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Verhalen van een jonge arts

door Mikhail Bulgakov

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With the ink still wet on his diploma, the twenty-five-year-old Dr Mikhail Bulgakov was flung into the depths of rural Russia which, in 1916-17, was still largely unaffected by such novelties as the motor car, the telephone or electric light. How his alter-ego copes (or fails to cope) with the new and often appalling responsibilities of a lone doctor in a vast country practice - on the eve of Revolution - is described in Bulgakov's delightful blend of candid realism and imaginative exuberance.… (meer)
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This early realist work of Bulgakov brought so strongly to my mind the stories of James Herriot that I quickly began "hearing" these stories in Herriot's voice as I read them. Newly qualified as a doctor, Bulgakov's alter ego here is sent off to be the sole physician in a rural part of the country in the early part of the twentieth century. There he finds the local peasantry often resistant to the modern medicine he practices and he struggles with a large culture gap. He also struggles with his inexperience and the anxiety this causes, obsessing about possible strangulated hernias in particular. As a man of good nature and talent, however, he rises to the occasion.

For instance, if this section isn't the Russian physician equivalent of James Herriot, then I'm a babushka:
'Well now,' I said, 'you see... er... it seems... in fact it's quite certain... you see, you have a rather unpleasant disease - you have syphilis...'

As soon as I had said this I felt awkward. I thought he might be frightened out of his wits. But not at all. He gave me a sidelong glance, rather as a hen looks up with her round eye when she hears a voice calling her. I was astonished to see mistrust in his round eye.

'You've got syphilis,' I repeated softly.

'What's that, then?' asked the man with the speckled rash...

'You can get dressed again,' I said. 'You've got syphilis! It is an extremely serious illness which affects the whole body. It will take a long time to cure.'

Here I faltered because - I swear it - I detected in that hen-like gaze astonishment clearly mixed with derision.

'But I'm only a bit hoarse in the throat,' said the patient.

'Yes, I know. That's why it's gone hoarse, and that's why you've got a rash on your chest. Have a look at your chest.'

He squinted at his chest. The ironic glint in his eyes did not fade.

'Couldn't you just give me something for my throat?' he asked...

'Look here,' I continued aloud, 'your throat is a minor matter. We'll make your throat better too, but the most important thing is to get rid of the general disease. And the treatment's going to take a long time - two years.'

At this the patient stared at me. I saw the verdict in his eyes: You've gone off your head, doctor!

'Why so long?' he asked. 'How can it take two years? All I need is something to gargle for my throat.'

I saw red...

A few minutes later the yellow back of his sheepskin jerkin was disappearing through the door and a woman in a headscarf was elbowing past him. A few minutes later, as I ran along the half-dark passage from my out-patient surgery to get some cigarettes from the pharmacist, I happened to overhear a hoarse whisper:

'He's no good. Young fellow. I've just got a sore throat, see, but he looks me all over... chest, belly... Lord, here am I with nothing but a sore throat and he gives me ointment for my legs.'

'Careless, careless,' a quavering peasant woman's voice agreed...

I pulled my head into my shoulders and furtively tried to hunch myself up as if I were guilty, and disappeared with a burning sense of resentment. I was in a terrible state. Had I been completely wasting my time?
Anyway, the first seven stories of this collection are generally in this vein, and are quite enjoyable and lightly humorous. The last two stories, Morphine and The Murderer, take a radical turn however as Bulgakov writes not about 'himself' but about two other doctors, one who becomes addicted to morphine and another who gets caught up in the Russian Revolution. Nothing humorous in the least about these two stories, which makes for a somewhat jarring tone shift at the finish.

It should be noted that these stories were published separately in two journals between 1925 and 1927 and while Bulgakov is said to have intended at some point to collect and edit them as a single published volume, he never did and so we cannot know what decisions might have made if this volume had been put together by the author. ( )
  lelandleslie | Feb 24, 2024 |
An excellent book. I almost want to start over and read it again it was so good. ( )
  beentsy | Aug 12, 2023 |
A surprisingly mediocre work from Bulgakov (and not all this can be attributed to the fault of the translator). The entire collection, except perhaps the last story, has the bad taste associated with the acceptance into medical journals, the editors of which have nothing but a perfunctory interest in prose. These stories are lazy, predictable, and (worst of all) false. ( )
  Joe.Olipo | Nov 26, 2022 |
Was expecting to read a monotone and cold description of different cases that Bulgakov encountered during his doctor years, but it turned out, quite in the contrary, to be a fully emotional semi-autobiography and memoir. The TV adaptation drama series is not even half as intriguing as the book. Absolutely LOVE the monologue in Morphine and the courageous fight with syphilis in The Starry Rash. Egyptian Darkness is satiric and hilarious, but also feels a bit like poking fun at the peasantry. The theme of inside struggling goes through the entire book and is fascinating. Absolutely worths a read. ( )
  puripuri | Sep 9, 2021 |
Genç Bir Doktorun Anıları bitti. İlk defa Bulgakov okudum, yazara başlamak için doğru bir kitap seçmişim.

Yazar geçmişte doktorluk yaptığı için kitapta anlatılanlar yazarın başından geçmiş mi yoksa tamamen kurgu mu bilmiyorum ama anlatılanlar bana çok gerçekçi geldi. Kitaptaki anlatılan anıların hepsini beğendim ama son iki anıyı kitabın bütününe uygun bulmadığım için kitabın notunu kırdım.

Yazarı biraz araştırınca Gogolvari bir yazar olduğunu öğrendim, Gogol'un tarzı çok hoşuma gittiği için Bulgakov'un diğer kitaplarını okumayı iple çekiyorum.

2019'u bu kitapla tamamlıyorum. Bu yıl 100 kitap okumuşum, bu benim yeni rekorum. Bu sayı bir önceki rekorumdan 0 daha fazla. Umarım 2020'de 2019'daki rekorumu geçebilirim. ( )
  Tobizume | Jun 9, 2020 |
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» Andere auteurs toevoegen (16 mogelijk)

AuteursnaamRolType auteurWerk?Status
Bulgakov, Mikhailprimaire auteuralle editiesbevestigd
Aplin, HughVertalerSecundaire auteursommige editiesbevestigd
Gibert, HélèneVertalerSecundaire auteursommige editiesbevestigd
Glenny, MichaelVertalerSecundaire auteursommige editiesbevestigd
Peet, DickVertalerSecundaire auteursommige editiesbevestigd
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If you have never driven over country roads it is useless for me to tell you about it; you wouldn't understand anyway. But if you have, I would rather not remind you of it.
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I don't remember him arriving. I only remember the bolt grating in the door, a shriek from Aksinya and a cart creaking out in the yard.

He was hatless, his sheepskin coat unbuttoned, his beard was dishevelled and there was a mad look in his eyes.

He crossed himself, fell on his knees and banged his forehead against the floor. This to me!

'I'm a lost man,' I thought wretchedly.
'No, I will fight it... I will... I...' After a hard night, sweet sleep overtook me. Darkness, black as Egypt's night, descended and in it I was standing alone, armed with something that might have been a sword or might have been a stethoscope. I was moving forward and fighting... somewhere at the back of beyond. But I was not alone. With me was my warrior band: Demyan Lukich, Anna Nikolaevna, Pelagea Ivanova, all dressed in white overalls, all pressing forward.

Sleep... what a boon...
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With the ink still wet on his diploma, the twenty-five-year-old Dr Mikhail Bulgakov was flung into the depths of rural Russia which, in 1916-17, was still largely unaffected by such novelties as the motor car, the telephone or electric light. How his alter-ego copes (or fails to cope) with the new and often appalling responsibilities of a lone doctor in a vast country practice - on the eve of Revolution - is described in Bulgakov's delightful blend of candid realism and imaginative exuberance.

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