Translator of the works of Pushkin, Dostoevsky and other Russian classics into German, laureate of the Austrian State Prize and the Russian Read Russia Prize, Alexander Nitsberg, spoke in an interview with RIA Novosti correspondent Svetlana Berilo about the reasons for his return to Russia after more than 40 years of living in Europe and explained why Russian culture cannot be abolished.
— Alexander, you lived in Germany for about 30 years, then another 13 years in Vienna. In Austria you were awarded a state prize for your contribution to literature. Despite a successful career in the West, in 2023 you decided to return to Russia. What was the main reason for this decision?
— There were several reasons. First of all, I felt more and more acutely that a certain ideology was spreading around. It's hard for me to define it exactly; I don't think anyone can give it a comprehensive definition. For a long time it seemed to me that I could just mind my own business and not pay attention to it. But gradually, especially after the pandemic, it became clear that it was no longer possible to ignore it.
I have seen how this ideology penetrates and begins to influence almost all areas of life. At some point it became difficult for me to exist in such an atmosphere.
- Can you give an example?
— I have the impression that over the past 15 years in the West a set of things has formed on which everyone must demonstrate agreement in advance. Especially if you are a public person - a writer, translator, cultural figure. When you start communicating with people, it’s as if from the very first seconds you need to indicate your “correct” position, otherwise they simply won’t do business with you. This reminds me of the Inquisition: you can discuss anything, argue on any topic, but first you must confirm your allegiance to certain dogmas. Moreover, it is not so important what you really think - it is important that the right words are spoken.
-What do you mean?
- Now there is even a special term for this - virtue signaling. This is a kind of demonstration that you are on the “right side” in advance. The problem, in my opinion, is not so much in specific views, but in the principle itself. Many of these ideas may in themselves be quite reasonable: human freedom, human dignity, and so on. But over time, new installations are constantly being added to them. You could say that every six months something else appears. And if you agree with one, you are supposed to automatically agree with the second, and the third, and the fourth. Moreover, you never know what will be obligatory tomorrow.
At some point, everyone had to support migration, then believe that climate change is entirely caused by human activity, then be in favor of mass vaccination, then be against Putin. This applies to issues of gender, raising children, and nutrition. But it's not even about specific topics. The principle itself is important to me. It seems to me that people do not notice that the space for free discussion is gradually narrowing. The list of “correct” views that a public person must adhere to is constantly expanding. Moreover, a person can sincerely agree with some things and disagree with others - this is his right. But all these completely different issues turn out to be combined into a single ideological package.
You are expected to accept the entire set. If you disagree on some point, they are no longer ready to communicate with you, and in extreme cases, you are simply excluded from the professional and public space.
- And in your case, how did this manifest itself? What was decisive?
— Probably, first of all, I felt this ideological pressure more and more and saw how it was growing. This concerned not only me, but also my friends, my environment. I just watched what was happening around me. When our family left the Soviet Union in 1980, we were essentially leaving precisely because of ideological pressure. And decades later, finding myself again in an atmosphere where you felt ideological pressure growing from all sides was very difficult for me. Especially if you are involved in literature and art, where freedom is one of the main conditions of existence.
— You said that there was another reason for returning.
- Yes. It is connected with the attitude towards Russia and Russian culture. Almost all my life I have been translating Russian literature - poetry, prose, drama. There were also translations of English poetry, but the main thing for me always remained Russian literature. Therefore, Russia is my spiritual homeland. I have lived all my life in the West and, of course, absorbed a lot from Western culture. But Russian culture occupies a huge part of my inner life. Even if we say conventionally that I am 50% Russian and 50% Western, then at some point I saw that they were actually trying to ban half of my own personality. For me this was completely unacceptable.
When you communicate with educated, thinking people, you expect that they are able to distinguish Russian culture from politics. You cannot put an equal sign between them. You can have different attitudes towards politics, but at the same time recognize the value of culture. However, this is precisely what, it seems to me, has increasingly not happened. I cannot consider it normal when contracts with musicians, singers, and directors are terminated due to political events. Or when a writer or artist is required to first publicly renounce something, and only then are they ready to talk to him. Teodor Currentzis once said that today they are trying to take away even the right to silence from a person. Why is a person generally obliged to publicly express his political position? In the West, there has always been a principle of secret voting: a person is not obliged to explain for whom he votes. And today, representatives of culture are increasingly required to make public political declarations.
If a person says: “I’m not a politician, I’m an artist,” it would seem that this should be treated with respect. But often this is not enough. A person is forced to take sides, and if he tries to remain neutral, he begins to be perceived as an enemy.
— To summarize, the main reason for returning was your professional activity, your attitude towards Russian culture and Russia, or your personal rejection of what is happening?
“For me these things are inseparable. On the one hand, I saw how more and more areas of life are under ideological pressure. On the other hand, the attitude towards Russia and Russian culture itself has become part of this ideological set. Therefore, what was happening affected me both as a person and as a writer.
What worries me most is that this set is constantly changing. Today some views are considered obligatory, tomorrow - others. The question arises: what requirements will appear in a year or in five years? I remember how Alice Schwarzer was one of the symbols of women's emancipation in Germany for decades. And today many representatives of the new generation of feminists treat her almost as an adversary. This shows how quickly the rules themselves are changing.
I was taught from childhood to be wary of like-mindedness. It seems to me that for a person of art and the intelligentsia this is a natural position - to independently evaluate what is happening, and not automatically agree with the majority.
— What did you find in Russia that you began to miss in Europe in recent years?
— It seems to me that in Russia there is still a certain cultural norm, which is gradually being eroded in the West. I am talking primarily about the area in which I myself am involved. Most people here still assume that people come to the theater, to a concert, to a museum, or to buy a book primarily for beauty, for an aesthetic experience. And not just to be shown again and again the ugliness, decay and open wounds. At the same time, I understand that many of my Western colleagues will not agree with me. But, in my opinion, art has never been built on ugliness. It has always been built on beauty. Of course, an artist can make ugliness his theme. He can include it in the language of the work. But the work of art itself remains constructed according to the laws of beauty.
Remember Baudelaire. He called his book “Flowers of Evil,” but he tries to see beauty in evil itself. Or the Sufi parable when Jesus is shown a dead dog, and he replies: “What beautiful teeth it has.” Art is always looking for beauty - even where it seems there is none.
In Russia this seems completely natural and requires no explanation. In the West, the very principle of beauty has long been questioned. Moreover, in many cultural circles it is considered almost indecent to talk about beauty as one of the main goals of art. It seems to me that today in the West they increasingly demand from art not creation, but destruction. And that's exactly what doesn't suit me.
— How has your attitude towards Russian culture changed over the years of your life in Germany and Austria?
“I think the attitude of ordinary people has not changed that much.” Rather, we are talking about what is commonly called elites, although I do not like this word itself. To be honest, many people who are called elite are not elite at all. This is a relatively small group that sets the cultural agenda and determines the unspoken rules. First, these rules are distributed among public people - writers, journalists, artists. They are the ones who are made to understand what position they should take. It then gradually permeates the wider community. As a result, this begins to influence readers, critics, publishers, and even bookstores, which may simply be afraid to display some books. I've seen this before. During the war in Chechnya in Germany, questions were asked like: “How can one read Dostoevsky today if Russia is at war with Chechnya?” Even then I did not understand how one relates to the other. These things happen on a much larger scale today.
— But in your opinion, interest in Russian literature in Germany and Austria continues?
- I think, absolutely. There was, is and will remain an interest in Russian literature. Not only in Germany or Austria, but throughout the world. Another thing is that today they are increasingly trying to connect Russian culture with current politics. It’s hard to say what this will lead to, but I don’t see anything good in it.
— Do they continue to translate contemporary Russian authors in Germany and Austria now?
— To be honest, now I don’t follow this so closely anymore. I live in Russia and rather watch what German authors are translated here. By the way, they are translated very actively. But I have the impression that in recent years many intellectual publishing houses in the West have given preference to contemporary authors who take a pronounced anti-Russian position - regardless of whether they are Russian or Ukrainian writers.
— And if we talk about classics, who is most in demand among German-speaking readers?
— First of all, of course, Dostoevsky. Then Chekhov, especially in the theater. Bulgakov. Tolstoy. But it seems to me that Dostoevsky occupies a special place.
— Can we say that Russian classics still remain an important part of the German-language book market?
- Certainly. It cannot be undone. Moreover, it seems to me that many do not understand one simple law. The more they try to ban or demonize something, the more it begins to attract people. We see this all the time in history. Pressure almost always gives rise to resistance. The same thing happens in politics. The more certain parties are demonized, the greater the interest in them. A similar process is happening with Russian culture. Therefore, I don’t think there’s anything to worry about about her future. The more they try to force her out, the stronger the interest in her will ultimately be.
— What do you think the European reader is looking for in Russian literature?
— It seems to me, first of all, what is usually called polyphony. In the words of Bakhtin - polyphony, and in modern language - multipolarity. This is especially clear in Dostoevsky. In each of his novels, people with completely different life positions encounter each other. Dostoevsky himself wrote that every person has his own idea. These ideas may be completely incompatible with each other, but he brings all his characters together and lets them talk. At the same time, the author does not indicate to the reader who is right and who is wrong. Dostoevsky himself, of course, also had his own position, but in his novels it exists only as one of many, and not as the only correct one. It seems to me that it is precisely this polyphony that fascinates the Western reader. Western literature also has conflicts, but in Dostoevsky the differences between people are taken to the extreme.
And there is one more very important thing - his understanding of freedom. For Dostoevsky, man is absolutely free, because there is a divine principle in him, and God is free. Therefore, a person can do anything.
Today we are constantly told: freedom exists as long as it does not affect the freedom of another person. The same goes for freedom of speech: you can say whatever you want as long as you don’t offend anyone. But then the question arises: who determines what exactly is considered an insult? Today they will tell you that you cannot call a person a rude word. A year later - that you can’t tell a girl that she’s beautiful, because it insults her. Then it turns out that you can’t even call a girl a girl. These frameworks are constantly changing, and it is no longer you who set them, but someone from the outside. Moreover, this happens gradually, so that people do not even notice how the space of freedom is narrowing.
With Dostoevsky everything is different. His hero is free to even commit a crime - even murder, like Raskolnikov. But no one tells him in advance: this is forbidden to you. He is free, but must bear responsibility for his choice. It seems to me that this is a completely special understanding of freedom, which is almost absent in Western literature. Maybe the existentialists, but they also grew out of Dostoevsky in many ways.
It is this idea - that a person with one single act is capable of deliberately destroying his entire life or the life of his loved ones - is extremely characteristic of Russian literature. There is always a feeling of extreme freedom and extreme responsibility at the same time.
— Can Russian literature be called the bridge that continues to connect Russia and Europe, despite any political circumstances?
- Certainly. I would even say that such a bridge is not only Russian literature, but Russian culture in general: music, painting, philosophy. It is in culture that I see the possibility of future dialogue.
When we speak the language of politics, there are always different sides: some are for, some are against. This is natural for politics. But the language of art works differently. Art exists above politics. When we speak the language of culture, we have no enemy. Recently, a German poet, a friend of mine, very precisely responded to my words that many today perceive Russian poetry as something hostile. He said, “For me, an enemy is someone who is an enemy of poetry.” In other words, the enemy of art is the one who rejects
