Ratings5
Average rating3.8
On 2 March 1908, nineteen-year-old Lazarus Averbuch, a Russian Jewish immigrant to Chicago, tried to deliver a letter to the home of the city’s Chief of Police, George Shippy. Instead of taking the letter, Shippy shot Averbuch twice, killing him. Lazarus Averbuch, Shippy claimed, was an anarchist assassin and an agent of foreign operatives who wanted to bring the United States to its knees. His sister, Olga, was left alone and bereft in a city – and country – seething with political and ethnic tensions. In the twenty-first century, Brik, a young Bosnian writer in Chicago, becomes obsessed with finding out the truth of what happened to Lazarus. And so Brik and his friend Rora, a charming and unreliable photographer, set off on a journey back to Lazarus Averbuch’s birthplace, through a history of pogroms and poverty and a present of gangsters and prostitutes. ‘Masterful . . . troubling, funny and redemptive . . . ingenious . . . Hemon is as much a writer of the senses as of the intellect. He can be very funny: the novel is full of jokes and linguistic riffs that justify comparisons to Nabokov' Washington Post 'The fearless and spirited expression of a turbulent literary talent . . . For all Hemon's nods to other writers -- one catches glimpses not only of Nabokov and Sebald but of Bulgakov, Pamuk, Amis, Poe -- he is entirely his own man, an original who owes no debts to anyone' Patrick McGrath, Book Forum ‘Profoundly moving . . . A literary page-turner that combines narrative momentum with meditations on identity and mortality’ Kirkus
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Take one of the most interesting periods in U.S. history. Throw in the facts from a heinous, racially charged hate crime and its cover up by Chicago authorities. Put these in a book by one of today's most entertaining, linguistically gifted authors. The result should be a powerful and interesting tale. Unfortunately, it's not.
Hemon's usually rich language feels commonplace in this book. The story is slow and doesn't tie together in a way I found to be worthwhile. Throughout the novel, I felt like Hemon was trying his hand at something huge, something brilliant, but it never comes together. The three worlds of The Lazarus Project–the historical, the semi-autobiographical present, and the photographic–all are moving in a whirlwind of passion, but to what aim? How do they relate in a life changing way? Unfortunately, for me they did not.
I imagine this may have been a very personal project for Hemon; perhaps it was meaningful to him and the novel's purpose was fulfilled. I'm glad for him if this is the case. As a reader, however, I was really disappointed with The Lazarus Project–and to think, it had so much potential.
Nevertheless, I look forward to my next meeting with Aleksandar Hemon. I have no doubts it will be a delight.
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