The Review of Contemporary Fiction
The Life of Insects by Victor PelevinChristopher Paddock
Victor Pelevin. The Life of Insects. Trans. Andrew Bromfield. Farrar, Straus & Giroux, 1998. 179 pp. $22.00.
Life of Insects makes a case for Victor Pelevin as a major literary talent in his native Russia and throughout the world. If Oman Ra showed us his promise as a writer, this book shows us just what it promised, if not more.
Insects opens as a novel of stock intrigue: three strange men (two Russian, one American) secretly meet on the balcony of a dark and decrepit resort hotel to talk business. Upon deciding to continue their talk elsewhere, all three willingly fall over the balustrade: “If there had been a witness to this scene, we must assume he would have leaned over the balustrade, expecting to see three broken bodies lying on the ground below. But . . . If he possessed preternaturally sharp vision, he might just have discerned three mosquitoes in the distance, flying away. . . .” Given this transmutation, one might be lead to believe that this book will turn out as something of a tired Kafka rip-off or a pulpy sci-fi novel. We might simply await the mad scientist and the secret formula.
No chance. If this book has a mad scientist it is Pelevin himself. With stunning virtuosity, he completely undermines the reader’s expectations, refusing to resolve the tension created by assigning insect and/or humanoid attributes to characters whenever he deems it to be convenient. In one particularly brilliant and bizarre scene, Sam, one of the aforementioned mosquitoes, notices a fly in his food while dining with his companions. He gently picks her up and places her on an empty chair, admiring her hairy eyes, her glittery, “firm green skin.” A flirtation ensues: they drink wine, she freshens up with some makeup, then the two leave in a cab where Sam shows off by sucking blood from the driver through the front seat. Later, tragedy strikes when Natasha swats one of Sam’s friends who had landed on her leg during lovemaking on the beach. Pelevin further decenters the identity of this dazzling novel by placing in its middle a seemingly unrelated, hilarious story of two pot fiends. The many layers of paranoia in this piece absolutely rival what’s found in Poe’s best short stories.
Insects is something of a postmodern Animal Farm, playing on our realistic sensibilities through anthropomorphic parody, but also through intra/intertextual and metafictional references, mirrors, and simulacrums. But ultimately, it is Pelevin’s utter repose that makes this book so impressive. Clearly, he has the utmost respect for the intelligence of his readership. We should keep a close eye on this brilliant young writer. [Christopher Paddock]