Mykola Riabchuk: Reading demands a cosmopolitan mindset

After this conversation, Mykola Riabchuk, a journalist, political analyst, writer, translator, and Honorary President of PEN Ukraine, asked whether our conversation was like a river flowing from one question to another (PEN stands for “poets, playwrights, essayists and novelists,” but today PEN Ukraine accepts members outside of literary circles too). 

It was very much like that. We talked about his apartment in Lviv, which has become a place for freedom of thought and bohemian meetings, including discussions on the “Skrynia” almanac (The Chest), which had caused Riabchuk to be expelled from the Kyiv Polytechnic Institute (in 1977). This may further explain why it seemed beneficial for the Soviet empire to pack everything Ukrainian into an ethnographic frame, colored with suffering and social problems.

“Skrynia” almanac and freedom of thought in Soviet Lviv

Chytomo: You were expelled from the Kyiv Polytechnic Institute for a self-published project. What was this project, and were many of your fellow students expelled? Or were only the chosen ones so “lucky”?

Mykola Riabchuk: We created an almanac called “Skrynia”. As far as I remember, the initiator and soul of this whole society was the poet Hryhorii (Hrytsko) Chubai. We enjoyed one another’s company, hung out, read texts to each other, and drank tea, among other things. We exchanged books and impressions in general. Our group included writers and others.

Someone came up with the idea to collect our texts and publish an almanac for our friends. This included no political texts because we realized that sooner or later, it would end up in the authorities’ hands. The timing was not very favorable because it was the beginning of the 1970s, when the USSR began tightening its screws.

The “Skrynia” was created on a typewriter, like all samvydav at that time – on thin paper using carbon paper in-between pages to duplicate. I don’t know how many copies there were — 5, 6, or 10. However, it had a nice cover with beautiful graphics, in 1920s style. And of course, it was inevitable that it would end up in the authorities’ hands. That happened faster than we expected.

Chytomo: You knew the risks involved in creating such an almanac?

Mykola Riabchuk: Absolutely. We knew, of course, that we weren’t doing anything criminal because there were no clear political messages, but all texts were, first of all, absolutely modernist, avant-garde and had nothing to do with official socialist realism [the USSR’s official propaganda art style]. Secondly, ours was an independent publication, completed without sanctions and without anyone’s permission. I believe the most important thing was that, outside of this activity, we also had contact with many dissidents, people a little older than us, who were far more interesting for the KGB.

The “Skrynia” itself was not that threatening, but it was a threat in the sense that had it reached the West, it would have been immediately reported on by the Voice of America or Radio Liberty. And this meant that KGB members would have been stripped of their ranks and positions.

But our contacts with dissidents were interesting, and the “Skrynia” was used for blackmailing to force “these snot-nosed kids” to testify. We didn’t testify, though, and for that, in fact, we were expelled from the institute.

That’s how I ended up working on the railway, because it was impossible to find any work after expulsion. I even had to leave Lviv and get a job building a railway in the Carpathians. To a certain extent, thanks to this, I was lucky to get an apartment, while my parents got a new one after being on a waiting list for 20 years. Before that, we all lived in a red-colored one-bedroom apartment somewhere on the outskirts of Lviv.

Chytomo: So you have had your own apartment there for 20 years already… 

Mykola Riabchuk: Yes, it was one bedroom and a kitchen without facilities, and the water was in a well further down the street. But it was my own, which was very important because when you are 20 years old, you have a lot of friends – everyone comes, everyone is interested. There is a place where you can gather, read, talk, drink tea, and make an underground exhibition, and that’s what we did.

I guess there were similar apartments in other cities. We traveled to Uzhhorod, Lutsk, and found like-minded people in similar communities there. Most often, these were art workshops. Not only artists gathered there, but also all bohemians.

Chytomo: Did you exchange books?

Mykola Riabchuk: Of course we did. My library was nothing special, but Hrytsko Chubai had a magnificent library – not very big, but well curated. In it were very rare books. For example, there was a Russian edition of a T.S. Eliot book, which was impossible to find anywhere else. Chubai had good Polish books in the Polish language, translations that he got through his friends. This was a very important channel of information because in Poland they translated a high volume of books.

Books in Russian were available on the black market – all rare titles written by Franz Kafka or Albert Camus, for example – at some crazy prices. And the Polish books we could buy at the Druzhba [Friendship] bookstore – this motivated us to learn Polish or improve upon it.

Chytomo: So one could buy Polish books legally? They were not self-published or banned?

Mykola Riabchuk: Yes. For example, they translated Jorge Luis Borges much faster, earlier. They translated George Orwell, which was impossible to imagine in the Soviet Union. Not to mention the Western philosophy of the 20th century. We bought things that are hard to imagine buying today – books, for example, titled “Critique of Contemporary English Bourgeois Philosophy,” “Critique of Contemporary American Bourgeois Philosophy,” or “Ukrainian Bourgeois Nationalism” – the Enemy of International Workers’ Unity.” Moreover, the most valuable books were those with many quotations. 

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Ten thousand books and the Polish samvydav

Chytomo: How many books are there in your library, and when did you start collecting them?

Mykola Riabchuk: I didn’t count them. I roughly estimated that there were about ten thousand books, or one thousand less, because not so long ago I gave more than a thousand books to the Ukrainian Catholic University in Lviv. In this way, I got rid of almost all of the Russian studies that I think I, and especially my children, no longer needed. I kept only those things that are really important to me. Now I think I need to give away more books because I probably do not have much time left, and the collection isn’t getting any smaller, so I need to pass them on to some worthy hands.

Chytomo: What publications in your library are the most valuable to you?

Mykola Riabchuk: The first volume of the Ukrainian Encyclopedia from the 1930s [Editor’s comment: three volumes of the Ukrainian General Encyclopedia were published in Lviv under the editorship of Ivan Rakovsky, a member of the Shevchenko Scientific Society, and with the help of Vasyl Mykytchuk and S. Sliusarchuk in 1930-35]. Only one volume survived, and it is very valuable to me because my grandfather saved it. He had a good library, but it was lost. He buried it somewhere in the fields when the Soviets came, because he knew that there might be searches, but he never found it afterward. For me, this is a metaphor for all Ukrainian book wisdom: it is buried somewhere; it exists out there somewhere. But somehow he kept this volume.

There are also some autographed books that are valuable to me for various reasons: Norman Davies’ “Europe: A History” with his signature or Francis Fukuyama’s two-volume edition, also signed. I don’t actively collect  autographs, but if I have an opportunity to get something like that, I welcome it.

But in general, I do not make a fuss over books, to be honest with you. I give them away, lend them out, and I’ve never written down what I’ve lent to whom, which is why I’ve given away or lost many books. At first, I blamed myself for this, but then I realized that if I don’t remember who I lent my book to, I don’t really need it. And if someone doesn’t return it, they need it more than I do.

Chytomo: How does a new book get into your library? Are you a picky reader?

Mykola Riabchuk: Yes, crazy, because I don’t have the space and I don’t have that much time in my life anymore. That’s why I have mostly professional books now. That is, either what I have to read as a member of the Angelus Central European Literature Award jury (I receive 100 books every year, of which I don’t read all because we divide them among the jury members, but I do look through them). I keep only a few of them and the rest I give away, most often to the Kyiv-Mohyla Academy, although last year I gave them to Lutsk library, for example.

Since I travel abroad from time to time, I buy books in various places. Fukuyama’s books were bought in America. Moreover, people often give me books, some of which are not worth keeping. 

I haven’t bought a single Russian book in the last 30 years; it’s a matter of principle, but also because I prioritize other opportunities. I now have occasions to travel abroad and read in English. And reading in Polish has always been important to me. When it comes to travel, the first time I went to Poland was in 1989, when I discovered their vast samvydav.

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Chytomo: It was in the “Lexicon of a Nationalist” that you described this story about Poland, of how you brought back a suitcase full of samvydav books.

Mykola Riabchuk: There was a fantastic samvydav in Poland. I knew that it existed there because of the underground activity of Solidarity. Moreover, in 1989, they were already officially negotiating at a roundtable with the communists about the division of power, relatively speaking. However, the volume and caliber of self-publishing was truly incredible.

The Polish people themselves said that, at its peak, their self-publishing rivaled official publications in terms of the number of titles and copies. The books were sold in many places, including the university campus, a sacred place where the police were not permitted, just as they should not attend church, because churches were not for the police.

Chytomo: In one conversation you mentioned that young people are more intellectual nowadays. They have a better understanding of art, higher education, and are familiar with a multitude of languages. But when we look at the recent research on reading, there are unfortunate statistics. Recent studies have shown that the number of regular readers is even lower than it was two years ago.

Mykola Riabchuk: First, it should be borne in mind that all these generalized studies are average measurements and, of course, not reflective of modern youth in general. When I said that there are more educated young people today, I meant that there are more groups and communities. There are more young people who have access to quality education and knowledge, who can easily satisfy their interests – and if they want to, they do. I see such individuals in much greater numbers today, whereas in our time, we had to actively seek out like-minded peers. Now, they naturally connect with each other, studying the same courses and crossing paths in the same spaces.

Knowledge has become more accessible, communication is easier, and all of this has led to an increase in the number of knowledgeable, educated, and curious people. Anyone who wants to learn, can.

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Translation: Tetyana Mykolenko

Copy editing: Sheri Liguori