The chilling Russian reality viewed through a typical Englishman´s eyes – that´s basically what “Snowdrops” brings to the literary table. But to me there is so much more to this book.
I finished it while sprawled on a dotted blanket in the middle of an
opening covered up in green grass. There are moments when the English summer can
make one feel like everything is just as it should be. This definitely was one
of those days.
Not exactly the best one for a novel that depicts the exact opposite. Despite
the sheer contrast between what I was reading and my surroundings, I immediately
felt immersed in the harsh everlasting Russian winter and drawn to the dark
secrets of its deeply fascinating underworld.
With every babushka, mad cab driver and wobbly old man who jumped from
the page I was given a sense of doom and gloom that brought about images rooted
in my very being. As I smelled the vodka in the characters´ breath, heard their
thick accent and felt the snow settling everywhere layer after layer in huge
blinding piles, I could feel closer to home than I wanted to be. Above all, it
is this strange discomfort of familiarity that I am taking with me from this
novel.
Another book about guilt. But surely not nearly enough guilt to make me sympathise with the main character. Nick Platt is driven by nostalgia to write his late confession rather than by a genuine desire to finally come clean. Does that make him unlovable? It certainly made him very human to me. In his imperfection he may come across as weak or even devoid of feeling, like a male Russian doll with English features. As a character he is a strange hybrid, a misfit, a deeply saddening fellow whose inability to act and react is brilliantly done.
Another book about guilt. But surely not nearly enough guilt to make me sympathise with the main character. Nick Platt is driven by nostalgia to write his late confession rather than by a genuine desire to finally come clean. Does that make him unlovable? It certainly made him very human to me. In his imperfection he may come across as weak or even devoid of feeling, like a male Russian doll with English features. As a character he is a strange hybrid, a misfit, a deeply saddening fellow whose inability to act and react is brilliantly done.
“Snowdrops” tells his story in first person. For a first novel this is
quite an achievement. The rather bleak image that A.D. Miller creates of Moscow
will certainly stay with me. I even enjoyed how he manages to bring to life the
female characters. Their motives may not fully justify their choices, but the
fact that they are consistent throughout the book does give them a remarkable depth.
Although the ending does not necessarily tie together all the details in
a coherent web of events, I just would not have it any other way. Because it successfully
resorts to elements specific of detective novels, “Snowdrops” has what I would
call a gripping plot. But what makes it a really good read from my perspective
is the quality of the atmosphere. Miller takes the reader on an emotional roller coaster
that I would gladly embark on again and again.