2 Essays for Essa

14. The Story of a Title

So, AST wanted a translation of Chuck's book, and AST got it because they knew which school to approach. However, the choice wasn't exactly great. The publishing industry has long been tied to a conveyor belt process, not only visible but also indirect. AST was literally destined to turn to this particular teaching staff. Long-established and well-oiled connections—work, gender, family—forced them to take this step in order to uphold being nice with the right people from everywhere—from both the sidelines, the gallery, and from above—it does not matter, just to sit out your retirement in a familiar cozy office.

Thus, whoever shapes the school’s policy, yet the translation of the book title became a joint effort by the entire system, aimed at continuing to maintain the population's ranking as the '#1 country in the world by the number of readers'. This is the urgent task of the Accounts Chamber and other services that keep watch and monitor the standard, including the Kotlonadzor. (Yes, sometimes you have to use incinerators for a thing or two, which is, of course, for the common good of everyone, including the blue jays.)

For better or worse, they translated it as 'На затравку'. On the one hand, it's not bad—the indication in the title that our civilization has already reached the firearms level sends forth a promise and inspires. And let all the dictionaries say 'Consider this' means not quite that: what do we care? We've already gotten used to going our own way…

The term 'затравкa' came into common usage in the 16th century after the appearance of matchlock pishchals in Muscovite Rus, also known as arquebuses in European arsenals. To fire such a weapon, a narrow trail of gunpowder ('fire potion') was poured onto the lock pan of a loaded arquebus from a powder flask (the horn of a large animal with the tip sawed off, to let the powder pour through the resulting hole). The gunpowder on the pan was ignited by a burning fuse, and through the touchhole (the orifice connecting pan and barrel), the flame passed into the barrel filled with the propellant charge and bullet—bam!

So this trail of powder along the shelf, like two peas in a pod, resembles the white streak of cocaine that the 'bad guys' snort in every other action movie (and sometimes the good guys too, you never know). Some more sophisticated stuff than good old weed… Yeah… I'd love to visit the teachers' lounge at Bakanov's school, to kick around, or maybe even discuss a thing or two…

15. What Chuck filled the primer with

However, Chuck had nothing to do with it. He couldn't even imagine who would get his manual—intended for those who dream of being loved by all, because all we need is love. Swap $5.9 for millions in honorary paychecks. Become so famous that even poodles recognize you on the sidewalk, together with the tied to leash’s other end, who fancy themselves breeders.

And all because these dreamy walkers took the trouble to learn to write in elementary school.

Overall, this is a book of wise advice, revealing the secrets of making your works sell. The author generously spills his pearls of wisdom gleaned along the path to success, including from bookseller Bob:

- Fewer commas in the text;

- The shorter the sentences, the better;

- Churn out at least one book a year—it’s the must, no matter what.

The final piece of advice in this trinity is priceless; may Bob the Bookseller rest in peace.

And Chuck, from his armchair by the fireplace, continues to purr in this, his thirtieth book (It’s just my guess here, extrapolating from the author's lengthy career):

'Consider this, sunny… I tell you, son…’

There was no "son" in the book's title, but throughout the text—nine chapters with a preface—sons literally roam in packs, and Chuck, a seasoned expert in this kind of crap, preaches to countless flocks of sons from the heights of wisdom instilled in him by Bob the Bookseller and others. Basically, the author comfortably launches an assembly line for the production of a cloned Chuck.

"Short – Two commas per page – A book a year – Got it, son?"

Between you and me, the angler cast a cool hook from his armchair by the fireplace:

Come here, son, I'll teach you how to become great, like…

(here follows a list of undisputed American classics. I glanced at it and saw what a mossy dinosaur I am: not a single familiar name—neither Faulkner, nor Steinbeck, nor Salinger, nor Pynchon, nor Carver, nor Pearson, nor even Wallace!)

Although, of course, who is without flaws? Even the great Palahniuk himself isn't familiar with Chekhov. He knows about the "shotgun", which is bound to go off in the fifth act of the play if it was hanging on the wall in the first. He knows for sure; someone told him at some seminar that somewhere, someone touched on the topic of the "shotgun".

Uncle Chuck is a good sport, coaching his sons so they don't forget to fire off a pishchal at the end.

But his main hobby is talking about his book presentations, where he signs books for those who buy them. Before that, he gets everyone started by giving a speech on stage, reading excerpts from his indisputably

great successes—the story "Guts" for one, with detailed instructions on proper way of masturbation. Preferably in a pool, so it's wet. And, as a little trick, one might shove up their rear an ear of corn the size of… well, although size is a matter of taste, you can't control your heart.

Uncle Chuck loves it when, during his readings, some young masturbator faints midst the tense silence of the audience. Out of amazement, probably: "How did he know? I never told anyone!"

The mentor marks such incidents with a star on the fuselage of his King Cobra fighter, also known as the Bell P-63 (73% of the aircraft of this brand produced during WWII were given to Soviet aces under Lend-Lease). A photo of the plane hangs to the right of the fireplace in a thin frame…

"And in my novel Pygmy, I used even such a trick…" the good-natured celebrity persists…

16. What I was missing

Uncle Chuck, you're great, and your Consider This is a trove of cleverness, but it suddenly dawned on me why so few people quote your Fight Club.

The answer is that the book is made up of actions—jump, run, clutch, munch—and instructions on how to do this or that. Hollywood has quoted the actions through popular actors, but few are inclined to quote instructions. Especially the explanations on how to urinate, cum, blow one’s nose, and slip feces into restaurant customers' food because they're rich, prosperous, and cheerful.

So take that, you bastards!

But, Chuck! They're still people! It's not their fault you're striving for fame. Why should they read or quote such things? I sympathize with you, partner. Not everyone can handle 40 years of doing a sewer pipe job.

To meet the aspirations of Russian readers, AST Publishing House in the blink of an eye connected consumers to a well-established system, ahead of schedule (no doubt, they sold out all 10,000 copies to those hypnotized by the author's name and their own cherished dream of becoming a writer, with fame and fortune just a stone's throw away).

286 pages, hardcover, about a dozen pictures (suggested by the author for use in tattoo parlors, depicting skulls and other undisguisedly winged pieces of secondary nature).

I only got to page 192 before it dawned on me: why the hell do I ever need this smart-aleck Chuck? Yeah, us seven-month-olds are like that—it takes us a while to get going, but we're resolute.

And again, I'll say it again—the book is useful, the instructor is experienced. If I wanted to make a birdhouse out of plywood, I couldn't ask for a better instructor. Chuck teaches the basics of bestselling fiction, which would keep up with Hollywood action movie production standards. Everything there has long been calculated down to the split-second: what follows what and for how long.

The buildup lasts 17 and a quarter seconds, and then—bang! Phew! Now you can fart and dive into the popcorn. Otherwise, the viewer has no idea what the hell he's doing here.

And with Consider This, Chuck is working hard to bridge the gap between cinema and literature. It's long overdue to synchronize their standardization and standardize the synchronicity of their impact on the masses. But the problem isn't even that I don't want to. I just don't have the ability to calculate or decide anything.

I don't write; things are written through me.

I've had to somehow get used to this method and write novels, or anything else up to this here criticism (although this is the first time I've ever raised a pen against a citizen of a foreign power. For some reason, this jerk has riled up my usually tranquil and tolerant self).

When starting this work, I contemplated for quite a time if I should use the appellation ‘dude’ for Chuck. ‘Fraier’ seemed more to the point.

(For the under-educated or half-baked in the criminal jargon of the last century, I'll clarify once again that the term had a rather neutral, peaceful connotation, originating from the German "Freier"—that is, a groom, someone who takes care of their sprucey appearance… After prolonged negotiations with AI, regrettably, I rejected the idea: half a century later, some scoundrels and nincompoops injected another meaning into the word. Thrice alas!)

Palahniuk's proposed approach and his tricks don't appeal to me due to my innate laziness. We (my laziness and me) didn't sign up for plotting out a plot or shuffling characters. And anyway, I have nothing to tell the honest public. It's a shame Chuck is too far away to hear me when I say:

"Son, imagine, starting the novel The Algorithm of Chaos, all I had was a cell phone ringing. And beside it – a complete pitch-black obscurity: Who's calling? Who's called? The answers began to come in while eavesdropping on their conversation. Then those "who" started arguing among themselves, spinning their own story. All that remained for me was recording the talk and following their further moves… Consider this, sunny, maybe your next bestseller will come from a blackbird's springtime song…"

Sometimes it's a little annoying, and sometimes I laugh like crazy. That's how we live. I don't hold it against Palahniuk: he's got great experience, but he's not my cup of tea. I don't need that. If only someone could explain how to convey in words the shimmering colors of oleander flowers, the scent of acacia, the sweetness of her touch to my age-sagged skin. How? Papa Chuck didn't give me an answer, and it's unlikely anyone could…

17. Creative Plans

This seems to be the end of the story, but I'm a good man, I don't forget my promises, and I'm smoothly transitioning to my plan for paying off my debts.

I don't play the lottery or roulette, and I can't get a job anywhere. They say, "Come back 30 years ago." Where will I get the money? I had to make up a very clear plan because right now a revelation has astounded me: I’m not a seven-month-old. Supposedly, it’s a polite way to tell a person they were born two months ahead of schedule. What’s the use of long-winded plans for the Hasty Pantser?

Over the years of luxuriating in the delights of writing, I've accumulated over 20, maybe even up to 30, books. In all sorts of genres: novels, stories, essays, criticism, journalism, translations, plays—I've written anything except for poetry and denunciations. Of course, I can't compete with Palahniuk in terms of quantity. In my defense, I'll just say:

Sorry, my friend, but I'm not only a genius, but also a family man, unlike some idiots.

Now about the plan.

Until now, everything was going perfectly: I wrote it and published it on a couple of platforms for free download. Because I'm not greedy, and after laughing my ass off, I give people the opportunity to catch a moment or two (as much as they can handle) of free pleasure. But no! From now on (not of my own will), everything will be different!

Business Plan A:

Set a moderate but still reasonable fee for downloading my works. So what? A cool plan, no? Although it's a bit unmanly. For years I've been groaning at the monetizing muzzufookers, and now I'm, like: gimme a couple of alms!

Ah! Doesn’t matter! I'll sort it out so that even my grandfather Joseph, who was repressed by the NKVD and later escaped execution by the occupiers, will be proud of me! Everything that's freely available for download will remain free. But! Each creation is to be rewritten into a new version. Fundamentally.

Ha! Self-versification! And the final result will go toward paying off the debt. And most importantly, oh, the laughs my PC and I will have in the process!

(Just hold on, old man, and with the extra money I'll buy you a new hard drive. I swear on my mother!)

And then, when everything stabilizes, I'll write another novel. Most likely a fantasy. The title will be From Sorria, with Love. Sorria is Narnia's closest neighbor from the same closet. It will be a fantasy without a single secondary nature piece in the entire text. Can you imagine, sonny?

Ah, I forgot that our time zones don't match. So, sleep tight, Chucky-boy, sleep…

The Teaser:

From Sorria, with Love

I've already started whittling the characters out, on the sly, yeah.

The buffoon Pavlik, for example. He's so bouncy, the darling of the whole county. His nickname is "Chpoki-chpok". He'll then write a rap, "Help Pavlik collect a million with your pennies in his mug!" and start giving tours of the Ring's monasteries, keeping that mug in his outstretched hand for donations. But really, it's all about the clown, who’s merely the springboard to fuse up the show, because Pavlik Poluvolya isn't the leading character at all. It's just that when he gets drunk, he dreams of a career as a False Usurper. Because Usurper 1st has landed on the throne before him, and seated his behind there conveniently.

Sorria's political system is a semi-hereditary mandarinate. The country's population believes the current Father Mandarin is kind, but the courtier papillote-curlers he wears while pondering his thoughts prevent him from displaying this kindness.

There will also be a hero. He'll be healthy, but dumb, like all musclemen. Knight Krasavin. As soon as his shoulder begins to itch, he’ll raise an army, recruiting grapefruits from the perimeters, as well as marginalized vagabonds discontent with the infringement of their vagrancy rights.

To the drums of the march in The Nutcracker and the aria from the opera "Chow, chow, Sanya!", the host moves toward the capital city, Ponaekhuya—popularly known as "Dollar-Headed Ponaekhuya".

Krasavin has Plan G in mind (like every muscleman, he has a plan for every letter so that no one will guess what suit he will play out); he intends to clean out those damn papillote-curlers. However, near Ravenyzh city, he'll receive a dispatch that the usurper's cockroaches have captured his beautiful wife. He'll call it quits and turn the host around. Acting like a gentleman, all right. And he'll voluntarily go to the scaffold in the sky to make the whole fantasy more vivid. A flying dragon tore Krasavin apart, but then…

So, we do have plans. We seven-month-olds have tons of plots and more, you know.

29-11-2025

Essay No. 2

Unknown Nietzsche

The Historical Background (Instead of a Preface)

When my son’s family left here, my daughter-in-law didn’t take along the stash of books from her sideboard.

They left earlier, before the curtain's final fall. Even before the blockade, the blitz, and the unorganized, although planned, flight of 120 thousand Armenians—the entire population of Mountainous Karabakh.

Because of a decision made even before my son and his family left, I stayed, despite everything… In short, it worked out.

Now I am, firstly, a traitor, secondly, [extreme insults], thirdly, a viper who’d been hiding on the people’s chest for 37 years… 242ndly… and so on…

However, since 1987, I have become so integrated with Karabakh that refugee status in the ancient land of Armenia does not attract me overmuch. So I live here, midst the interregnum and the restoration of the constitutional regime. I wander around this ghost city inhabited by gangs of expensive dogs (the Armenian rich humanely removed the chains from the beasts upon their departure). Pigeons have rejected the civilized way of life and sleep in trees instead of their attic enclosures. The cats persistently try to talk to me, but I keep aloof and only talk to patrols in the foppish uniforms of the special forces (black is always in fashion, undeniably). For such cases, I carry an ausweis from the Immigration Department at the Police Department regarding my temporary registration.

It’s sad that I don’t speak Azerbaijani at all. I consider myself very lucky if among the patrol officers there is a guy from Baku; the fellows from there speak Russian. Some guys have it cleaner than mine…

This situation gave me the need to expand my social circle. Of course, as befits a lucky guy, the game came running to the hunter: among the sideboard books, a volume of unpretentious looks was discovered. Beyond Good and Evil by Friedrich Nietzsche.

Thank you, Gayane!

(My son is also a great guy, but the upkeep of the sideboard is not for men—even a soft-spoken hedgehog can understand that.)

Introduction

There is no use to act a sympathizing pundit or raise a hue and cry, swinging your pan in all directions—but mostly to the sky—against the backdrop of Fritz (a diminutive of 'Friedrich').

You are unlikely to encounter such an intense, frantic protest by a person, discriminated against due to the unbelievable depth of a European-trained mind, oftener than once in your entire bitch of a life. And then, only if you are lucky enough to open it, not limiting yourself to a wiki article or notes from a lecture by a stupid professor.

Therefore, the purpose of this here essay is to share the thrill of translating the Russian translation (a most magnificent one!) from the original German dating back to the latter half of the 19th century.

Translate a translation?

Well, yes. After all, Yu. Antonovsky translated for the 20th century, doing his best to preserve the overtones of the original in a text produced a hundred years later. I can't handle this.

Essay No. 2 is just an attempt to express in my own words this or that thought that managed to break through the layers of ignorance which are always on me—but the force of the thought was enough to get over, and it grabbed. And then the turn passes, and I am given a chance to express the grabber in a language clear to me even in the dead of night, when awakened by fire alarm sirens or… well, and so on. And I may even allow myself a comment, when it’s not scared off out of reach.

The work under scrutiny was compiled by the author into nine Sections. Each one is labeled to artistically present its scope. Within, the text of the section is further divided into numbered Chunks. Their size varies—from a couple of lines to one, two, three, or more pages.

2025-12-03

Section 1 (1 - 23): 'On the follies (in the original ‘

Prejudices

’) of philosophers'

1:1 - 1:6 (The pitiful loss because of my slip)

I admit skimming the six Chunks indicated above without really delving into them, because the book is not a well-promoted bestseller like Harry Potter, where from the opening you’re dripping saliva in anticipation of goodies guaranteed by critics of any streak.

Besides, the feel of pioneering was lacking—none of the accelerated breath, tense alertness, or rapid pulse at turning a page over to a possible discovery when leafing through Friedrich Nietzsche’s book from scratch.

All that was undercut at school and other educational institutions where they warned me explicitly: Nietzsche’s fanatical ideas served as the foundation for the ugly bloom of fascism. After many years of reading books and watching films full of the horrors for which he allegedly provided the cornerstone, you were left facing one and only plausible conclusion: you’d hardly find a viler bastard than F. Nietzsche.

Such were, and still remain, the rings of shackles put on me, you, and everybody else by compulsory school education. To train you to think the right way. For you to have the correct outlook along with the sturdy habit of thinking briefly—the shorter, the better, no time wasted: Nietzsche? Sure! I know the damn fascist!