Michael Idov

To anyone whose ambition outpaced their patience, Russia was thus a space-time shortcut, a wormhole to success.

Being Jewish meant zip in the way of religion; it meant a funny last name (Zilberman—check), a funnier nose and/or hair (check and check), and the stigma of “rootless cosmopolitanism,” a sticky Stalin-era formulation guaranteeing that no Jew would ever be considered fully Russian.

Imagine a culture where Joy Division somehow usurped the place of Wham!, and you have 1987’s U.S.S.R.

Imagine a culture where Joy Division somehow usurped the place of Wham!, and you have 1987’s U.S.S.R.

The original sin of the new Russia—placing stability over democracy—had been committed, invisibly paving the way for Putin

But you see, when you start writing out the details of everyday Russian life, the absurdity just overwhelms you. At some point, you give up. Your characters start flying around, they sprout fangs and tails. Because that’s the only way to stay true to the material.

people like Minaev were deemed nerukopozhatnyi—a great synthetic word that means, literally, “unshakehandswithable.”

Idealism of any kind was perceived as embarrassing. As one friend of mine put it, no one wanted to “disgrace themselves with unironic indignation.”