A young writer, Natalia Kliuchareva, managed in her first novel the hardest thing of all: not merely to write magnificent literature, but to become the voice of an entire country—with all its pain, tears—torn apart, drunk, yet also beautiful, and strong.
Even before the book was published, it caused a storm of emotions among the literary community and online. People so different as Maria Arbatova, Eduard Limonov, and Viktor Toporov responded to it approvingly. Admirers of delicate “sappy” prose criticize it listlessly. Yet there is an opinion that “Russia: The Common Train,” like Zakhar Prilepin’s “Sanykya,” is a forerunner of future Russian literature—proud, angry, and beautiful.