Pyotr Zotov was born in 1895. On the first pages he is nineteen. On the last—well over seventy. Scoundrels and prostitutes, sages and blessed fools, Mary-the-holy, the crumpled Anka-golik, grandfather and great-grandchildren, White Guards and jazzmen, the great city—Moscow, the great time—the twentieth century. And over the whole world—Eos with purple fingers. Dawn… What? Listen—and you’ll learn.