‘I wanted to write about a time when there will be no more war, when life will go on’: Interview with Sofia Andrukhovych

Kombuk publishing house issued “Catananche” — a new, fourth novel by Sofia Andrukhovych. The author says that after “Amadoka,” she wanted to write about everyday life and create something minimalistic, to tell about a time when there will be no more war and life will go on. We invite you to learn about the peculiarities of the process of writing a new book and the meanings that the author intended to convey.

Chytomo: “Amadoka,” your previous novel, was published in 2020. Your most recent novel, “Catananche,” is about to be published in 2024. We all notice the gap between these dates. How has Russia’s full-scale invasion affected your work and your new text in particular?

Sofia Andrukhovych: This is such a difficult question that I could probably write a whole book trying to answer it. Because the answer would have to contain multiple stories and descriptions, without which nothing could be explained. I would have to share my personal experience — nothing outstanding, heroic, or grand, yet special for me, because it is all about my one and only life. I would have to tell about the change in my way of life, about stepping over my own limitations, about the paramount importance of the place to which I belong, about the difficulty of leaving it even for a short time. About the importance of everyday details: your neighborhood in Kyiv, overheard conversations of teenagers, observed scenes on the streets, poplar fluff, cries of swifts. About dozens of trips to the west and east, of which trips to the east are a hundred times more desirable. About dozens of acquaintances, meetings, conversations, situations, about so many people who turned out to be important. 

Perhaps I will write such a book in the future, for I have long been attracted to the idea of writing a novel in the autofiction genre. In the meantime, I’ll try to answer as briefly as possible. 

While working on “Amadoka,” I used up certain approaches to writing and did not understand where to go next. It was difficult to understand how to write without repeating myself, but by trying something new and experimenting. 

The full-scale war altogether shook up all ideas of meaning. After a period of realization that writing is impossible and unnecessary, I came to the following conclusions: the impossibility of writing is, like before, all about the difficulty of finding the language, artistry, themes. In any case, after a period of writing individual essays based on real-life experiences, I came back to the internal need to create a work of fiction. 

Recording reality is necessary, but it can happen in different ways, not necessarily by following the chronology or describing real facts. Certain fictional events or descriptions of imaginary conflicts can reflect internal processes and transformations, testifying to reality even more accurately than attempts at literal retelling. 

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I began to feel that we (people in Ukraine) are becoming more swamped by events and their consequences, which are difficult to name. We are flooded with feelings that are so complex and powerful, destructive and contradictory, that it is almost impossible to define them. It is not for nothing that humanity has been returning to ancient myths for so many centuries: this is the kind of artistry that corresponds to what Ukrainians are going through today. Bizarre, excessively cruel, unnatural, disturbing stories from different mythologies of the world tell about violence, loss, injustice, sex and death, about unpredictable transformations caused by trauma (someone’s experience turns them into a stone, someone into a flower, someone into an animal or a monster). Myths depict what happens internally precisely, and to this day these descriptions are more accurate than any scientific research on the psyche. 

After “Amadoka” I wanted to write a simple thing, a quiet thing: laconic, short, slim, minimalistic. I wondered if I could cope with this task.

I wanted to write about the everyday: would I be able to make the high-rise buildings, the market, the subway station appear magical? I wanted to write about a time when there will be no more war, when life will go on. When people will be able to make their stupid mistakes again — and will try to tackle their consequences again. And that is how “Catananche” appeared. 

Chytomo: The novel “Catananche” is set shortly after our victory. But there’s not much of the war itself in it, and the Kyiv we see in the novel is very recognizable, so it hasn’t really changed much. Can we say that this is, in a sense, your definition of victory: the ability to return to our personal small joys and tragedies without one big global tragedy around us?

Sofia Andrukhovych: I think so. It’s about what we will be left with on the inside, what will happen to our humanity, and what we will be able to do in the future. It is impossible to expect that the ugly events that destroy the psyche of so many people daily can have a positive effect. It is important to understand that the war disfigures all of us, whether we want it or not. Wounds make people close themselves off, trauma blocks access to feelings, and guilt turns into aggression toward loved ones. 

When dreaming of the near future, I tried to remain realistic. I imagined how what we had experienced over the years would affect our future lives, the decisions we would make, and our relationships. 

I really want to believe that it is possible to outgrow painful and unbearable experiences together, I want to believe that all this experience will be compatible with life. That we will be able to be attentive enough not to forget. Yet to also be able to accept and forgive, to overcome what we consider to be gaps: between people who stayed and left, who fought and did not, who lost too much, and those who lost less. In writing “Catananche,” I tried to be aware of the dangers that come from ourselves, those that can’t be avoided except by looking at ourselves carefully. 

Photo courtesy of Anna Gruver

Chytomo: Today more than ever it is important to talk about Ukraine around the world. Your novel will certainly find readers abroad too. Is there a message you wanted to convey with your text to people from other countries? And if so, what was it?

Sofia Andrukhovych: I wouldn’t want to simplify the understanding of the novel with my answer. As usual, interpretation depends on the reader. When writing, I believed in my characters, felt them. In some moments they dictated the plot to me, told me about themselves. You care a lot about your characters and their world when writing; it doesn’t work otherwise. 

And now I can only dream and hope that the readers will also not be indifferent to these characters, that they will cheer for them, get annoyed at their actions or peculiarities, that they will recognize themselves. I want the reader to go through an adventure: disconcerting, full of frustration, funny and touching, unique. So that even the geographically farthest reader could feel close to the described characters, to their place of living, to their experience. 

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Yes, it turns out that somewhere in the story lies the war experienced by the characters, so it is a story about war’s impacts and consequences. But the most important message is a reminder that all people are alike and strive for the same things, yet each person is infinitely interesting even in their predictability. 

I was chilled to the bone by the words of a man from the village of Groza, who lost his entire family in a Russian missile strike. He said that he still believes that most people in the world are good. “Catananche” is a book about not-so-bad people who make mistakes. 

Chytomo: The Catananche flower, and flowers generally, is one of the key symbols in the novel. But another not-less-important symbol is dogs. There are a lot of them in the novel. Actaeon’s dogs can be interpreted as a symbol of our intimate passion, which ultimately destroys us. But dogs also save lives and relationships in the novel. Could you elaborate on this image in more detail?

Sofia Andrukhovych: Plants, animals, all living and nonliving nature provide us with many metaphors for understanding ourselves. To keep your sanity, sometimes it’s helpful to hear the world around you: Plants that continue growing and blossoming even from dry soil, that sacrifice their old trunks to water the young. Plants that protrude from the shells of dead mollusks, from the bottom of the land that used to be the Kakhovka hydroelectric power station (destroyed by Russians on June 6th, 2023).  Sometimes the names of plants or phenomena given by humans turn out to be explanations, interpretations, and pointers. 

A dog, first and foremost, is a symbol of unconditional love. Love that forgives, that exists despite everything that can happen. A dog is the most accurate detector of emotions. A person may not understand their feelings, but a dog will understand, reflect, and radiate them in their most subtle ways.  A dog needs and knows how to be in contact, how to be connected.

The myth of Actaeon is, among other things, a story about aggression turned against itself, about self-destruction. It is a story about how, under certain circumstances, the embodiment of devotion and unconditional love (as a person could and should be for himself and his loved ones) can turn against the object of his devotion. I think this is one of the main dangers that the experience of war creates.

Translation: Olena Pankevych

Copyediting: Hannah Varacalli