the Phlog

But to understand Russia you have to understand the weather, and what it can do to the land, and how it can sandpaper the berezkas white and sandpaper the people raw and put the fear of God, or the czar, or the Soviets, into you. And what it does with the landscape. That godforsaken landscape, like an old wound that never healed. It was so devoid of joy the Russians had devoured it at a rate greater than any country’s expansion in human history, right up to the point where they bloodied themselves over 11 time zones until they got to the end of the world, and stared at Alaska.

“One day in November you’ll be awakened by the silence,” whispers Masha. “This is how the first snow comes. And the winter has caught you unexpectedly.”

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