Though it's not a Great novel, there's something of an air of greatness to The Slynx (and not just because Tolstaya is Leo Tolstoy's great grand-niece...naturally, being the kind of reader that I am, I've never read Tolstoy anyway). It's a savagely dystopian vision of post-apocalyptic Russia with a certain amount of contemporary (and satirical) resonance - though I suspect that resonance would've been greater if (a) the novel had been written, say, 40 years ago and/or (b) I were Russian or at any rate more familiar with the culture than I am - and it has a darkly imaginative power which is compelling and not a little unsettling. At times it reminded me of Orwell, at others of Bulgakov, and its grotesque elements are well woven into the whole. I'm not sure how I feel about the ending; it further muddles an already muddled everything. Nor am I really sure what it's saying. But there's a thread running through it - some ineffable thing which gives the novel its haunting, memorable character despite its other failings.
Things to remember: the mice, the Slynx itself, the books, the plagiarism, the decrees, Benedikt, the Oldeners, the Degenerators, the pushkin, the exclamation marks, the golubchiks.
