This is not a novel. And not “a novel in an essay,” as, according to the apt definition of my friend and part-time literary editor, the genre of “My Odessa Language” was designated. This is not a cry from the soul or a whisper of the heart. Not the sadness of the mind and not the search for anything: self, truth, truth... This is a sympathetic reaction. I always feel like I have a mark on me. And it itches constantly. If it ever appeared as an ordinary tattoo, there would be one word - “Odessa”. Author