Having read all of Shteyngart's novels, and several non-fiction (autobiographical) pieces he's written for The New Yorker, the material here was mostly familiar to me. But I love his sense of humor and how he can also convey the deep sadness of a sickly childhood and of most things Soviet. I only wish he had included a photo of the Chesme Church, which plays a pivotal role in the story (though of course I found it online.)

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