“Loved this book! It’s really poignant, and you feel like you’re with the characters as they find themselves hurled into an emotional and spiritual journey – their last journey in fact. I didn’t really know much about Buddhism or meditation before I read Don Don, but following the story of the monk and cityboy and how they react to the news of their death really makes you think about how you approach life yourself. The brash NY character Don makes you both laugh and cry. Really thought-provoking stuff – would highly recommend if you like your books to be intelligent and to stay with you after you put them down.” L. Honour
“Don Don”, a review by K. McMahon
“Don Don is the best book I have read in a long while. The story is very touching and extremely funny. It follows two men both named Don who live on different sides of the world in every sense. I had people staring at me on the train as I laughed out aloud. The story brings out the devil in you and then delivers a harsh reality on the true values of life. A brilliant book by a sharp and observant writer – highly recommended.” K. McMahon
“Don Don”, a review
“Reading Don Don and loving it! Best book I have read for a long time. I bought it in a little shop in Spain. Went in to get some hotcross buns, and got the book instead.”
“Love and Mayhem”, a review by Ralph Lewis
“Love and Mayhem is very intense, but quite remarkable in your depiction of the feeling states of Jack and Catherine – and very well written! So just wanted to say how much I enjoyed it!” Ralph Lewis
“Love and Mayhem”, a review by S. Modi
“This is a remarkable first novel written by Nick Taussig. In short, if you want to experience life through an emotional, intellectual and an almost hidden soul, Nick has managed this with pure perfection.
‘When fate’s got it in for you, there’s no limit to what you may have to put up with’ (Georgette Heyer). Fate and love are apparent parallels in Nick’s world. A riveting read.” M. S. Modi
Zembla – “It’s Me, Eddie”, by Eduard Limonov
Zembla, No. 9, Winter 2005
The obscure book I’d like to tell you about is Eduard Limonov’s autobiographical work, It’s me, Eddie (or, in Russian, Eto ia – Edichka). Limonov was the enfant terrible of Russian letters in the late ’70s and ’80s, an identity he openly welcomed. His purposeful, vigorous and flamboyant assault both on Mother Russia’s sacrosanct literary canon and her moral consensus makes even Michel Houellebecq seem rather tame, even – would you believe – conservative.
His rebellious attitude was unequivocal: ‘I think vicious thoughts about the whole of my loathsome native Russian literature, which has been largely responsible for my life. Dull green bastards, Chekhov languishing in boredom, his eternal students, people who don’t know how to get themselves going, who vegetate through this life, they lurk in these pages like diaphanous husks…’ And though I might be a great admirer of Chekhov, I must confess, it is this spirit of fiery, precocious rebellion – Limonov’s desire to shake things up – which so fascinated me when I first picked up It’s me, Eddie.
Too much literature, it seems, is driven by compromise, earnestness and decency, and sometimes a figure like Limonov is needed to produce a book which (in the words of Kafka) acts as ‘an ice-ax to break the sea frozen within us’. Eddie is at the point of despair, living in a filthy, cheap room in a squalid New York hotel and working as a busboy in The Hilton, where he has to serve ‘grey-haired and middle-aged’ bureacrats in suits ‘who had arrived from the provinces for a trade convention’ and who command more respect and authority than a man of words, feelings and reflections (like a poet such as himself). He also despairs with his wife Elena, a ‘tear-stained’ , ‘provincial’ and ‘typical Russian, throwing herself headlong into the very thick of life without reflection’ who has succumbed to the ‘marijuana, underworld, jargon, cocaine, the constant “fuckin’ mother” after every word, the bars, the sex accessories of New York and America’. Here is a man who wears his loneliness and deprivation on his sleeve – he is perhaps a typical Russian anti-hero in this repect – and is not afraid to tell his readers exactly how he feels. Thus, one minute he tells them he aspires to ‘love selflessly … extraordinarily, powerfully’; the next he tells them, ‘Fuck you, you cocksucking bastards! You can all go straight to hell!’
Love and hate can co-exist for Limonov, and his writing is a powerful act of self-affirmation. He must be admired for this, for battling against accepted standards of taste. His staunch nationalism is perhaps less admirable, but Limonov is not so much a destructive political figure as a constructively rebellious literary one.