Boris Pilnyak describes the ‘American-Nitzchean’ world created by the ‘Nitzchean-Dollar’; The great Russian writer spent six months in the United States in 1931, taking a cross-country trip from California to New York with ‘New Masses’ editor Joseph Freeman via rail. Working briefly as a Hollywood screenwriter, he traveled back across the U.S. through the South and by way of Detroit in a Ford car that he would send back to the Soviet Union. Writing a book called ‘O.K. An American Novel’ on his experiences and impressions, below are a some early translated passages. Superlative.

‘O.K.: From A Book of American Impressions’ by Boris Pilnyak from International Literature. No. 1. 1933.

On the Fourth of July, in the year 1776, on the day of the declaration of American independence, the birthday of the United States—in the city of Philadelphia, an American woman, Betsy Ross, presented the first American national banner to George Washington, the first American President.

That was about 150 years ago.

On November 7, 1931, on the anniversary of the Soviet Revolution, in the city of Detroit an American woman, Betsy Ross, a lineal descendant of the first Betsy Ross, presented a red communist banner to the Detroit organization of the American Communist Party.

In January 1931, for the first time in twenty years, I was compelled to give assurance that I was neither a bandit nor an anarchist and that I believed in God. It took place at the American consulate in Germany. I was asked to read paragraphs, written in ungrammatical Russian—literal translation from the English—containing the following clauses, subjunctive mood:

–if you believe in God–

–if you intend to engage in banditry–

–if you plan to assassinate government officials or representatives of friendly nations–

I asked permission to keep this table of commandments. The request was denied.

After I had finished reading the scroll, the consular lady, gazing penetratingly at me, inquired:

“If there are any points in this bill…you must warn us immediately…,Have you read it carefully?–Now if there are any points pertaining to you…”

The consul who remained alone with me, repeated the same question:

“Have you read! the bill?”

“Yes,” I replied.

“Are there any points which concern you?”

At a loss, one is apt to twaddle: I was about to make an historical excursus into American social life—that the American population consists of believers and bandits—and is it not true that these bandits, as well as the believers in God, openly express there intentions as stated in the bills…

“But you are a Bolshevik!” said the consul.

I quietly pulled out my red passport. The consul and I looked at it attentively for a moment, in silence–leaving the dilemma of the red passport unsolved in words.

“Have you any dollars?” he finally inquired.

“Yes,” I replied.

I decided that the visa was refused to me. However, I did get it–the assumption evidently being that I do believe in God and that I do not engage in banditry. Endowed with piety by the granting of the visa, I realized the meaning of hypocrisy.

The consul, handing the passport over to the consular lady for further formalities, dropped a significant, “O.K.”

Had I known at the time the connotation of the word, I would have echoed it to the consul.

The expression has a historical origin. In the beginning of the 19th century, the presidents of the United States were predominantly generals, men more proficient with the sword than the pen.

One of these presidents was General Andrew Jackson. When bills were presented to him for signature, he visaed them with the letters, “O.K.”–assuming in his presidential erudition that these represented the initial letters of the phrase “all correct.” Thus the expression was legalized by tradition and became widely used throughout America, synonymous with the English “all right” and the Chinese “mamandi.”

It is more than mere “all right.” An American loses his fortune on the stock exchange–O.K. Another smashes his automobile in an accident–O.K. A bank is held up by bandits–O.K.

Presidents, now, in reverence to illiterate precedence, counter-sign all bills with an “O.K.”

***

The Soviet citizen, author of this book on America, traveled “with publicity.” He realized that though it was necessary for him to make the trip, it was more important that his country secure American combines, forge hammers, lathes. He therefore left the Soviet border without taking any money along.

In Warsaw he received zloty which carried him over to Berlin. In Berlin he received some marks which took him to Paris. On the Bremen, the author, standing at the forecastle, looking into the vastness of the ocean, meditated:

—from Warsaw to Berlin, from Berlin to Paris, from Paris to New York—and there I’ll manage somehow.

But the writer was an author and in the ship’s newspaper appeared the list of passengers. On the date of its first issue, first an emaciated young woman, then a somnolent gentleman, an importer of Soviet furs, inquired–are you none other than so-and-so? The young woman quizzed me about my foxtrot abilities and the gentleman, as to my stand on “black-and-white” versus “scotch.”

The same day several radiograms came in—”greetings,” “welcome,” “await you” and among them one reading:

“Room reserved at St. Moritz Hotel.”

I asked the fur gentleman about the hotel. He informed me that it was one of the most fashionable in New York, a fifty storey building located on West 59th Street, opposite Central Park.

The only wireless that I sent from the boat was to my publisher: I don’t NEED any St. Moritz, thank you!

In the evening I received another radiogram:

“Your stay at St. Moritz imperative stop accommodations free.”

I wondered at the publisher’s generosity but accepted the news with the exultation of one having a tooth extracted.

Aboard ship I made the acquaintance of an American sausage millionaire, a Mr. Kotofton. He was a real American and added much “tone” to the boat. He was returning from Europe with his daughter who wore a bandage on their eye and who spent most of her time on the deck reading American magazines. In true American fashion, he finally shook my hand. Our first words were interpreted by the fur gentleman, who stood in awe before the sausage-king. After exchanging a few phrases, the American said:

“Very well; let us speak in Russian. I’d like your advice. By the way, will you have a whiskey and soda—You see, I have two daughters, who are my sole interest in life. One of them remained in England. After all, England is the most respectable country in the world, The other is returning with me. I will introduce her to you. She is a Doctor of Philosophy. She developed a sty on her eye from strenuous reading and took her to Germany for treatment. As you know, German medicine is the most reputable. I was charged 500 dollars for each visit. My daughter writes theses that delight professors. It certainly costs loads of money to educate children. But I want to speak to you about my other daughter. She wants to become a writer. Art in America is limping. It is said that English literature is now stagnant. I am no authority in that field—but after all, English literature is the most distinguished. I was given a list of the most outstanding English writers living today. I centered my attention primarily on authoresses. That is more decorous. I visited some of these authoresses in London and requested that they give lessons to my daughter so that she may become a writer, too. Well, what do you think of the idea? There is so little genuine art in America!”

When we were left alone the fur gentleman informed me that Mr. Kotofton is still semiliterate, can hardly read Russian or English. All his business is transacted by secretaries.

At the evening entertainment, the smartest society aboard ship was seated at Mr. Kotofton’s table, where he was treating all to cocktails.

–The philosophy of history!

***

The first thing that impressed me in America was the abundance of national flags.

The Statue of Liberty, with which all accounts of America usually begin, escaped me as our boat was nearing New York. I was too distracted by the Wall Street skyscrapers and the general commotion aboard ship. Nor did I see it ultimately. In order not to confuse the minds of future travelers to America, it is interesting to note that the interior of the head of this Liberty is roomy enough to hold an average size apartment and that under her skirt, below the upper pleats there was, for many years, a prison cell–a fact no less significant than the origin of O.K.

The ships news reporters arrived on boat together with the police officials. I was travelling “with publicity” and reporters soon grabbed me and led me to the nursery in the first class. The walls of the room were decorated with drawings of smiling children in the genre of Russian handicraft toys. Scattered on the miniature tables and chairs were various playthings.

Bottles of whiskey and pints of beer were now placed on these little tables. The kididie-reporters seated themselves on the children’s chairs, feet on table. They were a motley lot–shabbily clad, in worn-out shoes, each shoe weighing at least a ton. Hurriedly they fell to gulping the whiskey and beer, meanwhile quizzing me. In the two o’clock papers it was reported that so-and-so had arrived on such-and-such a boat, that he wore this type of tie and shoes and was stopping at that particular hotel. My hair, I discovered, is sandy.

Hotel St. Moritz repeated the splendor of the Bremen. My luggage arrived! before me. Beside it I found cases of whiskey and gin. I already knew the price of American liquor on the dry exchange. There was not enough in my purse to pay for these cases. Waiters were setting the table for about 40 people. Strange men were uncorking the bottles of whiskey and gin. I was about to give an interview.

Journalists began to gather, men and women, this time more sedate and better dressed. They shook my hand and in introducing themselves gave the name of the newspaper they represented instead of their surnames. People totally unknown to me distributed “statements” to the newspapersmen—flattering reports about myself, my age, who my fathers were, what I am and “who” said “what” about me. I was no longer I—but material for publicity. My “guests” began to drink the cocktails and to question me. I spoke about the trend of history. Then questions were fired at me:

–how much does it cost to get married or divorced in the Soviet Union?

–How do you like American women?

When asked how much Stalin earns, I replied that he most probably receives the party maximum–about 150 dollars a month. The gentlemen of the press were astounded why should he work so hard for so little money?

Someone inquired:

“Are there any people who earn more money than Mr. Stalin?”

I surprised the gentlemen by informing them that there are no millonaires in the Soviet Union (some Americans are still unaware of this fact). The only people who earn more than 50 dollars a month are skilled workers, engineers, professional men, writers and artists.

How about yourself? another demanded.

I replied that I earned about three times 150. The following morning, the New York Times printed:

“Pilnyak predicts the downfall of capitalism.”

“The wealthiest person in the USSR is Pilnyak.”

Other newspapers made a Rockefeller out of me. Many months later, in Moscow, a friend of mine, an American journalist, told me that the received an inquiry from his agency in New York, as to why Pilnyak is not Pilnyak but a Rockefeller?

I shall pass over the cameramen of that day who photographed me lengthwise, widthwise, shaking hands, grinning, resting my hand on a child’s head (the American photographic symbol of kindness). When the newspapermen finally departed, leaving behind unfinished cakes, empty bottles and Virginia smoke,–I was on the verge of hysterics.

“Render unto Caesar what is Caesar’s!” I have mentioned the St. Moritz Hotel several times (the national flag waves proudly over it). Continuing the American tradition, I am repaying with gratitude. The free room and liquor were presented to me not by but with the compliments of the St. Moritz. Its publicity men reasoned correctly that any press notice of me would include mention of the Hotel. A free room is less expensive than a paid advertisement. Moreover, indirect publicity is more subtle and effective. Thank you, dear St. Moritz!

A tailor offered me a free suit of clothes in exchange for a testimonial that his were the finest clothes manufactured.

***

Strangers came over, introduced themselves, departed. It soon became clear to me that I was being requested to step up to the microphone and) say at least one Russian word—”hello” or “thank you”. The evening’s program was being transmitted over the radio and, as it later developed, my friends and I were taken to the theater, dined and wined in order to have me appear in the night-club’s radio broadcast! Picture a Soviet writer fresh from the boat at a bare-naveled revelry making merry over the radio! I left the club in the midst of my meal, in impossible haste. Once home, it took pints of ice water to dispel my rancor and wrath.

Publicity, advertising, the devil take it!

The advertisements squall, pur, sing arias, terrify, blind your eyes, throw you off your feet, greet you at all intersections, alleys, lavatories, alcoves. They creep into your nose, eyes, ears, into your food, your blood, your heart, and into your pocket, pocket, pocket!–screeching:

—buy more automobiles, lighters, refrigerators…

—”if your car breaks down, we will repair it in 24 hours, make it more beautiful than new, install two additional projectors, another nickel mesh, a cloak, an ash-tray a medicine chest.”

—”a radio in your car will make our trip through the fields of Texas and the Arizona desert more enjoyable.”

buy more clothes, shoes, dishes, furniture, neckwear, cigarettes, cough and eczema medicine.—

—eat more meat, ham, lobsters!—

—eat more bread, butter, sweets!—

—drink more coca-cola, coffee, tea!—

—more, more, more!—

—you have no right to deprive yourself of food, drink or an automobile!—

(all this at a time of an unprecedented crisis when 15 million people are unemployed).

***

I met a Wall Street man in New York. My reaction to him is inexpressible. This man is about 40, dry, simple, as unpretentious as a well-made penknife. He does not follow the contemporary American manner of dressing in all colors of the rainbow. He still adheres to the sartorial traditions of the past century—his suit symbolizing a locomotive stack. In his office, alongside the ticker, are private telephone wires connecting him directly with London and his League of Nations representative in Geneva. He himself owns no enterprises. His métier is to give advice to the fools among the American millionaires on how to reap the biggest profits from their millions. He handles no sums under seven figures. The gentleman is very astute and quite cynical, as one might expect of a man of his calling. He realizes that should his counsels fail, his brainless clients would still find enough brains to refuse his services. As my companion and I entered his office, he had just concluded a long distance call to Geneva. Toying with the paper knife in his right hand, he greeted us with the following words:

“It’s a crisis, all right, and no mistake about it. I’ve been telling my clients the best thing they can do is to invest their money in your Bolsheviks. At any rate the money would be safe until Bolshevism comes to this country. The next best bet is to organize a syndicate for the overthrow of the Soviet Government, or better still, form a corporation whose aim would be to prove that the crisis was caused by Soviet dumping and bolshevist agitation and conspiracy. We can easily frame some conspirators. In any of these ventures I’d be ready to invest a couple of millions of my own money. I guarantee big returns in the first six months!—You remember the Florida boom in 1926? We must not forget that the recent prosperity was brought about by automobiles, which are America’s curse today, and by prohibition…a business alliance against bolshevism—think of the publicity, ballyhoo and hokum!…”

***

In one of my novels, I once used an image–and here in New York, this image aroused new sensations—it seemed to symbolize New York and all of America to me.

In this novel I wrote:

“…out of ancient ruins, archeologists sometimes unearth primitive stone images of women–the archaeologists marvel at its beauty–but a tiny ant crawling across the face of the stone beauty would see only clods of mud, stone and dust: to appreciate beauty one must measure up to it…”

And truly: a man, startled by the beauty of a woman, might stop in the street to admire her; an infusoria crawling down her cheek at that moment, would see hills of face powder to the microscopic organism this cheek would be the red desert of Arizona and if by chance it crawled into the nostril, it would feel as if it had fallen into the crater of a live volcano.

From the tower of the Empire State Building one sees New York a beautiful, striking, indescribable city, the only one of its kind in the world, extraordinary in its architecture, overwhelming in its power.

To a European looking down at this city, it seems more of a dream than a reality a dream which cannot be compared with anything, except perhaps the fragment of a memory of a childhood phantasy about the Biblical city of Babylon—a city which none of us has ever seen and which because of its fabulousness resembles New York. New York is an inhuman city, monstrous, overwhelming and beautiful. From the tower of the Empire State or the gargoyles of the Chrysler Building the ocean, the Hudson, the East River, the Palisades–are your brothers. The sixty-storey New York (and the average height of the New York buildings is only ten stories) is at your feet, lying hidden in the mist, smoke and (drone of its streets. Alongside of you and on an equal footing stand the brother-skyscrapers, their commanding stateliness and brutal beauty.

A man standing in the tower of the Empire State is on a level with the inhuman beauty and unique grandeur of New York.

But when he walks along the streets of New York (or rides in an automobile, the subway or elevated)–New York is a frightful city, the most terrible city in the world, whether one looks at it from Park Avenue or the Bowery. A city deafening in beauty of electric signs. Streets that are filthy, barren, without grass or trees. A city transformed into a colossal kerosene stove—sooty and stifling. A mad, enraged city of concrete, iron, stone and steel, looming toward the sky. It is impossible to live here, just as it is impossible to ride over its streets in an automobile—streets which are filled with the greatest number of the world’s best automobiles, riding almost on top of each other.

Individualism!–the people walking and riding on the streets of New York, enjoying the radio, the movies, the burlesques, Coney Island—are tiny ants crawling on the beauty of the stone image, unearthed from the very ancient, primitive ruins!

This city is branded with the shame of the Bowery, the only street in the world of lumpen-proletarians, tramps, dollar casualties–(there is a greater abundance of these Gorkian lumpens than even in China). In the stores of the Bowery shoes are sold, taken from the unclaimed dead in the morgues. There are night lodgings here where people sleep on old newspapers gathered in the streets. These lodgings have four shifts, each group vacating the premises at the end of six hours, to admit another group, waiting on the sidewalk. No eight hour labor law in America but a six hour sleep law on the Bowery!

The dollarless population of this street, shod in shoes of the dead, wends its way nightly to Forty-Second Street and Broadway–the heart of the theater section and electric sign madness—to stand in line for a free cup of soup and a sandwich served with the divine message of the Salvation Army. They stand on the breadline watching another Coney Island wave of people en route for the movies, America’s chief source of entertainment!—The Bowery has its counterpart in Mott Street, where the homeless sleep in an “all night mission house,” to the accompaniment of the pastor’s sermon.

This city as all of America is branded with the shame of the Negro problem.

This city with its tenacious poverty, tenacious congestion, and tenacious will not to starve and to live decently—leads a fierce, filthy, though white-collared struggle for existence. Individualism!–the Odessa Privoz of old times pales into insignificance beside the pushcart alleys of the East Side, where the roar of the city is pierced with the shrieks of children who are raised on the concrete of the street, under the wheels of automobiles, and with the wails of the peddlers, who shout their wares in all languages:

–bananas

–fish

–oranges

–electric flat irons

I had some cocktails once on the roof of a thirty-storey building in the penthouse of a “poor” millionaire. We were seated on swing-divans in a garden, shaded by palm trees and far below us shone the lights of the city. An American flag waved conspicuously on a mast over the roof. “Poor” millionaires in America are those whose wealth does not come up to that of billionaires like the sausage king, steel king, meat king.

Pointing out the skyscrapers surrounding his own semi-skyscraper, my host identified about 50 buildings, naming the billionaires who owned them.

I walked over to the railing and looked down. Alongside of the poor millionaire’s semi-skyscraper were a group of seven or eight storey buildings, their roofs black from soot. On the clothes’ lines hung the poverty of torn sheets, shirts, underwear. On one roof, a couple seated on a mattress, spooning. On another, several workers sleeping on newspapers.

I interrupted my host’s discourse on billionaires to inquire who owned the building adjacent to his.

The “poor” millionaire admitted that he did not know.

The cocktails and the sunset were very scintillating.

Everything became clear to me.

There are 40 to 50 men in New York, figuratively supported by skyscrapers and on a level with New York’s grandeur, for whom that city is beautiful–they are billionaires, capitalists, controlling visible and invisible offices on Wall Street.

The cocktails and the sunset were very scintillating–on the roof of the neighboring building were orange peels, thrown there, most likely, from the garden of the “poor” millionaire, for the legend of celestial manna as well as that of celestial oranges is inexplicable by the laws of physics. From the top of a skyscraper, New York is ominous and inhuman!—Oh America!—Ah, America!

My “poor” millionaire’s Nitzchean-MacDonaldian mustache was graying. He was boldly attired in a lilac-colored suit and dark red shoes. His shirt, tie, pocket handkerchief and socks were all of the same color and design. The bearing and eyes of this “poor” millionaire were subdued and lyrical. American-Nitzchean individualism!

***

All these blessings are for those who are on the dollar bandwagon. The Ah’s and Oh’s of New York with its national flags and its standards of life–are only within reach of the cheque book, the more dollars–the more ah’s! But those who have fallen off the dollar bandwagon–

Therein lies the essence of American-Nitzchean individualism. The real American-Nitzchean—is the dollar. It is this Nitzchean who interprets individualism and lives in the legends that Abraham Lincoln, whose face is stamped on the dollar bills, was born in a wood-cutter’s hut, that Hoover is the son of a farmer, that every American has the opportunity to loom into the spaciousness of individualism as the skyscrapers loom into the sky. Numerous historical biographies are written about these skyscraper legends of Lincoln, Hoover, and Empire-State Smith. Yet the biographies of dollar casualties are unwritten, even though they are the products of the very same American individualism and are a million-fold more natural than the huts of Lincoln, more common and numerous than the skyscrapers.

The American free and individualistic labor laws provide that if, at 12-15 in the afternoon a boss tells his worker that he is no longer wanted, the relationship between the employee and the employer ceases on the dot of 12-15, and the former receives his check on Saturday with pay calculated up to the fifteenth minute of the twelfth hour of that day.

There is a free, individualistic law in America—the chattel mortgage—which provides that if a person buys an article on instalment, costing, let us say, one dollar, and he has paid 99 cents, still owing one cent, the article can be taken back without refunding the 99 cents.

The Misters Ford, Henry and Edsel—are by no means responsible for this law–they are puritans who do not even smoke–they only manufacture automobiles. Henry Ford, as is well known, does not engage in selling his cars.

Nor is he likely to know the story told to me by another friend of mine, Y, Ukrainian worker. We were sitting with this friend in his new “apartment”–under the open Detroit sky, on a bench in the park. My friend, perplexed, kept nodding his head with national-Ukrainian placidity. He began to speak.

All Ford employees are expected to own Ford cars since their employer argues that the Ford workers are comparatively well off; besides it is essential for them to know the car they help to produce. When Y began working at the Ford plant, he owned a Chevrolet, and his foreman told him that the ought to sell this Chevrolet and purchase a Ford. Henry does not engage in selling automobiles. The foreman gave my friend the name of a dealer who offered him a Ford on instalment, accepting his Chevrolet as initial payment. Another foreman told him that Ford employees are expected to live on certain streets in certain houses built especially for them. Henry Ford has nothing to do with either. Y with his family—wife and two children—moved into a three-room apartment in one of these Ford-like cottages which were run on an instalment basis, each tenant paying a definite sum each year, until the apartment finally belonged to him. That was in the fall of 1929.

In January, 1931, the Ford Motor Company put out a new model. That same month the foreman told my friend that it was possible that he would lose his job (“a crisis don’t you know!”)–however, he would try to keep him and it might help matters a lot if he bought the 1931 model Ford. My friend, scratching his head in Ukrainian fashion, decided to buy a new Ford and turned in his 1929 Ford as an initial payment.

I was in Detroit the latter part of June. Y had been fired some time in May. In the middle of June his 1931 model had been taken back in default of payment. At the end of June, I helped him move out of his cottage as he was unable to meet his next instalment.

Now, seated on a bench in the park, my friend, bewildered, kept nodding his head in Ukrainian fashion: he had three automobiles, now he has none—”owned” an apartment, now he is out on the street–all that was left to him were his wife and two children!…

My dear American individualists!—People walk in the Bowery, shod in shoes taken from the dead!–Dear American freedom!–Is there no logical as well as emotional bridge between the freedom of the clean-shaven, towering skyscraper and the calm underground work of the traitor-boars in Chicago?!

My dear Nitzchean dollar!–what difference is there in the essence of things between the millions owned by the head of the Chicago bandit trust, the King of racketeering, Al Capone, and the skyscraping of the Empire State?!–isn’t Al–O.K.?

***

Ray Long arranged a dinner for me at the Metropolitan Club, in New York. I scanned the list of guests invited; behind the name of each stood many tomes, works and impressive autobiographies: these were the leading literary names, known not only in America but the world over.

The walls and portieres of the Metropolitan Club shut out all the noise of the city. The candles and pig-skin chairs bespoke tranquility and sobriety. There were about 40 of us—the famous and I, with my companions, all in formal dress. After the cocktail preliminaries, the guests seated themselves ceremoniously at the table, a waiter stationed behind each chair. The candles burned magnificently.

Ray Long delivered a speech, as solemn as the Metropolitan Club. The second to speak was I. My much-belabored speech took three days’ preparation. I spoke about the fences that separate national cultures, about the USSR, the capitalistic world, the fact that the honor bestowed upon me did not belong to me personally, but to that beautiful literature, vigorous and young, which had been created by the dawn of Socialism and the thunders of the revolution—of youth I spoke with gratification and gusto, for relatively speaking, the only young people at the dinner were my companions,—Louis Fischer, Mendelsohn, Joe Freeman and myself; the others were nearer to 50 and 60.

After me spoke Sinclair Lewis, the Nobel-laureate, tall, narrow-shouldered, gray eyed, red-complexioned. He sought me out with his eyes, centered his gaze upon me and said:

“I shall not speak about the Soviet Union or Mr. Pilnyak.” He paused.

The pause was as magnificent as the Metropolitan Club.

Sinclair Lewis turned his gaze upon Theodore Dreiser.

“I cannot speak about the Soviet Union or Mr. Pilnyak,” his eyes staring fiercely at Dreiser, “because someone, present here, stole 3,000 words from my wife…”

Another pause, no longer as magnificent as the Metropolitan Club.

Lewis’s eyes wandered down the table… “and because someone else here wrote that the Nobel Prize should have been awarded to Dreiser and not to me.” He grew silent again.

The Metropolitan Club in no way resembled the pause.

Sinclair Lewis fixed his stare upon another person…“And because someone else wrote that I was a fool.”

Pompously, self-righteously, he took his seat. The pause that followed was greater than any during the speech.

That evening sometime after dinner, in private, Theodore Dreiser slapped Sinclair Lewis’s face–a slap which resounded all over the world, for on the following day it was headlined in all the papers, broadcast over the radio, wired to Europe and Japan and commented on in lectures and sermons. I did not witness the slapping, having left the affair, nonetheless, I was compelled to hide for days from reporters in order to avoid cheek-slapping publicity. To be candid, I did profit from this affair considerably: in the states of Texas and Arizona, where people were unfamiliar not only with my writings but even with the existence of the USSR, I would explain that I was so-and-so at whose dinner…—and everyone understood.

***

On the day prior to my departure for California, I had the unexpected opportunity to meet Mr. Z., an American multi-millionaire. I am consciously concealing his name by that initial, for it as well known as that of Rockefeller or Morgan. He is one of the 10 leading billionaires of America. When one takes into consideration the fact that financially America commands the entire capitalist world, this person, who is one of the 10 commanders of America, is really richer and more powerful than the King of England or the President of France. The man was old, dry and not very strong. I spoke to him about my trip to California, told him that I was leaving the following afternoon and that I might stop for a day in Chicago.

As is usually the case, the mention of Chicago led to a discussion of Al Capone, the Chicago underworld king. I insolently suggested that I would be happy to meet Al Capone. And Mr. Z., a person more powerful than the British king, replied affably:

“I can arrange it for you.”

Mr. Z. pressed a button, in came an emaciated secretary, who seemed to understand Mr. Z. astrally, without words. A half hour later, the secretary reported that he had telephoned Chicago, that Mr. Capone would be busy on Monday (the day of my arrival in Chicago) with the mayoralty election in that city, and, therefore, unfortunately could not receive Mr. Pilnyak that day–however, should Mr. Pilnyak wish to make it some other time, Mr. Capone would always be at his service.

I did not see Al Capone—but the foregoing conversation is more significant than seeing him:–a bandit unable to receive me because he was occupied with the elections and a legitimate billionaire acting as an intermediary between me and the underworld!…

***

I received a telegram to work in Hollywood for M.G.M., a 10 weeks’ contract at so much per week.

A friend explained to me:

“What if you had written something for Fox or Paramount? It is better to pay you even though you produce nothing rather than let you write something for Fox.”

I went to Hollywood.

Hollywood, for the most part, is inhabited by only two categories of people: men and women of rate beauty and freaks of various types. Future, present and former screen-stars. I saw them all.

In the studios where I was employed, I once saw a movie director, seated in his office, smoking a cigar and intently scrutinizing thousands of albums containing photographs of so-called “extras”—actors in reserve, registered at all the studios—men and women who have already filmed their “happiness” or were still in quest of “happiness.” The director was jotting down the numbers of certain extras, so that on the morrow they could be called for final selection in the casting of the next production. If fortunate, they are hired for a week or two, these numbers who will receive five dollars a day. I saw all that.

I also saw the Hollywood celebrities, the stars who earn 5,000 dollars a week.

The editors of the Moscow News, an English publication in Moscow, received a letter from an American Hollywood screen-actress. She wrote that there was a crisis in the motion picture industry in America, that she is sympathetic with the Five-Year Plan and would like to work for the USSR. Enclosing a photograph of herself she stated her height, weight, color of hair, eyes, size of her ankles, bosom and various other dimensions.

All contracts stipulate the exact measurements and avoirdupois of the screen star. Any minute gain in weight is a ground for the termination of the agreement. The screen celebrities, it would seem, have to lead a life of virtue and piety. Thus it really is! I knew an actress, a famous screen star, who employed a private physician to supervise her diet. She was fed, washed and massaged according to prescription. This actress was the mistress of a multi-millionaire.

Vladimir Ivanovich Nemirovich-Danchenko, famous director of the Moscow Art Theater was once invited to work in Hollywood in the way that Eisenstein and I were. He offered to direct a historical film based on the Pugatchev uprising—a rebellion of Russian peasants in the Volga against the Russian Empire, which was headed by the pretender Emeliyan Pugatchev. Nemirovich-Danchenko was asked to submit a synopsis. The synopsis was approved by the directors, who demanded just one slight revision. They did not like the ending–Pugatchev’s outcome was too gruesome. Instead of this tragic end, they suggested having him meet Catherine the Great, upon which the two would fall in love with each other and—O.K.—get married. I do not know how true this episode is–I was told of it in Hollywood–but I can testify that it unquestionably characterizes Hollywood traditions.

I am a writer and my business is writing.

The motion picture industry–with its miracles, bandits, Emeliyan Pugatchev’s nuptials, artic and tropical regions, ancient erotics and contemporary puritanism, scores of apes and Russian white guard generals—all that is connoted in American parlance with the short word: “movie.”

Hollywood—movie–is the third largest industry in the United States. The product of this industry is art. Art is created by brain. The commodity of this industry is brain. Art is created by talent. The commodity of this industry is talented brain. American industry is standardized to withstand competition. The textile industry produces yards of chintz. Ford turns out series of cars on his conveyors. The cinema is the third largest industry—

Writers are needed, among other things, for the creation of themes and) plots. When I arrived in Hollywood I was asked whether I wanted am office. Not quite clear about the matter, I said no. I was instructed that all my suggestions were to be submitted to the supervisor for O.K.

O.K., I echoed, still pondering as to what was meant by offices for writers.

Behind the high walls of the film lot, I saw a series of long one-storied houses resembling barracks. Inside these barracks are long corridors on each side of which are small rooms the size of solitary confinement cells in prison. Each cell contains a chair, a table, another chair, a typewriter, and a telephone,–nothing else. These are the writers’ offices. In these prison cell-offices, from 9 in the morning until 5 in the evening, sit people who do nothing–their legs propped on the table or window sill or slung over the back of another chair. Sometimes several of these people get together and talk. Sometimes drink whiskey. These people with their legs in the air are writers. Writers who can earn less than 250 dollars a week must sit in these offices. Writers earning up to 1,000 dollars a week make only occasional appearances. Writers earning over 1,000 dollars need not come at all–in fact the firm prefers that they do not come. These barracks, which are found in every large studio, house about 150 members of the writing fraternity.

The writers are collected from every part of America and many foreign countries. Somewhere, in a small, obscure town a young man or young woman has written a book which has attracted attention. The young writer receives a telegram inviting him to work in Hollywood stop so much per week stop period five years stop surrender copyright of all writings during term of contract stop.

That is all!

Unchartered are the paths of destiny, the firm reasons philosophically—the young writer shows talent, perhaps he will amount to something some day—it is better to buy him now than to pay him three times as much later–moreover, let him work for us rather than for our competitors.

Talents and names are appraised in dollars. For multi-dollared writers it is best not to go to Hollywood at all–as evidenced in the case of Theodore Dreiser. In the summer of 1931 a Hollywood firm purchased the screen rights of his An American Tragedy. The firm revised the novel according to their own interpretation–a la Pugatchev Uprising. Dreiser protested, demanding that the film be revised, enjoined from presentation or that his name be removed. Of course it would have been wiser if Dreiser hadn’t bothered with Hollywood or the movies at all. It only turned out to be a big nuisance. Dreiser lost the trial anyway—for is it possible to sue the third largest industry?

The writers are not invited to the studios to write or create. They are at liberty to write or not to write. Those who receive less than 250 per, seldom see their names on the final revised version of their scenarios.

Special readers in the employ of each movie company–sub-divided into Anglo-Saxon, Germanic, Romance and Slavish groups–read all the new literature published all over the world–novels, plays, short stories. They read first the book reviews appearing in the periodical press and from there select the books. Summaries of the novels and plays plus annotation as to whether the plot is adaptable for screening are submitted to the chief reader. The chief reader makes his selections and hands them to the manager. The manager in turn submits the summaries chosen by him to the supervisor who has the power to say “O.K.!” and to set the wheels of the movie firm in motion. What appears on the screen bears only the remotest resemblance to the original novel or play—as in the cases of Dreiser and Nemirovich-Danchenko.

This is one way in which a film may be born.

There is also another way.

Every film has its own writers and creators in addition to the ones in the solitary confinement cells.

These special “inventors” on the staff of the film company patch together various ideas—invent the scenes that are to appear on the screen—describe the milieu of the action, the country and the period in which it takes place—specify what the villain shall be like. The hero and heroine, of course, are always the same–everybody knows them—they are not to be older than 22. These “inventors”—are a tested approbated lot. Their ideas are conveyed directly to the supervisor, without bureaucratic red tape:

When the theme is “okayed” by the supervisor, it is dressed in the blood and meat of cinematography–a “story,” “synopsis” and “treatment” are written. It is not yet a scenario, it is merely: “…a young, handsome, blond man enters the room.
He is greeted by Tanya. Nicolai warns Tanya of the danger that is threatening Morgan.”

The sound effects are not worked out yet. No settings are specified, no dialogue given.

When the “synopsis” is completed, the supervision sometimes calls for one of the writers from the barracks. Suppose a writer is familiar with the life of sailors at sea. He is invited to look over the synopsis and is secretly instructed to enrich it with details of sea life and color. Fear of competition surrounds the whole procedure with an almost naive puerile secrecy. The tentative drafts of the story are slugged with mysterious titles which are changed as frequently as the secret code of conspirators. The specialist called in for advice translates the story into the language of the cinema. Will his name appear on the screen? Not necessarily. His story and suggestions will be connected by the supervision, the scenic artists, the musical director, the regisseur, and the supervisor again. The corrected script will go to a highly-paid, well-advertised screen writer whose name has the weight of a trade mark. It is his name that will appear on the screen—the name of the “expert” who took some one else’s knowledge of life at sea and poured it into the standard Hollywood mold.

“…A young handsome blond man enters Director Nicolai’s office. (Hushed swish of wheels in the plant, faint siren call. Close-up of Morgan. View of the plant through bay window).
Tanya greets Morgan.
Morgan smiles. Tanya’s eyes register anxiety and affection. The noise in the plant subsides. Soft, Beethoven music. (A close-up of Tanya and Morgan against the background of the bay window and the plant).
Morgan is elated.
Nicolai—etc.”

***

The scenario will be improved and elaborated further by other nameless writers. Other experts will do the treatment, the dialogue—the latter is always done by special sub-title writers. Thus the final product is the work of many minds, while the screen carries the name of one writer who, in some cases, may have contributed nothing but the advertising value of his name. In 1930 a picture called The Big House was produced by M.G.M. and played almost every motion picture house in the world. The film dealt with life in an American prison. It was written by an ex-convict whose name did not appear. The scenario was adapted by my supervisor, Al Lewin, and featured the name of my co-author, Frances Marion—an American Lydia Charskaya.

Thus the writers in American motion picture industry either write the scenarios and do not receive the credit for it or sign scenarios written by others. But writers, even when they work in monastic cells, are writers nevertheless and there is something fatal in their destiny. During a farewell party on my last night in Hollywood, a young talented writer R., a former seaman, told me:

“You’re kidding, Pilnyak–Let me tell you about American rugged individualism!…All day I sit in my cell in the writers’ barracks and write precisely the balderdash which I repudiate at night when I write my novels…Do you understand?…At home I have only a sheet of paper, a typewriter and a brain exhausted by the day’s work–while the film industry has a tremendous organisation—machinery, millions of dollars and 30 million fans–my individualism butts its head in vain against this huge machine…You, Pilnyak, refuse to work for Hollywood…You are returning home…Hollywood pays me good money!…I shall come to the Soviet Union as soon as my contract expires!…”

What is interesting here, however, is not the technique of the film industry so much as other questions which it affects; art, the role of the writer, the art of American individualism—art is creative only when it produces new forms, new ideas, new emotions—when it awakens, not when it stupefies; art is art only when it is revolutionary; art is art only when it is convincing. Art is partially created by writers. In order to create, a writer must believe in his work, he must believe in its necessity, in its significance. This, of course, is much more important than money; recall how many products of genius have been created in garrets (real and psychical) and in hunger. Writers, like birds, must be free in their work; it is easier for a bird to fly when the wind beats against its breast. And the real boss of American talent measured in film feet—is mister capitalism, the Nietzchean dollar.

Upon my arrival in Hollywood, I reported to my supervisors, the Philistine Napoleons (or Napoleonic Philistines) and was told (literally) that I was invited in “the capacity of a bolshevik” to “Sovietize” a film. I was informed that I would have a secretary-interpreter at my disposal and was given the right to wire or radio to any part of the world for any information or books that I might need. In short, it was made clear to me that because I was receiving so much per week, I was among the select group of exploiters, the movie aristocrats.

They explained to me that the firm had decided to produce a pro-Soviet film, that, a pro-Soviet scenario had already been written by one of the staff “inventors.” Frances Marion and I were to be the authors of the film, George Hill was to be the director, and Boris Inkster, a fellow Russian, a Soviet citizen, who had come with the Eisenstein group, was to be the assistant director. The supervisor was Al Lewin. Irving Thalberg, a member of the Board of Directors of M.G.M. (the husband of Norma Shearer) a Hollywood Napoleon who receives a million dollars a year—was to be in charge of the production. This list comprised the “conference” of the forthcoming production. Besides my authorship, I was to act in the capacity of advisor in the making of the picture.

The term “pro-Soviet” requires explanation. As is known, the United States, had no diplomatic relations with the U.S.S.R. in 1931. Those Americans who opposed recognition of the Soviet Union, were known as “anti-Soviet.” Those who favoured resumption of diplomatic relations were referred to as “pro-Soviet.” Similar divisions existed in the Russian colony in America: the majority of the Russian emigrants who arrived in America prior to the October Revolution were pro-Soviet; those who betrayed their fatherland, fleeing from the Revolution—were anti-Soviet. As for myself, I was merely Soviet.

Despite all, however, I did not succeed in becoming the famous Frances Marion’s co-author nor an advisor on the film.

For several days we held conferences and consultations. About politics—careful!— never a word was mentioned.

The fundamental theme and plot of the picture was invented prior to my arrival, and Frances Marion had already completed the preliminary synopsis which I was supposed to alter so that it corresponded with truth.

“…A handsome dark man entered the director’s office…”

The plot was worked out by Miss Frances Charskaya in accordance with American-Hollywood precepts. The hero—an American engineer, Morgan. The heroine—an enchanting Tanya. The villain—the G.P.U. The comic relief—Nicolai, a construction manager, a worker by origin, a hero of the Pyatiletka and a Communist. The action takes place in the U.S.S.R. Morgan is on his way to the Soviet Union to work there “in order to study the great principles of economic planning and ultimately apply them in his own country” (copied verbatim). Tanya (“a stunning brunette”) is being deported from the United States because she is a communist and was the leader of a strike in America. Tanya and Morgan are separated by class hatred—but “their eyes meet and unknown to themselves, they are madly in love with each other” (copied verbatim). They are sailing on the same boat, different classes, of course. As they pass the Statue of Liberty, Tanya, on the lower deck, curses America while Morgan, on the top deck, hums the American anthem. Their eyes meet again. And so on. Immediately after crossing the Soviet border, miracles begin to happen. Morgan is shadowed by a spy (who, as it later develops, is the husband of Tanya’s sister—the latter on the verge of death due to tuberculosis and her husband’s infidelities. This spy and faithless husband falls in love with Tanya. He, of course, is a secret member of the Cheka. Besides this secret Chekist, there are countless undisguised Chekists, black-bearded, attired in felt boots, carrying bombs—their eyes as “wild as smouldering coals.” The undisguised Checkists openly molest professors and separate them from their wives, who die there and then. Similar miracles take place in Moscow. Skyscrapers are being erected there “taller than those in New York” (copied verbatim). Morgan is working on the construction of a steel plant—”the largest in the world.” The director of the construction is Nicolai (the role to be played by comedian so-and-so), a communist, a hero of the Five-Year Plan, a former American worker, once employed in the same American plant with Morgan (though Morgan is only 22 years of age). Tanya takes her dying sister to the country, a village near the construction works. The village consists of large cottages decorated with Ukrainian towels (though it is located in the Urals) and mountains of butter and eggs which are being consumed by prosperous peasants. One revolutionary morning tanks arrive in the village and completely annihilate the entire butter and egg hamlet, in order to “erect” a kolkhoz on its ruins. The beard of the village priest is amputated. Communist Tanya is very indignant. In the meantime, the secret Chekist spy and villain has fallen in love with Tanya. He tries to prove to her that bigamy is not a vice, that under real communism each man will have 20 wives and that Tanya, as a devout communist, should immediately give herself to him. Ere long, surmising that Tanya cares for Morgan, the villain decides to wreak vengeance on him. By now Tanya is heading a mutiny of the peasants started by her and the beardless priest. She and Morgan are menaced by the G.P.U., but neither of them are aware of it. They are warned by Nicolai, the red director and communist, who advises them to flee from the U.S.S.R. They heed his advice and set off, pursued by the G.P.U.—The spectators are supposed to hold their breath in excitement—will they be overtaken? will they escape safely? (exactly like in the Indian pictures). They, of course do succeed in getting away. When their ship passes the Statue of Liberty, the charming Tanya greets it joyfully and Morgan sings the American national anthem. At this point, Tanya, in true American fashion, places her hand in Morgans, symbolizing the surrender of her heart, soul, body, etc.—the only thing that is lacking is the American flag!

When the synopsis was read to me and my opinion solicited, I candidly replied that it was pure nonsense. This statement, to my surprise, aroused no protestations. Nor did it seem to offend anyone. Politics—careful!—we avoided—”pure art, don’t you know.” Nevertheless I delivered a lecture on the rudiments of politics that lasted for hours. Everyone seemed to agree with me very readily. I explained that if there must be a villain, let us take counter-revolutionaries. I spoke to them about the sabotageurs, the wreckers, and about Ramsin’s trial.

Thalberg asked me to repeat again what sabotage meant. He listened to me, then said:

“O.K. Let sabotage be the villain instead of the G.P.U.”

I spoke about the kolkhoz movement. Thalberg listened attentively.

“Very well,” he said, “we will cut out the peasants’ uprising but you will have to think up something just as exciting to take its place!”

I further went on to explain that an American would not have to run away from the U.S.S.R.—if he did he would be a fool—and a fool cannot be a hero—besides, there never was a case of an American engineer fleeing from the Soviet Union.

“But we must have some sort of an escape or flight,” Thalberg insisted. “It is necessary in order to create suspense. Think up some way to make a chase plausible: it has a special appeal for American spectators.”

I replied that it was possible to show on the screen an orange grove blooming in Greenland, but then Greenland would no longer be Greenland, but Hollywood. Besides, I maintained, what was the point of paying me for advice on a Russian film, if my knowledge of conditions in my country was disregarded for the sake of the alleged expectations of American movie fans?

“Of course,” Thalberg replied, “we want the picture to be pro-Soviet and for that reason we engaged you as our Bolshevik ‘advisor.’ Yet, it is absolutely essential to have some sort of ‘chase’ in it.”

I must admit that I was anxious to work on that film, for I realized the influence of the cinema in America—and if the picture could be made at least 75 per cent truthful, it would be a tremendous gain. Upon my arrival in Hollywood I immediately outlined my program to the directors. It was very simple. I told them that I would be willing to collaborate on the production of the picture only if historical accuracy were preserved—the U.S.S.R. is building socialism, U.S.S.R. is being guided by the Communist Party—these are historical facts, and perspectives derived from these facts. “Go right ahead, it is perfectly O.K. with us,” I was told. I soon appreciated, especially after reading the synopsis, that most things in Hollywood are motivated by stupidity rather than politics—moreover, it was quite an easy matter for me to rescue the G.P.U. from the villainous role assigned to it and to discard the equally stupid kolkhoz uprising.

Two sleepless Hollywood nights, Joe Freeman and I spent trying to think of some logical “flight” or “chase” to fit into the film—nothing could be done with Morgan. We decided to make Tanya “flee” and Morgan follow her because of his love for her. Tanya we expelled from the Communist Party. Then we proceeded with other combinations and new situations—that Tanya had never been in America before—that she was merely a former Russian burzhuyka working as an interpreter. Then we switched back again to the original idea that she had been to America. Nothing plausible could be made of it all. Nor could we do anything with Nicolai, as it was impossible to conceive of a situation where a Communist Party member would be an accomplice in a counter-revolutionary plot. It literally amounted to decorating Greenland with oranges-groves.

“Yes,” they told me, “but don’t you see, we are planning to produce a pro-Soviet film?”

“That is precisely the reason that I spent two sleepless nights,” I replied.

A pro-Soviet film, it was explained to me, meant that the Bolsheviks may do anything they please, even build socialism. “We grant you all that. We are willing to accede the greatness of the Five-Year Plan and accept the accomplishments of the colossal industrial construction that is taking place in your country. We are for the recognition of the Soviet Government and the resumption of diplomatic relations, because we deem it profitable to trade with the Bolsheviks. But that which the Bolsheviks are doing is unacceptable to Americans. The film must show that even American communists cannot live under Bolshevism. Bolshevism may be O.K. for Russia but it will not do for America. All this must be shown in the film that we are producing.”

I was reminded of all the privileges bestowed upon me: that I could go to any expense in subscribing for any books or service that I need, that no restrictions would be placed upon my writings as long as they were adaptable to the cinema and were purely artistic. “It is possible that you will not budge a half of one per cent in the interpretation of history?” they inquired in amazement.

“Yes,” I replied, “I am not a traitor.”

“How naive!” said Al Lewin, quite seriously. “For us Americans to fake history or do the government out of something is considered good business.”

***

Sergei Eisenstein, who was invited to Hollywood by Paramount, offered to produce a picture based on the fate of California’s first settler. The suggestion was rejected. He then offered to direct the screen version of Theodore Dreisers An American Tragedy which he had worked out with Dreiser. Eisenstein’s contract, however, was curtailed, and so curtailed that he was compelled to leave the territory of the United States within 24 hours.

There are many cinema plots in America!

Translated from the Russian by I.D.W. Talmadge

Literature of the World Revolution/International Literature was the journal of the International Union of Revolutionary Writers, founded in 1927, that began publishing in the aftermath of 1931’s international conference of revolutionary writers held in Kharkov, Ukraine. Produced in Moscow in Russian, German, English, and French, the name changed to International Literature in 1932. In 1935 and the Popular Front, the Writers for the Defense of Culture became the sponsoring organization. It published until 1945 and hosted the most important Communist writers and critics of the time.

PDF of full issue: https://www.marxists.org/subject/art/literature/international-literature/1933-n01-IL.pdf