The New York Times

October 1, 2006
ESSAY
Ten Days With Oblomov: A
Journey in My Bed
.
By GARY SHTEYNGART

DAY 1: At 11 in the morning, while I am still savoring the last

moments of a fruitful sleep, a messenger brings to my
doorstep a new translation of “Oblomov,” the famous 19th-
century slacker novel by Ivan Goncharov, whose eponymous
hero, a member of Russia’s lazy landed gentry, spends most
of his time luxuriating in bed. “Looks like I came at the
wrong time,” the courier says with a wink, mistaking my
usual dishabille for interrupted coitus. I return to my bed
and gaze unhappily at the thick tome in my hands. Right
away I’m feeling sleepy.

DAY 2: “I asked for mayo on the side,” I scream at the

woman who takes my phone orders from the local diner. “I
have cholesterol issues. You want me to die.” The half-eaten
turkey sandwich rolls off the bed, leaving me with my trusty,
sweet-smelling comforter and the very thick volume of
“Oblomov,” the famous 19th-century Russian slacker novel
by Ivan Goncharov, newly translated by Stephen Pearl and
published by Bunim & Bannigan. I leaf through it while
looking at the ceiling. That reminds me, the light bulb in the
bedroom needs to be changed. Maybe tomorrow. “Oblomov”
consists of 443 pages of small type plus another xxiii pages
taken up by the foreword and introduction. I sit up and cross
myself several times. How in the name of Anton Pavlovich
Chekhov did I get myself into this mess?

DAY 3: Overslept. One p.m. But not to worry. Today the

earth will shake! Today I will tackle “Oblomov,” the famous
19th-century Russian slacker novel written by Ivan
Goncharov. And then I will write the most insightful essay
ever written on the subject — a short, funny, but oddly
moving meditation (“This short and funny meditation oddly
moved me,” important people will say over breakfast) on
Russian laziness that will somehow tie in with the Internet-
addicted, short-attention. ... To the devil with this
apartment! And now the light bulb in the hallway is out as
well!

DAY 4: I’m not making any promises to myself, but today

might be the day. The day I change the light bulb. And read
“Oblomov,” the famous book by you-know-who. The delivery
boy brings a proper turkey sandwich, mayo on the side, and a
monumental cup of black coffee. I fluff up the comforter to
support my gentle behind, prop up my pillows in such a way
that they won’t leave a red imprint upon my neck, and open
the book. “There is something deeply Russian in the
character of Oblomov,” Tatyana Tolstaya writes in the book’s
foreword, something that “lies in the seductive appeal of
laziness and of good-natured idleness.”

DAY 5: What time is it? My laptop has been purring urgently,

distracting me from that famous Russian slacker novel by
Ivan Goncharov, which seems to have gotten lost somewhere
within the folds of my elephantine comforter. What’s this on
my screen? Breaking news over the A.P. wire: “Boy George
Reports for N.Y.C. Trash Duty.” The 1980’s pop legend has
been nailed on drug charges and is being forced to collect
garbage just a few blocks away from me on the Lower East
Side. “You think you’re better than me?” the octogenarian-
looking singer is shouting at members of the media. “Go
home. Let me do my community service.” I should crawl out
of bed this very instant and lend my support to Mr. George.
As a young Russian immigrant, I learned a great deal of
English by listening to his happy bisexual crooning (“Karma,
karma, karma, karma ...,” I would stutter along). If only all
that damned “Oblomov”-reading hadn’t made me so sleepy.

DAY 6: I wake up in a state of agitation and throw on my

dressing gown. There’s no time for coffee or the Internet. I
grab “Oblomov” and start to feverishly highlight all the
relevant passages. Only 400 pages to go! And when I finish
with this essay, I will screw in new light bulbs. And I will
clean the windows, which are as dirty as my soul. I will
forswear the turkey sandwich from the diner. I will buy a
house in the countryside upstate like I’ve always wanted. I
will learn how to drive. Yes, I will drive up to my little
country home in a leased Prius and there I will raise serfs
and radishes and real fresh turkeys to put between my rye
bread. My whole being is on fire! I sit up in bed and start to
breathe heavily. Then I fall asleep.

DAY 7: I dream I am urgently rowing a boat to a house that

appears to be drowning in the middle of the Gulf of Finland,
a faded mansion in the Russian rococo style. I clamber up
the waterlogged stairs, and on the top floor, recumbent upon
his divan, I find Oblomov. He looks just as the book has
described him, “flabby beyond his years,” with “small pudgy
hands, and soft shoulders.” His equally indolent servant
Zakhar is asleep on top of the stove, snoring rhythmically.

“Ilya Ilyich,” I say to Oblomov. “We must get out of this

house before we drown. The water is gaining the stairs and
soon we will be done for.”

Oblomov shrugs, but looks at me good-naturedly. “Take me

as I am and love what is good in me!” he says, per the book.

“Don’t you see, good sir!” I say. “We are blessed to live in
fascinating places in momentous times. You in 19th-century
St. Petersburg, and I in early-21st-century New York. We
should bestir from our beds and take heed of what surrounds
us. In your day there are great thinkers such as Friedrich
Nietzsche and Fyodor Dostoyevsky; in my day William
Bennett and Condoleezza Rice.”

“I hardly ever read,” Oblomov says, much as he does on Page

19 of Goncharov’s novel. “What is there for me to be curious
about? You know why they write that stuff — it’s just for self-
gratification. ...”

DAY 8: According to the Internet, Boy George is collecting

trash under the Williamsburg Bridge, less than 200 yards
away from me. Perhaps I should telephone A., who
occasionally contributes to S— Magazine, or D., who does
something or other media-related, and we can form a little
investigatory posse. I picture A. and D. and R. and T. and all
the rest of us soft-spoken, liberal-college-educated youngish
people lying in our queen-size beds, the glow of our all-
forgiving laptops lighting up our disheveled bedrooms.
Scattered about us are torn underwear, the stubs of plane
tickets issued three years ago, half-eaten turkey sandwiches,
spent light bulbs, ironic “vacuum tube” radios from the
1950’s, and books. Not the books that used to sustain us
when we first fell in love with words but piles of freshly
minted ones that demand to be read and loved and blurbed
and reviewed. Where do they all come from, these books?
Why do so many people need to jot down their imaginings in
bursts of sophisticated English? Why all these new
translations of long-forgotten texts? Why can’t I finish this
essay, put on some real clothes and walk out into the
summer sunlight where Boy George and the rest of our
civilization await me?

DAY 9: Maybe if I clean the windows there will be a great

deal of natural light and I won’t have to bother with the light
bulbs. The real estate broker had told me the windows in my
building “pop right out for easy maintenance” but what if
they “pop right out” and kill a passing pedestrian? I fall into
a deep melancholic trance. The diner completely screwed up
the order. The turkey sandwich turned out to be ham. The
mayo is hardly on the side. Oblomov has lost the love of his
life, Olga, to his best friend, the industrious half-German
Stoltz. Rapscallions have taken advantage of his good nature
and robbed him of his last kopeck. He has died in his own
bed of a stroke.

DAY 10: “What is it that’s doomed you?” Olga asks her

beloved Oblomov before she leaves him for good.
“Oblomovshchina,” he tells her — the state of being
Oblomov, a term that in Russia may as well connote the state
of the entire country. Some, like Tatyana Tolstaya, believe
Oblomov’s immobility is rooted in the influence of Eastern
philosophy upon Russia and proclaims him “one of nature’s
Buddhists.” Others point the finger at Oblomov’s
overprotective mother, or at a quiet, indolent, utterly
thought-free childhood spent at a Russian country estate. My
analyst claims his passivity is most likely rooted in
depression. Who knows? One thing is certain. All this
thinking takes up precious time, and the late summer sun is
no longer trying to break into my bedroom and grab me by
the collar. The alarm clock glows deep red in the dark.
Midnight. As the members of Oblomov’s household would
say: “Well, that’s another day over, praise God!”

Gary Shteyngart’s most recent novel is “Absurdistan.”