The Many Lives and Countless Deaths of Daniil Ivanovich

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Writers are often told to "write what they know," but what does it mean, to know? We know our own imaginations, our own obsessions, and whatever heritage we choose.

For example, Jason E. Rolfe knows the heroes of the Russian avant-garde, although he has never met them; he knows the moods and complexities of their iconic city, Saint Petersburg, although he has never been there; he knows and loves the heritage of Absurdist literature that informs his work.

All that he knows comes together in his latest collection from Black Scat Books, THE MANY LIVES AND COUNTLESS DEATHS OF DANIIL IVANOVICH. Whether you find this book maddening or hilarious will depend on your sensibilities, but it made me guffaw like a sick-hearted hyena.

If we recognize absurdity and pointlessness in life, we can greet it with anger, sadness, compassion, or laughter. Rolfe has chosen to laugh:

"'Perfect nonsense goes on in the world,' the nose of the statue of Nicholas I formerly disguised as the nose of the statue of Nikolai Gogol whispered, as if reading Daniil’s thoughts. 'Sometimes there is no plausibility at all....'

"The five characters stood around for several minutes, silently studying their surroundings. It seemed as though each one expected something further, but when nothing else happened they shrugged and walked off, each in their own direction until only Daniil remained -- Daniil and the statue of Gogol. After several additional moments in which nothing significant occurred, Gogol’s statue stood, stretched, and walked away."

What makes life absurd? Politics.

"'Gogol was a pre-revolutionary writer,' the First Policeman said. 'He wrote political satire that was counter to the pre-revolutionary Czarist government and therefore revolutionary in its nature.'

"'Is it not still revolutionary in its nature regardless the fact that the government upon which it shines its satirical light is a post-Czarist, post-revolutionary, post-Soviet one?' Daniil asked.

"'Of course not,' the First Policeman replied, 'If Gogol truly were a post-Czarist, post-revolutionary, post-Soviet writer that would make him a neo-Czarist writer imbibed with neo-post-revolutionary ideas and would therefore be allowed under the current administration.'

"'But what if Gogol’s neo-Czarist, neo-post-revolutionary ideas were misinterpreted by a pre-post-Czarist sympathizer?' Daniil asked.

"'Don’t be absurd,' the First Policeman snapped. 'There is no such thing as pre-post-Czarism, it’s a myth, a hoax, a bad rumour started by post-revolutionary, pre-Stalinist neo-Bolsheviks looking to stir up trouble.'"

Also, business.

"Daniil’s primary role with The Company involved the writing, filing, and shredding of reports. He was greeted each and every morning by the same list of forty-two required reports. He spent the first three hours of his day writing them, the next three filing them. Between the fourth and fifth hours he took a brief lunch and, as discussed in another story, stared out the office window while his mind wandered along Nevsky Prospekt. When his mind returned from its brief jaunts, Daniil attended the Old Man’s meeting. The reports were never discussed. The Old Man preached the need for a passionate, enthusiastic workforce willing to surrender its life to The Company and its glorious ideals. He said these things in such a way that each and every employee understood them as unquestionable commands rather than encouraging prosaicisms. After the meeting, Daniil finished filing the forty-two reports, and then spent the final three hours of his day shredding them (for reasons known only to the Old Man)."

Also, bureaucracy.

"Daniil Ivanovich Yuvachev first learned of his death while at work. He had spent the first three hours of his day writing forty-three reports -- the same forty-three reports he wrote every day -- and the next three hours filing them.Between the fourth and fifth hours he paused for a brief lunch. It was during this pause that Daniil read the memo announcing his death. There were no details, merely a sentence stating that Daniil Ivanovich Yuvachev had died, and that no replacement would be necessary as the reports he wrote, filed and shredded on a daily basis were superfluous.

"Needless to say, he was stunned by the news. He felt more alive than dead. Surely there had been some mistake! While he sat contemplating his unexpected demise, his friend and fellow writer Alexander Ivanovich entered the small corner office. He carried with him a box of personal belongings, which he promptly began setting up on Daniil’s desk. In order to make room for the various photographs and knickknacks, Alexander had to push Daniil’s photographs and knickknacks aside. Once the box was empty, he filled it with Daniil’s belongings and carried it from the room. Daniil watched him leave in stunned silence.

"Several minutes later Yury Nikolaevich walked into the office carrying a box of his own photographs and knickknacks. When he saw Alexander’s photographs and knickknacks on the desk, he sighed and said, 'He beat me to it.'"

Also, death.

"Daniil Ivanovich Yuvachev stepped into the street and was instantly struck and killed by a trolleybus. He immediately regretted not looking to his left before crossing the street. Fortunately for Daniil, the trolleybus hit him so hard it actually knocked him back in time fifteen seconds. His foresight thus enhanced by time-displaced hindsight, Daniil looked left before stepping back into the street, saw the oncoming trolleybus and waited for it to pass before crossing. Unfortunately for Daniil, he neglected to look to the right and was promptly struck by a swiftly moving cube van before reaching the safety of the far curb. It can only be described as remarkable that the cube van hit him hard enough to send him back in time twenty seconds. Armed with the knowledge that he ought to look both left and right before crossing the street, Daniil managed to reach the far side of Nevsky Prospekt with his life intact. He is, however, a man both blessed and cursed with good and bad luck in equal measure, for as he stood on the sidewalk feeling quite pleased with himself, a piano fell from above and struck him on the head. Needless to say, he died almost instantly. To his continued surprise, the piano hit him so hard it knocked him back in time almost thirty seconds...."

Whether you find this funny or frustrating, I would recommend a few sips of this book from day to day. Taken all at once, it can induce mental chaos, but taken one story at a time, it can promise wide smiles. Jason E. Rolfe might be the most specialized of specialist writers, but he deserves a wide, non-specialized readership.