Masodov’s prose cannot be called “scary,” because it is on the other side of fear. It opens the spaces of Ritual, the only possible Ritual - Death. Just as Death is a part of life, so Masodov’s writings have no relation to “literature” in Rozanov’s sense, to the “current literature” about which well-meaning critics write. Masodov is, as on his website, “the last Soviet writer.” He really continues Soviet prose. Continues seriously and purposefully. Let us imagine the archetype of “Soviet prose”, especially “Soviet prose for youth” - its romance of conspiracies and partisanship, its ruthlessness towards enemies and friends, its fantastic power of pathos of final victory no matter what over anything - and we admit that in Masodov this archetype embodied perfectly. Masodov is a steely writer; his ideal reader is a steel pioneer, marching in formation somewhere in the steel Valhalla of teenage culture, stamping his step, wearing a dagger on his belt, and holding a bronze bird in his hands. Soviet culture, having died, froze into an artifact; Ilya Masodov is the best writer of this land of Death.