« The Wheels of Fortune »

Vlad Savich’s stories seem to be a reaction to encounters in early life—some real, some perceived, some imagined—with the forces of limitation: parental, political, religious and cultural. And so, he fights, against unfairness, injustice, and unkindness... but above all, against boredom. When he is strident, Savich thrills. When he is ironic, he delights. His prose style is filtered through Russian, Ukrainian, and Canadian French, resulting in a pungent, inimitable and almost unplaceable accent. It is our good fortune that he is so prolific; this is exciting, entertaining writing we are better off for having more of. Call him the rock-and-roll New Realist Turgenev of Kiev, or the tragicomic punk Chekhov of Montreal.