brought to life, to create a reality where there is no death, where everyone can escape from King Herod. King Herod represents time.
One of the novel’s heroes, an isolated prisoner serving a life sentence, uses a spoon handle to scratch the image of a boat onto the wall of his cell. He sits in the boat and sails away from his prison. In the same way the writer, imprisoned in his life of solitude, sits in his novel as if it were a boat. He takes all of his heroes and readers with him and sails towards the one that loves us and waits for us all.
You are well known for expressing your political views. What political message, if any, does Maidenhair, or your other novels, have?
There is no contemporary politics in Maidenhair. Neither Putin, nor anyone like him, will ever appear in my novels because literature, music—these are far too large guns to fire at today’s dictators. Politics belongs in the newspapers, and yesterday’s newspaper is a metaphor for death. Art and literature form the ark we need to build in order to combat time, and you must only bring the most important things to this ark. Politics kills prose and infects it with the here and now. If this happens, books can only live as long as politics—just for today.
Around the same time Maidenhair was published in the US and UK, you refused to represent Russia in 2013 at the BookExpo America in New York. Can you tell us why you made this decision, and the effect it has had on your career in Russia?
At the beginning of the 2000s I was happy that Russia was becoming a civilized country, that the government was beginning to support literature and writers in the same way that Switzerland’s Pro Helvetia gives money for translations of Swiss writers abroad: Russia’s Institut Perevoda, along with other foundations, began to award grants for the translation of books by Russian authors. But it was very clear that the country was moving in the opposite direction, back to the past. Russia was turning into a criminal dictatorship, which was hiding behind a “democratic” façade. The West heard the “right” words from the Kremlin, and either didn’t see, or didn’t want to see, what was actually happening in Russia. In particular, the authorities were using us writers as the “human face” of the regime. As they sent us to the most important book fairs in the world I recall them telling us, “criticize Putin as much as you like. It will only confirm that we have a real democracy”.
I did not want the regime to use my name, or my texts, as a mask for itself and its crimes. In 2013 I published my open letter, where I refused to represent Putin’s Russia at the book fair in New York:
A country where power has been seized by a corrupt, criminal regime, where the state is a pyramid of thieves, where elections have become farce, where courts serve the authorities, not the law, where there are political prisoners, where state television has become a prostitute, where packs of impostors pass insane laws that are returning everyone to the Middle Ages—such a country cannot be my Russia. I want to and will represent another Russia, my Russia, a country free of impostors, a country with a state structure that defends the right of the individual, not the right to corruption, a country with a free media, free elections, and free people.
This was before the war. The thousands of people who would later be killed in Ukraine were still alive, tens of thousands had not yet been wounded, millions had not yet become refugees. It was clear where Putin was taking my country, and I wanted to somehow stop this, to cry “Russia stop! Wake up!” But the country was gripped by the frenzy of the Olympics and Crimea. The occupation of Crimea became a watershed, a border, a front in the civil war that is now in full force across Russia. Crimea divided Russians. Either you are a “krymnash” [believing “Crimea is ours”] or you are a “national traitor”. This is a civil war. Russians have become the enemies of other Russians. After my open letter appeared in the press and on social media, I was attacked. They stopped giving money to translate the books of a “national traitor”. I haven’t been back to Russia since 2014.
You have been very open and consistent in your condemnation of the Russian government, long before the intensification of Russia’s invasion of Ukraine in February 2022. You open your 2019 book My Russia, War or Peace? with the statement that “The language of Alexander Pushkin and Leo Tolstoy, Marina Tsvetaeva and Joseph Brodsky has become the language of war criminals and murderers.” In interviews, you have referred to Russia as fascist. Do you have the sense that it has become more dangerous for authors to speak the truth since 2022?
We are at war. It is always dangerous to be at war. For writers, telling the truth is always dangerous. Even more so now. This is a twenty-first-century war—killing does not only take place at the front line. I often receive threats. In one email from Germany, someone wrote to me in Russian, “Shishkin is a national traitor. Death to traitors.” Traitors have always been more threatening than enemies. But am I supposed to keep quiet? If I did that, what meaning would my life have? Everyone must do what they can. A writer can and must write and speak out. Silence is exactly what the regime wants from its subjects. “The People are silent.” Only the word can challenge silence.
You wrote My Russia, War or Peace? in German. Why did you decide to use German, and how did the process differ from writing in Russian?
This book has now come out in twenty languages, but not in Russian. I’ll tell you why. I have tried many times to read books written by so-called experts about Russia, but it is completely impossible: these books explain to the Western reader and to Western politicians the need to build bridges towards Putin. It is thanks to these “experts” that we now find ourselves in this catastrophe. For years I tried to explain through my essays and speeches that a bridge to Putin is a bridge to war. It can’t be any other way—a dictatorship lives by war, this is its daily bread. But here in the West people closed their eyes to the obvious.
In 2013 I called for a boycott of the Olympic Games in Sochi, but who listens to writers? Immediately after the Olympics, which reeked of patriotism, came the annexation of Crimea and the beginning of the war. In 2014, The Guardian published my essay, in which I wrote that instead of a soul, Putin possesses a black hole that is swallowing up the world. At that time, Russia and Ukraine were already in this black hole, which would first suck in Europe, and then the whole globe. Alas, everything is flying rapidly into this black hole right before our eyes.
All these years I have been writing in the world’s most influential newspapers that Russia was already in a state of war against the West, that we need to aggressively fight this dictatorship, protect human values, and help Ukraine prevail. In 2018 I again tried to organize a boycott of the World Cup, but Switzerland, along with the other democratic countries, sent their teams to chase a football around in front of the dictator who had already been terrorizing Ukraine for four years. Can the world really not have seen the thousands killed, tens of thousands wounded, hundreds of thousands of refugees? They didn’t want to see. [The World Cup] was the last chance for the free world to display solidarity and prevent the catastrophe in which we currently find ourselves. Putin took universal participation in the games to mean universal support for his aggression in Ukraine. The road to 24 February 2022 was open.
I had to explain Russia and its war to the Western reader. That is why I wrote this book in German—it came out in Germany in 2019. The last two chapters are about the future, where I explained what would happen. We are now resolutely in the future that I predicted. Now this book is being published around the world. I haven’t changed one word of it, I just added a foreword and afterword—and every day the book becomes more relevant. I have had a flood of responses: “You opened our eyes! Why were our politicians so blind?”
Why is this book not translated into Russian? Because we are in the midst of a civil war. Those who stand with me on the front line do not need anything explained to them. Those who stand on the other side of the line would not read the book of a traitor. But here [in the West], I can perhaps explain things to others. I do what I can. It is important for people to know that there is another, non-Putin Russia, which supports Ukraine and its fight against [Russian] aggression.
In a recent interview you talked about the fact that the next great Russian novel would have to be one of atonement—one written by someone who is fighting in Ukraine now. The novel should explore questions such as “What are we Russians doing over here killing people” and “Why are we Russians fascists?” What does the Russia that would allow the publication of such a novel look like? Do you think anyone could already be writing such a text?
A person can only repent if they have committed a crime and are sorry for it. A novel of atonement would be a symbol of regret and repentance for a nation that has participated in this criminal war. I have criticized the Putin regime and its aggression from the start, as well as Russia itself for supporting the vile authorities and their war and for not repenting or recognizing any guilt. If an emigrant like myself were to write such a novel, this would represent no one’s repentance. That is why I think that a genuine novel of atonement should be written by someone who participated directly in this crime. So long as people [in Russia] believe that the war in Ukraine is taking place to defend the motherland and Pushkin from fascism, and don’t recognize the fact that they themselves are the fascists, my country does not have a future.
Until Russia itself repents this crime, until there is an admission of national guilt, until the next Putin falls to his knees in Kyiv, Kharkiv, Bucha, the country will not be ready for such a novel. I am afraid the next Tsar will again talk about Russia rising “from its knees” before the West, instead of recognizing guilt. Is it not Tsar-like to fall to one’s knees. In the Russian national consciousness a Tsar who falls to his knees is not a Tsar at all.
Is someone already writing this novel of atonement? I can only repeat what I have already said: God knows.
In April 2022, Ukrainian author Oksana Zabuzhko described Russian literature as weaving “the camouflage net for Russia’s tanks” as Russia commenced its attack on Ukraine. Given current attitudes towards Russia, is there a role for Russian literature during the war? If so, what should it be?
I have already spoken about this many times, but I will say it again. The emotions felt by Oksana are understandable. I understand why in Ukraine with every day of the war, with every rocket that falls on Kharkiv or Odessa, hatred grows for all of Russia. I understand why people are taking down statues of Pushkin. Putin’s war transformed the language of Pushkin into the language of criminals and murderers. The empire hid itself behind Pushkin’s name and erected statues to him everywhere as a symbol of colonial power. What can I say when I hear that in Ukraine they are taking down statues to Pushkin? The empire and its symbols must be erased. Absolutely.
The Putin regime placed Russian culture in the line of fire across the world, but the shattering blow has, as always, been achieved by its own government. Today’s Russia is a fascist state. It is not important what people are saying in the Kremlin, it is important what these people do. And they are carrying out fascism. Cultural figures either have to sing patriotic songs or emigrate.
In the end, it is naive to say that Russian literature lies at the root of this aggression. The war crimes taking place in Ukraine are not happening because soldiers in the Russian army read Tolstoy or Chekhov. On the contrary, free Russian culture has always opposed the criminal [Russian] state. The history of Russian culture is the history of desperate resistance to successive totalitarian regimes. For centuries the Russian people’s survival strategy has been silence, humility, and submission to the authorities no matter what they demand. “The people are silent” is the strategy described by Pushkin [in Boris Godunov]. And the only thing that can counter this silence and obedient submission to the authorities is the word, is culture. That is why the regime has always considered culture as the main enemy—that is why they eradicated it and continue to eradicate it. Culture is resistance to totalitarianism. Culture exists as a form of human dignity, and that is why culture will always be the enemy of the regime in Russia.
You are currently launching a new literary prize for Russophone fiction. What are the aims of the prize, who is it for, and how does this fit into your political worldview?
The public position of the award is as follows: Everyone who takes part in the organization, including authors who submit their work to the competition, are against the war, against dictatorships, and support Ukraine in its fight for freedom and independence in the face of aggression.
The Russian Federation’s disgusting war against Ukraine is a blow to all Russophone culture. Free literature written in Russian needs assistance, and one of the ways to provide this is via the foundation of a literary prize, which we have named “Dar,” meaning “gift”. This short word holds important meanings, and everyone will recognize the title as the last, and best book written in Russian by Nabokov. The prize was founded by an organization I formed with Slavists and professors at Swiss universities. Well-known authors including Ludmila Ulitskaya, Boris Akunin, Dmitrii Bykov, and Dmitrii Glukhovsky have already agreed to join the board of founders. We also have Nobel Laureate Svetlana Alexievich from Belarus (she writes in Russian) as our co-founder.
The prize is neither a “Russian prize”, nor a “prize for Russian literature”. This is a prize for rethinking literature written in Russian. It is a prize that will open up new routes to literature and literary life outside antiquated ideas of nationhood. It is a prize for everyone who writes and reads in Russian regardless of their passport or country of residence. The Russian language does not belong to dictators but to world culture. The current discourse around post-imperialism and the decolonization of literature needs to become a practical action—the Dar Prize makes it possible to transfer words into action.
The prize is one of the tools for a new start. Now is the time for the foundation of a new kind of Russian-language culture, a kind of culture that has never been seen before, a culture free from the curse of territory and from Russian “patriotism”. It is time to establish a new Russian-language culture, one that does not belong to the medieval era of the Golden Horde, but to world culture. It is very important that people united by the Russian language are able to take part in our competition from all over the world including Belarus, Lithuania, Poland, Ukraine, Georgia, and Armenia. Entrants include Sasha Filipenko (from Belarus), Armen Zakharyan (originally from Armenia), and among members of the jury we have Mikhail Gigolashvili (originally from Georgia). It is very important that Ukrainian authors who write in Russian take part in the contest. Sergei Solovyev has already agreed to take part with his novel Smile of Shakti (he writes in Russian, has a Ukrainian passport, and lives in Germany).
Dar could become a unifying platform for the scattered Russophone diaspora. It is a chance for the international Russian-speaking community to prove itself, and to show that it exists in a world without borders, and is productive and worthy in its own right. The aim of the prize is to give this diaspora the chance for a new beginning, and most importantly, to show support for young writers for whom the opportunity of being translated and published by Western firms is now gone. The main prize is a grant for translation into English, German and French. In this way we also support Western translators from Russian, who find themselves in difficulties at this time.
What Russophone authors should we be reading now?
Lots of talented authors write in Russian but are, alas, unknown in the West. I hope that by creating this new prize we can help to bring these authors to the Western reader. But in any case, I need to talk about those authors who do not need to be either translated or published in the West. These are authors like Zakhar Prilepin who openly support the Putin aggression and who call for the killing of Ukrainians. By purchasing their books, Western readers are giving their money to the war, to fund the rockets that kill the inhabitants of Kharkiv and Odessa at night.
The same goes for writers who do not openly condemn the war but who support it through their silence. For example, Eugene Vodolazkin, who is well known in the West. At present he remains a member of the President’s Council for Culture and Art and the Patriarchal Council for Culture. In February 2024, after two years of war, Vodolazkin was awarded a medal by the Russian Orthodox Church—an organization that encourages Russia’s war against Ukraine. Such writers support the war in their name, and absolutely understand that. This makes them war criminals too.
You have spoken and written much about the power of words. In reality, what can literature achieve in the face of Russia’s war against Ukraine?
When a war begins, literature always loses. Books are useless against guns and missiles. None of my books, nor the books written by my colleagues over the past twenty years, could have prevented the tragic situation in which we now find ourselves. During a war, you need ammunition, not novels. But every war ends eventually. And that is when you need culture, literature. A huge chasm filled with death, pain and hatred has opened up between Russia and Ukraine. And with every rocket that falls on a home, this chasm is growing, and continues to grow. But sooner or later the war will end, and we will need to build bridges over the chasm. Most likely not to our generation, but to the next, or the one after that. The first people to build this bridge will be people of culture—writers, artists, musicians. It is these people who will take that first step towards one another. It is for this future bridge that we need to preserve the dignity of Russian-language culture.
