We’re far away. We could be on the moon. The first photograph of the book calls to mind a monochrome Rothko canvas, two infinite planes in a thick mist. This is Siberia in all its greyness, Boris Mikhailov tell us in his poetic introduction to the region. The forests here are so dense and inaccessible that in 1978, a group of geologists discovered a Russian Orthodox family living there who had never heard of the Second World War.
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