A self-described "national-masochist," poet Oksana Zabuzhko refuses to write in any language other than her native Ukrainian. This, her first novel — an instant bestseller in 1996, still largely unread outside of its native country — is an exercise in masochism. Using the body as a metaphor for country, with prose so manic it errs on violent, Zabuzhko endures the pain of newfound independence, which can kill you, "even at a distance."
How can a book about the Russian civil war be so funny? Teffi's brilliance lies in her unsparing eye — in her recollections, she ascribes as much weight to the absurd, mundane, everydayness of the human experience as to the atrocities of war. Her wit is charming and infectious, with a tinge of melancholy. If only there were a way to know it was all gone before you'd left forever. Teffi's tragedy is this: she can't help but see. And if comedy is tragedy plus time... well, you do the math.