Carrère positions his book not as a lightly fictionalised biography (it's a novel, remember) but as a commentary on "all our history since the end of World War II". Russia is at the centre of the author's attention, and his story of the turbulent events of the past two decades is well-researched and informative, especially in the chapter describing the 1993 putsch. Writing about more recent developments, Carrère looks at the oligarchs running the country with disgust, as befits a Western liberal, which doesn't dispel his belief that "there are worse things than Putin-style totalitarianism".
Carrère's strongest suit is irony, to which he occasionally adds a measure of vitriol, as in this passage about Limonov's son: "The boy's called Bogdan, in honor of his Serbian years. I think that Bogdan got off lightly: he could have been called Radovan or Ratko." Recounting the activist's attempts to raise money for his party, the author describes Limonov's contacts as "timid fascists [who] have enough trouble sustaining their own little boutiques". The irony grows subtler when Limonov, asked in 1993 what he does in Russia, says: "I'm getting ready to seize power."
The book ends in 2009, when Carrère finds his interviewee unresponsive and decides to make do with what he's got. The latest turn in Limonov's writing career — a regular column in Izvestia, the mouthpiece of Russian officialdom — serves as a postscript to the book about a man whose most endearing trait, in the eyes of his novelist-biographer, is always being on the side of the underdog. This is Limonov's reaction to a protest held in Moscow in March 2014 against Russia's acts of aggression towards Ukraine: "My creative imagination pictured [the protesters] as a collective of prostitutes, prepared for any humiliation because they find pleasure in it." His piece, reeking of imperial megalomania, makes you feel nostalgic for the days when the word "prostitute" didn't have a purely negative meaning to Limonov. Heartbroken after his wife leaves him, the protagonist of It's Me, Eddie says: "There was me hoping, thinking: we'd be whores, swashbucklers, prostitutes, whoever — but still together throughout life."
I saw Limonov at a book festival in Moscow four years ago. He arrived flanked by several bodyguards and read some of his recent poems — very good, fresh and energetic, delivered with such gusto it was hard to believe the author was in his late sixties. Poetry aside, comparing Limonov's political persona today with his younger self is rather depressing. In his 1977 book, Diary of a Loser, the young rebel was sure that even in the old age he would be able "to be a lone wolf . . . and cry out in a hoarse voice: Kill 'em! . . . Those who are not with us are against us!" Three and a half decades later, Limonov prefers to play it safe on the side of Putin's big battalions.
Carrère's strongest suit is irony, to which he occasionally adds a measure of vitriol, as in this passage about Limonov's son: "The boy's called Bogdan, in honor of his Serbian years. I think that Bogdan got off lightly: he could have been called Radovan or Ratko." Recounting the activist's attempts to raise money for his party, the author describes Limonov's contacts as "timid fascists [who] have enough trouble sustaining their own little boutiques". The irony grows subtler when Limonov, asked in 1993 what he does in Russia, says: "I'm getting ready to seize power."
The book ends in 2009, when Carrère finds his interviewee unresponsive and decides to make do with what he's got. The latest turn in Limonov's writing career — a regular column in Izvestia, the mouthpiece of Russian officialdom — serves as a postscript to the book about a man whose most endearing trait, in the eyes of his novelist-biographer, is always being on the side of the underdog. This is Limonov's reaction to a protest held in Moscow in March 2014 against Russia's acts of aggression towards Ukraine: "My creative imagination pictured [the protesters] as a collective of prostitutes, prepared for any humiliation because they find pleasure in it." His piece, reeking of imperial megalomania, makes you feel nostalgic for the days when the word "prostitute" didn't have a purely negative meaning to Limonov. Heartbroken after his wife leaves him, the protagonist of It's Me, Eddie says: "There was me hoping, thinking: we'd be whores, swashbucklers, prostitutes, whoever — but still together throughout life."
I saw Limonov at a book festival in Moscow four years ago. He arrived flanked by several bodyguards and read some of his recent poems — very good, fresh and energetic, delivered with such gusto it was hard to believe the author was in his late sixties. Poetry aside, comparing Limonov's political persona today with his younger self is rather depressing. In his 1977 book, Diary of a Loser, the young rebel was sure that even in the old age he would be able "to be a lone wolf . . . and cry out in a hoarse voice: Kill 'em! . . . Those who are not with us are against us!" Three and a half decades later, Limonov prefers to play it safe on the side of Putin's big battalions.
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