Uncanny

Towards evening, yesterday, I did locate my copy of the Penguin Collection of New Russian Writing, which is actually 10 years old now. It is edited by Victor Erofeyev and I read the story Typhoid Quarentine by Sharamov, which is perfectly grave, as chilling as the taiga it depicts. I was hoping to find Erofeyev's Russian Beauty in the basement but I couldn't. Filling the shelves upstairs with history will lend access that jagged range of texts which occupies the entire south-eastern corner of our basement.

How odd it was then to find a marvelous copy of Vendikt Erofeev's Moscow To The End of The Line, a novel I have desperately wanted to read for years now, but was too cheap to pay $18 for a 170 page novel. My copy was $3.98 and i am elated.