The compatriots

Were Leo Tolstoy alive now, I would hit him over the head with a log because of his stuffy moralism, because of his holier-than-thou tone, and because in his «great» works he didn't mention how he fucked a great number of female serfs on his estate.

Alexander Solzhenitsyn, my double compatriot, deserves to be drowned in a prison latrine. «Why?» You ask. For his lack of brilliance, for the nagging dullness of his characters, for the army-prison-slavophile jackets with which he dressed all of his characters (and would dress the entire Russian nation, if he had his way), for the one-dimensional thoughts, for this whole preachy, provincial, stale and cheerless picture of the world – yes! For all this into the latrine he goes.