On the unexpected pleasures and provocations of bad poetry
 
The only Russian Count of Sardinia, Dmitry Ivanovich Khvostov (1757–1835) didn’t achieve fame in his lifetime—he achieved infamy. Pathologically prolific and delusionally dedicated to a craft for which he had no talent, the count was renowned for his compulsive output, driven by a passion for poetry that was as strong as his abilities were weak. Only the country that gave the world Pushkin, however, could produce Khvostov, in whom we find a distorted yet illuminating reflection of his poetic epoch, with all its numerous cultural manifestations and hidden impulses, its desires and prejudices.
 
As he leads us on a playful journey across Russia’s Golden Age and beyond, from neoclassical salon to faculty lounge, Ilya Vinitsky reflects on the challenges and necessities of literary critique and on the unexpected rewards of bad art as a subject of study, not just ridicule. Mischievous but erudite, sensitive but never self-serious, The Graphomaniac is an intellectual biography of the anti-hero, a cultural figure whose paradoxes yield new insights into his era.

 

James McGavran’s new translation of Vladimir Maya­kovsky’s poetry is the first to fully capture the Futurist and Soviet agitprop artist’s voice. Because of his work as a propagandist for the Soviet regime, and because of his posthumous enshrinement by Stalin as “the best and most talented poet of our Soviet epoch,” Mayakovsky has most often been interpreted—and translated—within a political context. McGavran’s translations reveal a more nuanced poet who possessed a passion for word creation and lin­guistic manipulation. Mayakovsky’s bombastic metaphors and formal élan shine through in these translations, and McGavran’s commentary provides vital information on Mayakovsky, illuminating the poet’s many references to the Russian literary canon, his contemporaries in art and culture, and Soviet figures and policies.