Andrei Navrozov

Andrei Navrozov, born in Moscow, lives in Palermo and is European editor for Chronicles.  The former publisher of the Yale Lit, he is a widely published author and translator.  His Italian Carousel: Scenes of Internal Exile was published by Peter Owen Publishers.

Latest by Andrei Navrozov in Chronicles

Results: 285 Articles found.
  • February 2014

    The Buffalo Harp

    Inutile asking me why this column is called that, or what a buffalo harp might be. I honestly do not know, except that it is the name of an old ironmonger’s near my house.

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  • A Certain Knack
    January 2014

    A Certain Knack

    Even at first dip, this book gives the impression of being unreadable to any but the tweediest Anglophile.

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  • December 2013

    Stairway to Heaven

    There is, or at least there used to be before the days of Nestlé in every pot and a Nissan in every garage, the idea of a stairway to Heaven. Jacob’s ladder, which the biblical patriarch famously dreamed about during the flight from his brother Esau, is a locus classicus, of course, but the idea is nearly as old as Heaven itself.

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  • A Silver Pen in His Mouth
    November 2013

    A Silver Pen in His Mouth

    Truth to tell, I find myself in a similar predicament vis-à-vis Cockburn. When I began work on this review, I want to aver, I intended it to be a very favorable portrait.

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  • October 2013

    An Aix to Grind

    Ennio Nicotra, a Sicilian friend of mine, was an aspiring conductor when he first heard of a man by the name of Ilya Musin (1903-99), then the resident guru at the Leningrad Conservatory.

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  • August 2013

    Of Rats and Men

    There are people, in all likelihood a majority, who are by nature obedient. Their lot is to play Sid Sawyer to whatever Aunt Polly comes along, whether the authority in question is a democratically elected leader or an up-to-his-elbows-in-blood dictator.

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  • The Pike
    September 2013

    The Pike

    The French wordsmith Romain Rolland, himself no slouch at being derivative as a thinker, likened his Italian contemporary Gabriele d’Annunzio to a pike, the freshwater predator famous for lying still and snapping at whatever comes.

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  • June 2013

    Time and Tide

    I should like to live in a different time. Not in the sense of being corporeally present in an earlier epoch, with all its physical plant, its local color, and a bustling mise en scène, but in that metaphysical sense, akin to tempo in music, which previous epochs never neglected to set. Our own time does no such thing. It just flows at the speed of a cataract, hurtling us toward some Stygian, tone-deaf, stone-dead sea.

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  • May 2013

    The Honest State

    In the shadow of St. Peter’s in Zurich, a beautiful church with the largest clock face in Europe, I found myself chatting with a German tourist. Curious to hear that I lived in Sicily, he asked me what I thought of Zurich. “I love it,” I said. “I feel so at home here. It’s just like Palermo.”

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  • April 2013

    Professions and Professors

    You know what you hardly see around anymore? Professions. Professors—hell, yes, one sees professors around, even in backward Italy, pinched, untidy, jealous of beauty, suspicious as cuckolds in Molière, speaking with the forked tongues of p.c. texts. But surely “professor” is a title or rank, not a profession or vocation.

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  • March 2013

    The New Cinderella

    The salient difference between Cinderella and her sisters, unfortunately for all you defenders and upholders of the Protestant work ethic out there, is not that she eats her bread in the sweat of her brow while they eat sweetmeats, try on varicolored gowns, and loaf about. The salient difference between them is that Cinderella is pretty, and they are ugly.

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  • February 2013

    A Little Education

    Wife’s away, and so, as befits children and bachelors, I sit at the breakfast table reading labels.

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  • January 2013

    A Penny for Your Chomsky

    O chom kolonka?” asked my son on the telephone. We’ve always spoken Russian to each other, he and I, even though Nikolai was born in London and never so much as visited the country of his father’s birth.

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  • December 2012

    To Call a Rose a Rose

    Political correctness is a politically correct name for hypocrisy, but I have long noted that its practitioners share one peculiar characteristic: They don’t know what to call themselves.

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  • November 2012

    All in a Stew

    I don’t want to be harsh on people, but the emotional life of our epoch reminds me of central Moscow in the old Soviet days, a time when there was everything.

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  • September 2012

    Souvenir of Florence

    Among the great city states of Italy—for city states they remain, a world unto itself every one, despite the advent of the steam locomotive and the electric carrot peeler—Florence was never my favorite.

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  • August 2012

    Under Sicilian Eyes

    The last time I was in Austria was embarrassingly long ago, but I recall one characteristic moment. We were staying in a tiny hotel that occupied the second and third floors of a handsome Viennese townhouse, and once, well past midnight, we rang the wrong bell.

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  • July 2012

    Under the Volcano

    It’s a small world, as the boat’s captain explained to me between puffs on one of the Antico Toscanos that my friends had been thoughtful enough to bring aboard, seeing I’m too poor to buy cigars, even the cheap Tuscan kind.

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  • June 2012

    Eating Cake

    In the capital city of Palermo, where I live, cash transactions of less than 1,000 euros are illegal—or at least viewed with derision by the men who matter.

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  • April 2012

    Baudelaire in Russia

    I have known since adolescence...that Edgar Allan Poe was completely unknown in America and would have perished in obscurity had he not found a literary agent in Charles Baudelaire and a vociferous claque in Baudelaire’s milieu in France.

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Results: 285 Articles found.