Roadside Picnic, by Arkady and Boris Strugstsky; this translation by Olena Bormashenko; original copyright 1972, this translation published 2012; 193 pages.

I just finished reading “Roadside Picnic” by Arkady & Boris Strugatsky.  Written in the USSR at the height of the Soviet Union, it is a science fiction novel of generally dystopian bent.  Seemingly related both stylistically and philosophically to some of the early works of M. John Harrison, although there is no suggestion to be found that any of the authors were aware of each other.

By itself, the novel is not particularly provocative.  Especially in our “modern” world and the world of literature, it does not tread any “new” ground.  It is reasonably well written.  The characters are consistent and realistic, if perhaps a tiny little bit two-dimensional – even the main character saves the entirety of his “moral” and philosophical development for the last couple of pages. The world building is excellent, if a little spare; but it is after all a thoroughly dystopian novel.
So the novel: is acceptable.  I don’t feel robbed of the time I spent reading.
The real work of the piece, the real alteration to the reader’s perspective, the real power…resides in the Afterword.  The author’s description of the world in which the novel was produced, and the tortured path it took to publication.  The words of one who lived through a totalitarian regime and tried to work creatively, artistically within those bounds.  Made all the more powerful for the current political realities that are being contested right now…not 50 years ago.
There is apparently a movie.  And a video game.  The text certainly reads like a perfect treatment for those formats.  And while the Afterword is instructive and cautionary, it also contains the seeds of its own “destruction.”  Much like the philosophical journey of the main character, and the exercise in world building, it can be said to argue that, in the end, nothing we humans can ever do will ever matter.  Even the destruction that we visit upon each other, upon society, upon the world – all simply cease to matter in the face of the passage of time, even if some example of humanity or other survives to make a record of the events.
Dystopian, indeed.