(The short story “The Autopsy” by Lyudmila Ulitskaya appeared in the August 28th, 2023 issue of The New Yorker.)
(You know there are SPOILERS, right?)
Photograph by Tereza Zelenková for The New Yorker
First of all, I do want to give credit and say thank you to the Fiction Editor at The New Yorker, for exposing me to another Russian author. (I haven’t read this much Russian literature since I was a freshman theatre major.) In the writers of late, I have found this very interesting dynamic in their storytelling, where they take a pragmatic and a fantasifull world, and then combine them in a seamless fold of a believable surrealism.
“The Autopsy” by Lyudmila Ulitskaya continues this form. It is a simple story that moves between a coroner, a mother, and her son. The storytelling is impressive, and with a few lines, I was pulled into this piece. The economy of words, simple yet pushing the story forward, lulls the reader into the throws of this very pragmatic world, first starting with a coroner. Then the story shifts to a mother who is looking for her missing son. Again, the beautiful simple language tells us of her wrenching, difficult life story, and the heartbreaking love she has for her son. Then the story shifts to the son’s perspective, and again we are betwixt by the magic of these words, though the language stays in it’s realistic form, we now move into an ethereal realm. All leading to the final section, and a completion of this story that leaves us feeling that this journey has fulfilled its purpose.
I loved this story. I loved how it ran me through these lives, how they were connected to each other, and how strong and painful love and loving someone can be. There was a tragedy to this love, but also a dignity to loving someone so much. I appreciated that Ulitskaya swung for the fences on this, and made these two realms fit together. But most of all, I loved they style in which this story was presented; never going down a rabbit hole of flourishes or needless details. It got the job done in an effective use of language (And I know this was a translation) that never felt like a word was wasted.
Matthew Groff 