I've been reading a collection of short stories by Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn, Nobel Prize winner and former Russian exile.

Whenever I read Russian literature, I always get all weepy-eyed and nostalgic and want to hop on the first plane (or, better, train) to Mother Russia. I don't know how to describe it without sounding trite, but there's just something about the spirit of the nation that touches me. I like these people, I care about them--I want to live that kind of life, have that kind of deep spiritual core combined with astute practicality that seems to make up the Russian soul.

But Solzhenitsyn... wow. Reading a story from him, I can't decide if I feel all warm and fuzzy or like I've been kicked in the stomach. He writes in equal parts elegy and bitter satire--all in the same story. All in the same sentence, for God's sake. It's disturbing.