Still in his early forties, Vladimir Ufliand has had a checkered career as a student of history, a graphic artist, author of children's books and a playwright; he also worked for a time as a stoker, served in the army and spent time in prison. Only occasionally has he turned his hand to poetry: this small volume comprises almost all of his poems. Only a few of them have been published heretofore, both in the Soviet Union and abroad.

One of the astonishing things about modern Russian poetry is the very large number of poets who, while not of the first rank, are really very good indeed – in terms of high seriousness, technical accomplishment, the richness of their cultural material or just plain wit. Ufliand does not fit into even this category, but he is interesting in some respects nevertheless. His theme is the pathos of the free spirit in modern society, the poor artist in a materialistic world, the sensitive soul among the philistines. There is a good deal of technical novelty; sometimes it works and sometimes it does not. Where it does succeed, the poet does not seem able to sustain it for long: too often the experiment falls flat, or even into bad taste. In general, though, there is evidence enough at least of promise for the future.