Kutsenko's collection of stories about someone else's love is thickly salted, and this salt remains an aftertaste, even when you put the book down and return to the insipid reality. Why? Yes, because more often than not, salt is just a reasoning, a philosophy that the author puts into a dish separately, but which does not dissolve in it. In this collection, the philosophical background organically enters into the fabric of events. But what is even more captivating is the unity of artistry and life, in which salt manifests itself precisely through that same insipid reality... Then there is nothing left to do but exclaim, like Gogol: “How sad it is to live in this world, gentlemen!”