My freshmen year of college, after my first semester, I took a "Winter Term" one-month, concentrated course titled "The Russian Revolution through Literature" with 4 bright, upper-class history majors (I was not a history major). It was one of the best courses I ever took. We read Pasternak, Sholokov, and others and talked & wrote about them. Montefiore, primarily a historian who has written nonfiction works about the Stalinist era in Russian history, has clearly read those novels, too, with their broad sweep of history and land and their many characters (here, there's a 4-page "Cast of Characters" in the back) who meet up, then reconnect decades later and hundreds of miles away. He makes a valiant effort to imitate them, but doesn't quite rise to their level. Nor does it quite rise to the level of the many successful novels about life in Communist China. Nonetheless, I appreciated the way he made most of the characters sympathetic to the cause of the Revolution, even as they saw it destroy so many lives. It does, though, give a good feel for the time & place, and it's a moving story, sometimes too moving, too melodramatic, and he writes badly about sex. The last, moving section of the book, where a graduate history student tries to trace the lives of the characters whose story is told in the first two sections, doesn't seem to me to acknowledge the many dead ends that historical research must inevitably work through (this is odd, since the author is a historian who has worked in the archives he writes about here), though since the book is already 500 pages, maybe he thought to spare us those rabbit trails. There is one particularly striking passage here, though: "These are different archives [than the State Archives containing the 18th-century documents this historian is accustomed to working in]. Where there is such suffering, there's a kind of holiness. The Nazis knew they were doing wrong, so they hid everything; the Bolsheviks were convinced they were doing right, so they kept everything. Like it or not, you're a Russian historian, a searcher for lost souls, and in Russia the truth is always written not in ink, like in other places, but in innocent blood. These archives are as sacred as Golgotha. In the dry rustle of the files you can hear the crying of children, the shunting o trains, the echo of footsteps down to the cellars, the single shot of the Nagant pistol delivering the seven grams. The very paper smells of blood" (401).