Among Russia’s lost generation

“To die -- for something really big ... all in one big piece ... I want to go to war,” says Denya, a teenager with a disdain for life in his eyes in Irina Denezhkina’s “Give Me: (Songs for Lovers),” which chronicles Russia’s lost generation, the young people, often well-educated, who have embraced hard drugs, hip-hop, sex as currency and militarized despair in such places as Afghanistan and Chechnya.

While a still a teen, Yekaterinburg author Denezhkina posted stories on the Internet that were picked up by a Russian publisher, and she was nominated for one of her country’s major book awards in 2002 just after turning 20. Denezhkina has problems with structure; characters fade in and out in droves before we get to know them, but structure isn’t a deep Russian concern, and Denezhkina is young. Her world is one of hard music, harder drugs and the Internet, a world where people fade in and out, even disappear.

It’s a happy moment in literature when a young person’s voice is so cynical it makes adults want to run away. The narrator marries her would-be lover by clicking a button on the Internet. Her friend Volkova sleeps with rich men who have cars -- “overhead,” she calls it. “The car maketh the man. Gives him substance.” Heroin with shared needles. Sex with no mention of condoms. These kids are in hell, but they’re kids -- more interested in rapture than enlightenment, too distracted by life to hate it.

Few books give such honest descriptions of adolescent sex: the longing is glorious -- the act is atrocious. Fewer give such truthful descriptions of girls longing for boys: “The one who’s not so tasty is like a Soviet soft toy dog. The other’s Pepsi, pager, MTV ... fruit-drop lips.” Another boy is nice to touch, is “like a young horse.” Scrape away at Denezhkina’s post-punk darkness and a wild and dangerous joy appears. The kids swarming the Internet, meeting at gigs, shooting up and waking together at dawn are as conscience-less as 19th century aristocrats. Hints of Tolstoy linger under the vox-pop gloom. It’s no surprise that Death himself shyly haunts their chat rooms: “ ‘There you go, idiots, don’t say I didn’t warn you!’ It’s signed ‘Nasty.’ I’ve seen that alias somewhere before.”

In dialogue, Denezhkina feels like a young Shirley Jackson: “ ‘He’s impossible to love,’ said Nastya, cracking a sunflower seed between her teeth. ‘He’s impossible not to love,’ ” Masha said, contradicting her. ‘No, he’s impossible to love,’ Nastya repeated calmly. ‘He’s impossible not to love, but he’s impossible to love.’ ” Denezhkina’s method: exacting observation creates moments that are inescapable.

I hope Denezhkina writes more books, and that more young Russians follow her. But one can’t help but wonder how many people like Denezhkina give up or just die.

Laurel Maury is an editorial assistant for the New Yorker.