Running the gamut from sweet and reverent to twisted and uproarious, and
with many of the stories appearing in English for the first time, this
is a collection that will satisfy every reader. Dostoevsky brings
stories of poverty and tragedy, Tolstoy inspires with his fable-like
tales, Chekhov's unmatchable skills are on full display in a story about
a female factory owner and the wretched workers, Klavdia Lukashevitch
delights with a sweet and surprising tale of a childhood in White
Russia, and Mikhail Zoshchenko recounts madcap anecdotes of Christmas
trees and Christmas thieves. There is no shortage of vodka or wit in
this volume that proves, with its wonderful variety and remarkable human
touch, that Nobody Does Christmas Like the Russians.
My Last Christmas
On this festive day, because of somebody's sin, it is we who must sit
here like the wretched of the earth . . .
The passengers looked at the fussy figure of the little old man with
displeasure and irritation.
Yes, the old man continued, because of somebody's sins . . . We are
used to watching our little children jump in indescribable delight
around the Christmas tree . . . Out of human weakness, dear Sirs and
Madams, we enjoy gobbling up ham with green peas and sausages one after
another, and a slice of goose, and a tipple tipple of the you know what
. . .
Tfu! said the fishmonger, looking at the wee old man with disgust.
The passengers slid forward on their chairs . . .
