Boris Khristov. The Siberian Prisoner's Song
It's simple and beautiful. You don't need to know what it means, because Boris spells it out for you. My family lived through it. And here it is. If I was there with them, I'd be long dead - instead of blogging about Belltown.
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Now that the one copy of Monumental Propaganda is back in the library courtesy of me, you can enjoy its unending references to The Timber Camp and other such Siberian frolics. The last two issues of The New Yorker also have a two part series on a cross-Siberia trip of five weeks that coincidentally ended on 9/11.
I read both parts. The guy had some interesting tales, but he wasn't that good of a writer. He spent most of the trip being perplexed at the behavior of Russians.
I'd agree - Twain (or Theroux, even more apropos since he DID go through on The Great Railway Bazaar - recommended) he ain't.
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