Little Failure by Gary Shteyngart

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Little Failure, the acclaimed author’s most recent release after his celebrated 2010 novel Super Sad Love Story, strings along this seemingly simple question. Shteyngart’s memoir follows his tumultuous childhood into a haphazard adolescence, then into an even more disorganized early adulthood. It weaves through breakups, unbridled depression, alcoholism and extreme dysfunction in the author’s family.

Why does the doing seem so damn hard for Shteyngart?

For starters, the author carries the nervous baggage of a Russian Jewish immigrant, transplanted to Queens, New York, in 1979 after spending his first seven years in Soviet Russia. Little Failure begins with a present-day panic attack, serving as a time warp to early memories of idealistic Russia in the late ‘70s.

Shteyngart fondly reminisces about his hometown of Leningrad (current-day St. Petersburg) with its cosmonauts and impossible food lines. He recalls asthma attacks staved off through cupping procedures over several wheezy days. His poor health earns him the nickname “Little Snotty” in his family, which will later devolve to “Little Failure.”

He writes a novel for his hero Lenin at the age of five and dreams of one day attacking the foreign countries his heroic Lenin fought so hard to keep at bay. The anxious affair escalates to extremes when Shteyngart, alongside his parents, moves to America, the country he has been groomed to hate.

But wait a second! America is awesome! There’s opportunity! And inhalers! And cheese!

Of his first couple of weeks in the States, Shteyngart writes, “The first momentous thing that happens to me in Kew Gardens, Queens, is that I fall in love with cereal boxes. We are too poor to afford toys at this point, but we do have to eat. Cereal is a food, sort of. It tastes grainy, easy, and light, with a hint of false fruitiness. It tastes the way America feels.”

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While we only see the story of immigration through Shteyngart’s eyes (seemingly the size of planets the first few months on U.S. soil), the tension of his deeply Soviet parents feels palpable. The act of letting go for most parents takes at least 18 years. Here, instead, we feel the Shteyngarts losing their son at age seven to a world that would never be theirs to understand … and, ultimately, would never fully be the author’s to enjoy.

Shteyngart’s parents experienced the tragedies of WWII and the inevitable rise of Communism, lost family members along the way and succumbed to a culture where the good of the community replaced personal ambitions. As we read Shteyngart’s deliciously embarrassing stories about his new Orthodox Jewish elementary school (he tells of being labeled a Communist and of the salvation in finding a best friend) and continue onto his Manhattan arts magnet high school (an environment laced with marijuana and begrudged virginity), the author grows up in circumstances utterly polar to the upbringing of his parents. We cringe at Shteyngart’s honesty as he tells anecdotes about his childhood and about the emotional abuse doled out from his culturally askew parents. He breaks your heart.

Shteyngart writes, “Tot kto ne byot, tot ne lyubit, my father likes to say. He who doesn’t hit, doesn’t love … essentially he’s got it down. If you want to make someone love you, a child, say, you should hit him well.”

This familial turmoil, the unrestrained passive-aggressive behavior, anger and resentment from his mother and father, creates deep guilt and anxiety for Shteyngart. His emotions sway from enduring adoration of his parents to deep, encompassing fear. He finds himself perpetually caged between the confines of his parents’ ideologies and the desire to get the fuck out of dodge, so to speak.

At the first chance, the author retreats to one of the few colleges that will accept him: the liberal arts haven of Oberlin. Here, he earns the new nickname “Scary Gary” for his general misanthropy and drunkenness. The author’s newly unkempt tornado-meets-mop hair style may have been a factor in the new epithet.

A personal favorite story from this time hints at how Oberlin’s architecture goes best with a heavy dose of LSD. Tonally, that’s how the next four years will go, with one bead of hope rolling through many deprecating recollections.

At Oberlin, Shteyngart revisits his writing and rekindles the childhood ambition of becoming an author. This newfound drive pushes through the final pages of Little Failure, though not without some agonizing hiccups.

Shteyngart inevitably hits rock bottom. Uninhibited alcoholism and depression overtake him. He struggles, alone, to confront his aimless talent, toxic relationships and crippling anxiety. An emotional breakthrough emerges through a close friend and mentor (and a benefactor) named John, who deals the author an ultimatum: Go to therapy or be financially cut off.

So begins Shteyngart’s long trek towards sobriety and self-care. His lifestyle-180 proves positive, and the author eventually lands a book deal for his first novel The Russian Debutante’s Handbook. That work launches Shteyngart’s career.

Shteyngart possesses such skill as an author that you often forget he writes about himself. Bumbling and misplaced aggression color his life story. His anecdotes drip with self-pity and sharp humor. He digs deeply into the intricacies of love, ambition and assimilation. We travel a messy road as Shteyngart unpacks imagined and real failures, but the journey proves hilarious and heartening.

Little Failure ends with the author revisiting Russia with his parents, the first time they’ve returned since their immigration 35 years prior. The trip sparks nostalgia and remorse, with a pained reverence that can only be reserved for loved ones. The story ends with the author back home in New York, looking at old photos of his parents and piecing together the Hebrew Prayer of the Dead.

So what’s Gary Shteyngart to do now, after laying his demons to rest?

Who knows? We’ll wait for the next book. Meanwhile, you can find Shteyngart teaching at Columbia University, living and writing in New York City. If you stop him on the street, he will probably be happy enough to swap stories of childhood dysfunction.

But be prepared: His are better.

Caitlin Greenwood is an arts and culture critic working out of Austin, Texas.