Popov's short stories move from the village prose genre into the territory of the grotesque via the stark reality of late Soviet life. In a landscape peopled by sympathetic yet stunned characters caught between the harsh routine of everyday existence and the trappings of the modern world, these men and women resort to vodka and to tall tales, and to physical and verbal abuse, to dull the pain of the dehumanizing Soviet regime that is their lot.
The back cover blurb said that most contemporary Russian writers compared to this guy were clumsy and unsophisticated. If that's true, then Russia has no elegant writers because this Popov is no literary genius. Most of the stories are about people getting drunk, dying, or ripping off public property. And even the writing style is disjointed and awkward. Not a fan.