This is one of those books I stumbled on to and really enjoyed. It's a memoir without the author really dwelling on herself or her personal story. It is what it sets out to be: a story about the authors obsession with Russian literature, not a veiled attempt to talk about herself.
The author gets a PhD in Russian Literature. By rights, Elif Batuman, as a first generation Turkish American should be working with Turkish literature but as she points out nobody reads Turkish literature so why should she? Take that Orhan! Her research, writing, grants and conferences take her to various Russian locations and she cleverly describes the people she meets and the literature she is reading.
After some formative early experiences of my own sparring over whether peanut butter counted as a protein while dealing with Russians at a Food Pantry, any remaining regrets I had about not giving them Spam were swept away by her landladies mistreatment of her and her boyfriend while Ms. Batuman was researching the Uzbek language. Their landlady gave them jam with ants and had them use an outhouse while she and her family used the indoor toilet and ate the un-infested jam. Then she pouted and removed all the furniture from their room when an extra $100 of the grant money wasn't handed to her at the end of the trip and went to the poorly paid teachers who tried to teach Ms. Batuman Uzbek. No spam for them!
So my only regret is that I have not read enough Russian literature to really keep up with all her references.Other than that, quite a good book.
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