Aleksei Varlamov’s prose is like a warm draught of a mother’s milk in a cold world of adults left behind by God.
In his novel, distant and at the same time close lands appear; the fates of the heroes are alien, yet understandable. The author speaks about the national path of Russia without pathos and false pride. He ponders it by tracing this path through the hearts of his fellow countrymen.
A country protected by God will survive not thanks to varnished sermons about the best life, but through the efforts of ordinary, gray—like the sky above their heads—men and women.
When a young provincial mathematical genius is offered all the possible prospects of science and a career in Moscow, and in the yard there is a deep stagnation and future dissidents are ripening—then formulas and graphs fade into the background.
The parents’ dreams of making their son part of the scientific elite of Soviet society collapse. The young romantic seeks the meaning of life in banned literature, dubious women, and drinking.
In the end, he has to return to his hometown and understand: there are no stars closer than the ones under our feet. And in the search for the meaning of life, we sometimes walk right past the most important thing—family, land, God.