Telluria
(Libby/OverDrive eAudiobook)

Russian provocateur Sorokin imagines a world in regression, its warped denizens and warring nation-states united only in their longing for the exquisite oblivion caused by a nail to the skull. Geopolitically, the world is a medieval mess. Russia is no more, broken into 15 pieces. Islamic fundamentalists occupy Northern Rhine-Westphalia before being pushed back in a modern-day Reconquista. The Knights Templar ride flying robots. And everyone, everywhere, craves tellurium, a rare metal from the Altai Mountains that, when hammered into a shaved cranium, promises "a feeling of time's disappearance." (Or, if done wrong, death.) Sorokin offers no overarching plot--this is, after all, a dystopia defined by incoherence--but rather a sketchbook of fever dreams, variously satirical and sardonic, playful and absurd. We meet partisans, crusaders, and addicts. Tourists visit a new USSR reduced to kitsch and Stalin-worship. Readers familiar with Sorokin may find his penchant for obscenity somewhat reduced, compared to his earlier works. (There is slightly less eating of feces.) But the author's avante-garde virtuosity is undiminished, and his sociopolitical critique remains as sharp as a nail.

Sorokin (Day of the Oprichnik) unfurls a hypnotic and hallucinatory piece of speculative fiction in which most of Russia and Europe have been shattered into fractious, feudal principalities in the wake of an apocalyptic near-future war between Christendom and fundamentalist Islam. With advanced technology and gasoline in the hands of a powerful few, much of society has returned to hardscrabble, premodern lives. Their one escape is tellurium, a powerful narcotic delivered by hammering--often fatally--a nail of rare metals directly into the brain. It's a big concept, and Sorokin opts to convey it through many characters in 50 loosely related vignettes featuring royalty and rebels, peasants and soldiers, animal-headed "zoomorphs," diminutive and gigantic "littluns" and "biguns," and, of course, desperate tellurium addicts and the "carpenters" who administer the nails. As Sorokin puts it, the continent has been "plunged back into the blessed and enlightened Middle Ages... the world returned to human scale." The author more than makes up for a slightly diffuse structure with his breathtaking imaginative leaps and wicked humor, which he conveys in dialogue between those who desperately want the tellurium and those who have it. Again, Sorokin succeeds at dragging the reader into a dark and scary place. (July)

Russian provocateur Sorokin imagines a world in regression, its warped denizens and warring nation-states united only in their longing for the exquisite oblivion caused by a nail to the skull. Geopolitically, the world is a medieval mess. Russia is no more, broken into 15 pieces. Islamic fundamentalists occupy Northern Rhine-Westphalia before being pushed back in a modern-day Reconquista. The Knights Templar ride flying robots. And everyone, everywhere, craves tellurium, a rare metal from the Altai Mountains that, when hammered into a shaved cranium, promises "a feeling of time's disappearance." (Or, if done wrong, death.) Sorokin offers no overarching plot—this is, after all, a dystopia defined by incoherence—but rather a sketchbook of fever dreams, variously satirical and sardonic, playful and absurd. We meet partisans, crusaders, and addicts. Tourists visit a new USSR reduced to kitsch and Stalin-worship. Readers familiar with Sorokin may find his penchant for obscenity somewhat reduced, compared to his earlier works. (There is slightly less eating of feces.) But the author's avante-garde virtuosity is undiminished, and his sociopolitical critique remains as sharp as a nail. Copyright 2022 Booklist Reviews.

Sorokin (Day of the Oprichnik) unfurls a hypnotic and hallucinatory piece of speculative fiction in which most of Russia and Europe have been shattered into fractious, feudal principalities in the wake of an apocalyptic near-future war between Christendom and fundamentalist Islam. With advanced technology and gasoline in the hands of a powerful few, much of society has returned to hardscrabble, premodern lives. Their one escape is tellurium, a powerful narcotic delivered by hammering—often fatally—a nail of rare metals directly into the brain. It's a big concept, and Sorokin opts to convey it through many characters in 50 loosely related vignettes featuring royalty and rebels, peasants and soldiers, animal-headed "zoomorphs," diminutive and gigantic "littluns" and "biguns," and, of course, desperate tellurium addicts and the "carpenters" who administer the nails. As Sorokin puts it, the continent has been "plunged back into the blessed and enlightened Middle Ages... the world returned to human scale." The author more than makes up for a slightly diffuse structure with his breathtaking imaginative leaps and wicked humor, which he conveys in dialogue between those who desperately want the tellurium and those who have it. Again, Sorokin succeeds at dragging the reader into a dark and scary place. (July)