This is a brilliantly surreal novel, a perfect example of how Russian authors like Pelevin have a tendency towards fantasy and the absurd - a characteristic inherited from writers who came before them (Bulgakov for example) and who tried to dodge the censors. In a faded Black Sea resort, a group of people living on the edge of society also seem to exist as insects, and their existence is just as precarious. Darkly funny, satirical and intelligent.
This cannot be commended highly enough. Attempts at a description of the storylines would do them no real justice. The feeling of Zen mysticism pervades the book and seems to pull together the surreal fairytale universe it creates from the aftermathn of the Soviet collapse. Just buy it. Then buy the Clay machine Gun.