Yesterday I met up with some of my old university classmates. After discussing Georgia, Kondopoga (a Russian town associated with ethnic riots in 2006), and how Asians will inevitably defeat everyone, we also got around to talking about literature. One of my friends, who in my opinion really knows his stuff, declared that the best contemporary Russian writer is some guy named Galkovsky. And anyone who hasn’t read The Endless Dead End ought to be ashamed. I hadn’t read it, and I was ashamed. Today I spent practically the whole day thinking about how I’d buy the book and, in the evening, commune with greatness. Just in case, I added galkovsky as a friend. Maybe that was the very same guy. Then I went to the Soyuz store on Pyatnitskaya. The book section there is pretty big. “Give me Galkovsky,” I said. “The Endless Dead End.” I said it in an impressive tone, standing up straight. So they’d understand that a READER had arrived. Not some loser looking for Dukhless. The girl rummaged around in the computer: “No Galkovsky. **Written off.” **And she’s looking at me and smirking. **It hit me like a bucket of cold water. P.S. **Soyuz doesn’t happen to have any Georgian founders, does it? I’d know where to report that.