This massive, illustrated collection of 32 gruesome werewolf, shapeshifting, and demonic possession themed short stories and novellas represent some of the best of the 19th and early 20th century, when the werewolf was at its full height of terror. The werewolf's bestial ferocity, superhuman strength, sadistic cruelty, and ravenous hunger make him (or her) the very epitome of supernatural terror in fur and flesh. Black Book of the Werewolf is also available in a fully illustrated, large format special print edition (8x11).

A boy who feels persecuted by the banality of everyday life yearns to ascend to the cold and majestic plane of the stars. A seamstress finds liberation of a sort in “becoming” a dog and howling at the moon. A club of young girls masquerade as the grieving fiancées of strange men. This book brings together these and other remarkable short stories by the Russian Symbolist Fyodor Sologub that explore the lengths to which people will go to transcend the mundane. Renowned as one of late imperial Russia’s finest stylists, Sologub bridges the great nineteenth-century novel and the fin-de-siècle avant-garde. He stands out for his masterful command of both realist and fantastic storytelling; his play with language evinces a belief in its capacity to access other worlds and other levels of meaning. Many of Sologub’s stories are set among children whose alienation from the adult world has lent them imagination and curiosity, enabling them to create an alternative reality. At the same time, he bluntly examines the sordid realities of late imperial Russian society and frankly presents sometimes unconventional sexuality. The book also features a selection of Sologub’s “little fairy tales,” ambiguous parables couched in childlike language whose ingenuity anticipates the miniatures and “incidents” of Daniil Kharms. Susanne Fusso’s elegant translation offers these artful tales to an English-speaking audience.

A new translation of this Russian novel that should be of interest to anyone who wishes to understand the course of Russian history and the political debate over democratization taking place in Russia today.

"Sologub" is a pseudonym-the author's real name is Feodor Kuzmich Teternikov. He was born in 1863. He completed a scholastic course at Petrograd. His first published story appeared in the periodical "Severny Viestnik" in 1894, but it was not until about a dozen years later that he came into his fame, which he has since then further enhanced. This is all the biographical knowledge we have of a living novelist whose place in Russian literature is secure beyond all question; the scantiness of our knowledge is all the more amazing when we consider that the author is over fifty, and that his complete works are in their twentieth volume. These include almost every possible form of literary expression-the fairy tale, the poem, the play, the essay, the novel, and the short story. Sologub's place as a poet is hardly less assured than his place as a novelist.

"A brilliant fantasy." -- Manchester Guardian. What would you do if you could re-live your life? In his only novel, occultist P. D. Ouspensky expands upon his concept of eternal recurrence, telling of a man who travels back in time and attempts to correct the mistakes of his schooldays and early manhood, including his romantic misadventures. Set in Moscow and Paris, the story served as an inspiration for the movie Groundhog Day.

In this wry, judiciously balanced, and thoroughly engaging book, Galya Diment explores the complicated and fascinating relationship between Vladimir Nabokov and his Cornell colleague Marc Szeftel who, in the estimate of many, served as the prototype for the gentle protagonist of the novel Pnin. She offers astute comments on Nabokov�s fictional process in creating Timogey Pnin and addresses hotly debated questions and long-standing riddles in Pnin and its history. Between the two of them, Nabokov and Szeftel embodied much of the complexity and variety of the Russian postrevolution emigre experience in Europe and the United States. Drawing on previously unpublished letters and diaries as well as on interview with family, friends, and collegues, Diment illuminates a fascinating cultural terrain. Pniniad--the epic of Pnin--begins with Szeftel�s early life in Russia and ends with his years in Seattle at the University of Washington, turning pivotally upon the time in Szeftel�s and Nabokov�s lives intersected at Cornell. Nabokov apparantly was both amused by and admiring of the innocence of his historian friend. Szeftel�s feelings towards Nabokov were also mixed, raning from intense disappointment over rebuffed attempts to collaborate with Nabokov to persistent envy of Nabokov�s success and an increasing wistfulness over his own sense of failure.

ON THE SCREEN a scene at Kursk station in Moscow. A bright April day of 1902. A group of friends, who came to see Zinaida Krutitsky and her mother off to the Crimea, stand on the platform by the sleeping-car. Among them Ivan Osokin, a young man about twentysix. Osokin is visibly agitated although he tries not to show it. Zinaida is talking to her brother, Michail, Osokin’s friend, a young officer in the uniform of one of the Moscow Grenadier regiments, and two girls. Then she turns to Osokin and walks aside with him. “I am going to miss you very much,” she says. “It’s a pity you cannot come with us. Though it seems to me that you don’t particularly want to, otherwise you would come. You don’t want to do anything for me. Your staying behind now makes all our talks ridiculous and futile. But I am tired of arguing with you. You must do as you like.” Ivan Osokin becomes more and more troubled, but he tries to control himself and says with an effort: “I can’t come at present, but I shall come later, I promise you. You cannot imagine how hard it is for me to stay here.” “No, I cannot imagine it and I don’t believe it,” says Zinaida quickly. “When a man wants anything as strongly as you say you do, he acts. I am sure you are in love with one of your pupils here—some nice, poetical girl who studies fencing. Confess!” She laughs. Zinaida’s words and tone hurt Osokin very deeply. He begins to speak but stops himself, then says: “You know that is not true; you know I am all yours.” “How am I to know?” says Zinaida with a surprised air. “You are always busy. You always refuse to come and see us. You never have any time for me, and now I should so much like you to come with us.