Byzantium Endures

Title: Byzantium Endures
Author: Michael Moorcock
Published: 1994 by Phoenix Paperbacks, originally in 1981
Genre: Historical fiction
Pages: 404


I've been looking at the last three books of the series, sitting patiently on my shelves, and thinking I should get around to reading them. Then I realised I don't really remember any details from the first one, and should really read it again. Hell, it's been four years since the first time.

Maxim Arturovitch Pyatnitski was born in Kiev, Ukraine, on 1st January 1900, and is just as much of a cock as I remembered. Even more so! A self-proclaimed genius -or the self-proclaimed genius of the century- the fatherless youth is sent by relatives first to Odessa and then to St. Petersburg to learn about life and to get a degree, so that he could work for the family, but history gets in the way.

An excellent example of the unreliable narrator, Pyat tells the story of his cocaine-fuelled life in a changing world, where he is always just about to become a famous inventor. Parts of the book are pure rantings about how he was wronged, how the Jews are to blame for all -he's horribly anti-semitic, too, what a charming fellow!- and how he oh so smartly handles every situation. But his story is a captivating one, as are the times he's living in. I better get to The Laughter of Carthage before I forget too much.


   He made a gesture towards the suburbs and beyond. 'Those poor bastards out there have nothing. They don't believe in governments - nationalist, Tsarist, Bolshevik, Polish, French. They believe in freedom and owning a plot of land.'
   'To nurture their own gardens,' I said.
   'If you like.'
   'Voltaire,' I explained.
   'I know.' He was amused. 'That's why they put me with you. I'm the intellectual of the division.' He began to laugh, 'I did a year at technical college before I was conscripted.'
   'You were at the Front?'
   'Galicia.'
   'You'll fight the Bolsheviks when they attack?'
   'You're crazy,' he said. He patted my tube. 'This will fight the Bolsheviks, comrade professor. I'll be running like fuck for the nearest train.'
   I laughed with him. We were of an identical mind.