Boris Akunin is among my three favorite contemporary mystery writers. (Deon Meyer and Harlan Coben are the
other two, though my all-time favorites are deceased.) Based on global book
sales in multiple languages, many from the reading public agree. Years ago the
Amazon algorithm ("you might also like") recommended to me Akunin's The Winter Queen (set in 1876 with a
20-y.o. detective named Fandorin), probably because I had earlier purchased one
of Martin Cruz Smith's Gorky Park
sequels. I took the recommendation and have followed Fandorin’s career over
more than a dozen books since then. Not
SayingGoodbye, apparently the
final book in the series, is set 1918-21. Even though we know how history
turned out and therefore know the limits of what the aging Fandorin can
accomplish at the key tipping points at which he finds himself, the book is
still suspenseful – and not just at the personal level of the characters. The
outcome of the Russian Civil War was by no means a sure thing, and there are a
lot of “if only this one thing were done differently” moments in the book.
Despite appearances, this is not a review of Not SayingGoodbye (though for the record I did like it). A characteristic of
Akunin’s style just happened to catch my attention this time and raised
thoughts about a shared culture. Fandorin is an erudite man, so it is no
surprise that Akunin puts in his mouth quotes from and allusions to Russian
literature. I picked up on my own only a few of the most obvious ones, such as the
“Happy families are all alike” line from Tolstoy. But even though the translator
(I’m pretty sure it’s the translator) helpfully identifies the sources of some others,
I’m sure I missed far more than I caught. Yet this is a great way to
economically but effectively portray some person or event. Referencing a
character from Chekhov or situation from Dostoevsky can reveal more than pages
of expositional prose. But it only works if the reader/listener shares enough
of the same culture to get the reference. In the US and several other Western nations that shared
culture is fracturing into subcultures for which allusions are likely to be
mutually unintelligible. There are some pop culture references that are nearly
universal. If you say your Spidey sense is tingling you’ll likely be
understood, but referencing King Lear
when speaking of some foolish family patriarch is more likely to annoy than to
add to the conversation. One no longer can take for granted that a particular
core of books will be widely read and form the basis of commonalities. It’s not
just a matter of literature. Take the (no more than) middle-brow 20-y.o. TV
show Buffy the Vampire Slayer. At one
point Buffy tells Giles not to get all Willy Loman and at another threatens to act
William S. Burroughs. Does 1 viewer in 5 get those references anymore? How many
notice how often episode titles of the show are song titles: "Bewitched
Bothered and Bewildered," "Killed by Death," "Hush,"
"This Year's Girl," "Bring on the Night," et al.? But then, perhaps, like slang, cultural references are
sometimes intended to be exclusionary – to give a conspiratorial nod to others
of the same subgroup. Consider the Bob Dylan song “False Prophet” (attached
below) from the Rough and RowdyWays album. Does one have to be a Boomer
to catch references to (among others) artists including Ricky Nelson (hello
Mary Lou), Roy Orbison (only the lonely), Barbara Lewis (hello stranger), and
Janis Joplin (ball and chain)? Maybe not, but it helps. Those lyrics are seared
into our memories, and obviously into Bob’s. To be technical, Dylan is not a
Boomer but Silent Generation, b.1928-1945, but he knows his audience. That, I suppose is the key. Allude away, but know your
audience. The rest can just scratch their heads as we are destined so often to
scratch ours.
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