Boo! Boo! And thrice-boo! Why must we gentlemen be fobbed off with literature that emerges from the land of the Tsar in a state that can only be described as unfinished? Clearly, this is a problem here at the heart of Her Majesty’s empire too – no, Mr Dickens. It’s not episodic! you’ve just not finished writing the bally thing yet! – but it’s all the more onerous in the Russian texts, where we deal with shoddy translations and… oh, let’s not avoid the main issue any longer. We all know the prime offender. One is talking Gogol. One is talking Dead Souls. One is getting so furious that the most extensive application of brandy can’t steady my nerves.
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