> Babelio : https://www.babelio.com/livres/Kadare-Le-Crepuscule-des-dieux-de-la-steppe/51224

> Si ce n'est vraiment pour ses qualités romanesques, ce livre mérite et même vaut d'être lu pour son aspect documentaire sur la vie intellectuelle dans l'URSS stalinienne (je sais que Staline était déjà mort, mais je vous assure que la vie de tous les jours était encore bien stalinienne) par quelqu'un qui tente de dire les choses sans émettre en même temps son jugement. C'est très intéressant.
—Danieljean (Babelio)

> Guérin Jean-Yves. La revue de presse : Hubert Prolongeau - (Télérama) - Publié le 28/07/20
Ce diptyque, s’il vante la résistance de Hodja aux pressions internationales, est aussi pour Kadaré un prétexte pour peindre le quotidien d’une dictature. Les héros, nombreux, y sont ballottés au gré des vents d’une histoire qu’ils ne contrôlent pas du tout. … ; (en ligne),
URL : https://www.telerama.fr/livre/trois-raisons-de-re-lire-le-temps-des-querelles-di...

> LE CRÉPUSCULE DES DIEUX DE LA STEPPE by Ismaïl Kadaré (Gallimard)
In: Revue Esprit Nouvelle série, No. 52 (4) (Avril 1981), pp. 166-167… ; (en ligne),
URL : https://esprit.presse.fr/article/jeanyves-guerin/le-crepuscule-des-dieux-de-la-s... ( )

Interesting to read about the Gorky Institute of World Literature and the furor over the award if the Nobel to Pasternak. Art/Writing flourishes under patronage but languishes when that patronage is used to suppress its voice except in glorifying the State, whether it's a "bad" communist/socialist state like the U.S.S.R. or a "good" capitalist/imperial state like the U.S.A. This book was a good reminder of that.

I think I've read enough Kadare now to pinpoint the type of his writing I like the best: books about something he has direct experience with, but not books that border on the autobiographical. When he writes a story about something he has limited or no experience with, like The Pyramid or The Siege, the book doesn't rise to the heights of his works where he can draw upon his life experiences. When he writes something that's less a fictional story than a recounting of actual events, the structure of the work suffers and the writing isn't quite as lively, lyrical, or beautiful as normal. Chronicle in Stone only has these issues to a minor degree, as Kadare was writing of his childhood decades after the fact- and at that point, childhood is less an actual experience than a series of stories you've told yourself a thousand times before. Twilight of the Eastern Gods, however, is a book written while the memories were still fresh to Kadare, and so the book lacks the slight otherworldly mood present in many of his other works. The writing is also far more sterile than Kadare's usually is, meaning that, although there are still beautiful scenes and passages, there are fewer here than in other Kadare books. While the blurb on the flap of the book makes it sound as though there is an overriding story drawing parallels between Kadare and Pasternak, in fact Pasternak only becomes a central topic two-thirds into the book. Instead the main plot primarily concerns a failed relationship that is also a reimagining of an Albanian myth, though this main plot takes up far fewer pages than the space Kadare uses to recount vignettes and scenes from his time at the Gorky Institute. These scenes never come to a climax or resolution, and while some provide context and symbolic significance to the failing central romance, others don't, which leaves the book feeling somewhat disjointed and rambling. In sum, it's not bad, but it's a long way from my favorite Kadare. Going forward I'm going to prioritize his purely fictional works above any more of his semi-autobiographical works, though of course you'll have to give each a try to figure out if you share my preference. ( )

https://kaggsysbookishramblings.wordpress.com/2015/02/27/a-russian-snapshot/ ( )

Le narrateur du Crépuscule des dieux de la steppe suit les cours de l'Institut Gorki à Moscou, où il côtoie quotidiennement des écrivains soviétiques. Il fréquente aussi des jeunes filles russes, dont Lida, qu'il aime. La détérioration des relations entre l'Albanie et l'Union soviétique, l'affaire Pasternak, une épidémie de variole vont briser le glacis des apparences, révéler que « le temps de la perfidie » est venu. À l'été de Riga, où le narrateur a passé ses vacances dans une maison de repos en compagnie de vieux écrivains qui jouent au ping-pong, aux feuilles cuivrées de l'automne dans les environs de Moscou, succèdent l'hiver moscovite, un cimetière, le chaos étouffé des beuveries de cette tour de Babel qu'est le foyer de l'Institut Gorki - où la poussière voile chaque jour un peu plus la faible lumière des ampoules de 40 watts -, l'isolement imposé par la quarantaine, la mort, vraie ou symbolique. Sur la place Rouge, les silhouettes figées, trapues, des dirigeants soviétiques, les dieux de la steppe, se craquellent sous le gel.