Russian‑Language Literature Today

An essay on the fate of Russian‑language literature in a time of exile.

What has happened has happened: a war has begun. Yet few imagined that it would affect all Russian‑language literature and every writer who works in Russian while living far from Russia itself, having long severed any historical ties with it. Increasingly, one hears voices from Russia demanding that we stop speaking “their great language,” since anyone who does not support that country is, in their view, a traitor. Others accuse Russian speakers of using the language of an occupier and a criminal. Even intelligent commentators with large audiences on YouTube now insist that “Russian literature—both classical and contemporary—is dead, and it is time to write in English or in some other language.”

I do not blame them for lacking knowledge of the psychology of art or literary theory; no one is obliged to understand the intricacies of the creative process. But those who call themselves journalists ought to look more broadly at the issue and avoid falling into moral formalism. And this formalism arises not from malice, but from a confusion of concepts—because many words that appear identical carry entirely different meanings.

Language, by its nature, is neutral. One may think of it as a system of sound signals that names objects, phenomena, and actions, and describes their qualities. Every language is conventional; some expand, absorbing numerous borrowings that coexist without conflict in everyday speech. A language is simply a means of communication within a community that has historically developed its own tongue or dialect. It almost never shapes culture or worldview; rather, it is shaped by them. As an ethnic group advances in technology and culture, its language grows richer. When that group stagnates or regresses, the language likewise impoverishes, descends into primitivism, or disappears altogether.

Languages have spread across peoples and territories in various ways, but colonization has played the greatest role. When states began to expand in the middle of the last millennium, colonizing newly discovered lands and continents, they exported their languages as well. Armies, settlers, and missionaries arrived immediately. It was the missionaries who contributed most to the spread of the metropole’s language.

Thus we now have several international languages spoken across many countries: English, French, Portuguese, Spanish, and Russian. Although Muscovy had no access to seas or oceans and therefore expanded overland in pursuit of them, it too eagerly imposed its language on conquered territories.

This is how Russian became the native—or birth—language for many peoples. And what is a “birth language”? It is the language in which we think. It lies deep in the subconscious; we perceive its slightest shades and nuances. It is essential not only for communication but for creation—especially for creation. Just as one cannot hypnotize a person in a language that is not native to them, one cannot produce a work of art that truly affects readers in a language learned only in adulthood. One may converse, exchange information—but one cannot create a full intellectual and artistic work.

Every language has a codified set of norms preserved in dictionaries: the literary language, which ideally should be used by all Russian speakers. Once, radio and television announcers, university lecturers, and the cultural intelligentsia—those whose professions required extensive speaking and teaching—used it consistently. Citizens of large cities generally spoke correctly, especially in territories where Russification had been artificially imposed. But in the 1990s, after the collapse of the USSR, the cultural stratum was replaced by those who had previously been “nothing,” and these people rushed into the media, imagining journalism to be an easy trade. Brandishing the slogan “I speak however I want,” they replaced proper Russian with something entirely different—so different that Russian speakers in other countries now struggle to understand citizens of the Russian Federation. And the further this trend develops, the further the language of the RF drifts from genuine Russian.

One must not confuse the literary language with another concept: the language of literature. The latter is a tool—like a painter’s brush or a musician’s violin. Literature is an intellectual product, an individually reworked vision of the world. It is art. And art rests on metaphor—on associations, transfers, allusions—which are possible only in one’s birth language. A language absorbed in childhood carries shades, tastes, colors, scents—everything we call synesthesia, inherent to every creative person. A writer shapes a work from words as a sculptor shapes clay, feeling the slightest nuances with their fingertips and creating an unmistakable palette. Then the reader begins to believe every word, to see living people in the characters, to enter the imagined world almost as fully as the real one. To create a complete artistic work in a language that is not one’s birth language is impossible.

A journalist uses the literary language (ideally); a writer uses the language of literature. A journalist writes about concrete matters; a writer embodies an idea and a worldview. The language of literature may disregard norms when necessary for imagery or stylization. A journalist uses contemporary tongue; a writer may delve into antiquity, placing archaic words in the mouths of characters, or employ dialects, professional jargon, and much else outside modern norms. What foreign language can one learn so deeply that characters from Shakespeare’s era would speak in Early Modern English? An educated native speaker can do this effortlessly. Beyond vast knowledge and a sense of language, a writer must be a psychologist, capable of analysis and generalization. In other words, to be a writer one must possess all these qualities—this is what we call talent.

I can already hear the objection: “A writer owes nothing.” Indeed, no one is forcing you. If you wish to be a writer, you must possess these qualities. If you do not—then do not. Do something else. Under this refrain—“literature has no rules, no one owes anything”—modern literature of the Russian Federation has collapsed into a chasm between art and amateurism. It no longer exists. And anyone who attempts to rise above this is met with harsh censorship that destroys any proper perception of life.

But beyond the literature of the RF, there exists an entire stratum of Russian‑language writers throughout the world. Their only “fault” is that they write in Russian, despite having long distanced themselves from Russia and its so‑called mentality yet are physically unable to create full artistic works in a foreign language while their birth language remains within them. One need not delve deeply to understand this. But one must take care not to discard the baby with the bathwater. Writers are not a mass product; they are few. And these few should be allowed to reach the world through translators. We are not to blame for being born in colonies or in territories subjected to mass Russification, and for having no other language for creativity. We are not infected with the “Russian world,” and the Russian world understands this well enough to forbid our publication in the RF. But who benefits from erasing, for example, Rene Maori from world literature as though he never existed? I would gladly provide translations, but where is one to find a literary translator? It is arduous work, and few today translate properly without losing the author’s voice. Poetry is likely untranslatable; prose—yes. It can even be adapted for theatre and film.

We exist. Yet now we are in a vacuum. When I began writing this piece, I struggled to rid myself of the bitterness of injustice. I tried to write objectively, without emotional coloring. Because there is a solution, and for some it is almost painless: to write as the Russian authorities demand. Then one will be celebrated like Prilepin and published everywhere. But the question remains: who needs such fame? How does one cleanse oneself of it afterward? To break oneself, to write what the Russian regime requires, to support it against one’s conscience. And you know well how the rest of the world views Russian speakers. But this is not our fault; it is the fault of a worthless little man who fancies himself a god. Perhaps things will change someday, but by then we will be gone. Our language will vanish, and our manuscripts—if any survive—will be deciphered by scholars like inscriptions on Babylonian tablets.

This is, perhaps, all I can say in defense of Russian‑language literature—today needed by no one, much like the folklore of the Miyako Islands.