No one needs reviews of helpless books, as well as reviews of brilliant texts. If they write about you, it means that you are no longer nobody, but, thank God, not an angel, literature is an earthly destiny, and not the destiny of celestials. The new novel by Zakhara Prilepin “The Abode” is advertised so widely (including the author himself) that the suspicion may be sprinkled: maybe not to read? My task is to warn: of course, read.