The new book of prose by Vyacheslav Pietsukh, as usual, is daring and defiant. Moreover, as the title implies, the author himself sincerely admits to himself a great sin, which writers always prefer to disavow in every possible way. The writer took aim neither more nor less, no, not “at our William Shakespeare,” but at Leo Tolstoy, Gogol, Chekhov, S.-Shchedrin. He, you see, found it interesting. In a word, you won’t get bored with him.