Chapter 1: A Personal Journey Through Literature

From an early age, I have been an avid reader. Last year, I consumed several new books each week, but I now find myself struggling to discover new material. It feels as though I have exhausted the offerings of contemporary literature. While I haven’t read every book, the ones I seek out seem to be dwindling in number. The current literary landscape appears barren, leading me to wonder if writers are no longer producing engaging content.

"Perhaps you're just getting old," a perceptive reader might suggest, noting my profile. It’s true that many people stop reading after reaching forty, but I refuse to succumb! When I come across an intriguing book, I can easily lose track of time in its pages. Recently, I stumbled upon "Seven Days Before Megiddo" by Sergei Lukyanenko, which kept me engaged during my commute. Yet, I find fewer captivating stories these days.

My friend might then ask, "Do you have an explanation for this?" I would sigh and start with Adam—it seems easier that way. Having previously shared my thoughts on the Soviet-era book market on a Portuguese platform, I’ll jump to the 1990s.

Ah, what a remarkable time! The fall of the Iron Curtain opened up a treasure trove of literature, previously restricted for decades. Under the Soviet regime, the range of printed materials was limited and often censored. The 1990s heralded a golden era, introducing numerous new authors and countless books. We explored new genres, devouring epic sagas that had been penned over decades, and finally accessed uncut versions of our favorite stories.

Authors like Heinlein, Niven, Clark, Zelazny, King, Farmer, and Le Guin became accessible. Compared to the previous decade, books were affordable, allowing me to buy several "Best of the Year" anthologies weekly—essential during that era.

However, a sense of unease began to creep in. After re-reading many classics, I noticed that truly exceptional books seemed to fade into obscurity. It's easy to become complacent with quality literature. Then, I fortuitously discovered "Knight from Nowhere" by the relatively unknown Alexander Bushkov, left behind on a train.

During that time, I didn’t often read works by Russian authors, as the watered-down Soviet science fiction paled in comparison to foreign writers. Yet, I can now name several outstanding Russian novels I’ve encountered since then. Unfortunately, much of what I saw in the mainstream was uninspired.

Bushkov’s work, though not a literary masterpiece, featured compelling characters and a vivid world, written in a rich and imaginative Russian that I had sorely missed. The translations of Western fiction I had been reading were disappointingly subpar.

Take, for instance, Roger Zelazny's "Trumps of Fate," where a puzzling dialogue occurred: the protagonist jokes with the Sphinx, asking, "What is green and red, and circles, and circles and circles?" The Sphinx cannot solve the riddle, and the answer—"The frog is in Kuzinatra"—left readers baffled. This term became a symbol of elusive wisdom.

This image later appeared in "Smeshariki," a Russian animated series, where a character searched for "Kuzinatra, which gives the meaning." We were dismayed to learn that this elusive Kuzinatra was simply a kitchen appliance. On the other hand, Alexander Shcherbakov's translation of "The Moon is Coming Hard" by Robert Heinlein was masterfully executed, effectively capturing the essence of the original.

As I returned to Russian science fiction, I was astonished by the wealth of talent that had emerged seemingly out of nowhere. While many authors had written during the Soviet era, they weren’t widely recognized. I suspect that most readers experienced a similar awakening.

This phenomenon was exemplified by writers like Lukyanenko, Pelevin, Lazarchuk, Divov, Oldie, Perumov, Zvyagintsev, and Uspensky. They quickly carved out a space for themselves in the literary world, showcasing their wit and relevance. Their stories addressed contemporary issues, providing answers to questions that resonated with readers.

The only warning I would receive was that this literary abundance would not last indefinitely. As I discovered new authors, I naively believed that new voices would consistently emerge. Yet, by 2021, I found myself revisiting familiar names like Pelevin and Lukyanenko, with little new material to spark my interest. While Lukyanenko has maintained his high standards, many authors from the '90s have aged or passed away, leaving a void in their wake.

The generation of writers emerging in the 2000s suffered greatly due to piracy. At this point in my discussions, audience members often voice their belief that pirates help authors gain exposure. They might mention a few names, typically Gorkovatogo and Nadezhda Popova.

Regrettably, my friends, the reality is more complex. The situation resembles the dolphin joke: those who were pushed ashore by dolphins claim they were saved, while those cast away remain silent. Many notable authors of the 2000s, such as Zorichi, Proskurin, and Khodov, abandoned their craft when it failed to provide financial stability. In a market ravaged by piracy, only well-promoted authors could survive.

The emergence of legal digital libraries and a new generation of readers has started to shift the tides. Today's readers are more inclined to believe in compensating authors for their work. New literary platforms have emerged, with some authors earning substantial income—amounts comparable to Pelevin's peak earnings. This should have catalyzed the rise of new literary talents, but that hasn't happened.

The books currently topping the charts are often unreadable. They consist mainly of formulaic litRPGs, uninspired plots, and derivative works. Authors have found a way to write without genuine engagement, exploiting readers' psychological tendencies. By detailing their protagonists' accumulation of wealth and power, they create a sense of satisfaction through mere enumeration.

The author may describe how a character acquires a machine gun, a stash of ammunition, and other trivial items, evoking a sense of joy in the reader. This instinct mirrors the satisfaction of successful gatherers in our evolutionary past, who were rewarded for their efforts. Modern authors have learned to manipulate this instinct, providing satisfaction without any real effort.

To attract female readers, a variation of this principle is employed: the narrative showcases complex relationships and sumptuous meals that serve no plot purpose. The need for character development, emotional depth, and conflict has diminished. Readers now seem to appreciate simple lists of traits that grow with each chapter.

Thus, contemporary writers have replaced the thrill of unexpected plot developments and intellectual engagement with superficial elements. However, I don’t wish to imply that these books should be banned. If a story brings joy and relaxation, it has its value.

My criticism stems not from envy but from my extensive reading experience. While I’ve only been writing for a few years, I’ve spent a lifetime immersed in books. Now, I find myself facing a dearth of reading material, as simplified narratives have largely supplanted quality literature.

Why is this happening? The answer lies in the dynamics of the Lemon Market. The basic principle can be summarized as follows: when buyers lack the same information about a product's quality as sellers, inferior products drive out superior ones, ultimately leading to market collapse.

This concept is similar to the used car market, where "lemons" refer to defective vehicles that buyers discover only after purchase. Sellers possess more knowledge about a car's actual condition than buyers do, creating uncertainty during transactions. As a result, buyers expect average quality and are willing to pay a corresponding price.

Consequently, sellers of "bad" cars can charge above-market rates, enticing more sellers of such cars into the market, while those with "good" vehicles cannot secure fair prices and eventually exit. As quality sellers disappear, buyers’ willingness to pay for unknown-quality cars continues to decline until "good" options vanish altogether.

Writing a simplified book is significantly easier than crafting a nuanced narrative, and discerning the difference in stores is nearly impossible. They are often sold at the same price, allowing simplified books to usurp traditional literature.

• To truly appreciate a book, one must engage fully—immerse oneself in the plot, understand the characters, and be inspired by the author’s vision. Without this, the text’s magic falls flat.

This is why good and bad books often feel indistinguishable; both may start slowly, leading the reader to hope for something extraordinary. The difference lies in whether that miracle occurs; a good book delivers while a bad one does not.

However, readers only realize this after investing hours into a book. This is the danger of mediocre literature—it can swiftly extinguish one’s interest in reading altogether.

"But," the attentive reader might interject, "the book market is entirely different from the used car market. Each used car is unique, but a book is not." They may argue that a good book will quickly gain popularity and recognition, thereby correcting the market.

Unfortunately, this belief is misguided. The mechanisms of popular recommendations have faltered. Book reviewers and critics have discovered they can monetize their reviews, leading to a decline in genuine literary critique. As a result, reviews and awards became mere endorsements for payment, devoid of any correlation to a book's quality.

With the decline of traditional publishing houses, which have shifted from quality gatekeepers to print-on-demand services, we are left with an overwhelming number of books and a scarcity of worthwhile reads. High-quality works exist, but they remain hidden among a sea of mediocrity. Many new authors struggle to reach their audience and ultimately abandon their literary ambitions.

What, then, should we do? We must address the issues plaguing the book market. Consider this article an attempt to begin that discussion.

When readers visit any book website today, do they find quality literature? No, they see titles by authors who have invested heavily in advertising. Most of these works are not worth the time or money spent on them. Website owners profit while readers are left to sift through countless subpar releases in search of something exceptional.

Readers tend to gravitate toward familiar authors, which is why I continue to read Lukyanenko and Pelevin instead of exploring new writers. The first website dedicated to filtering and recommending quality literature will undoubtedly thrive. Even if it only features a handful of worthy books each month, readers will appreciate the assurance of their quality.

Moreover, we must recognize that a good book cannot be inexpensive; it is not a mass-produced item. For instance, in Russia, limited-edition publications of foreign science fiction works—often only a hundred copies—are sold at prices ranging from five to ten thousand rubles each. Nevertheless, readers are willing to pay for them.

A well-crafted book offers 20 to 30 hours of enriching reading and can command a price comparable to a "AAA" video game. Readers are willing to invest in their favorite genres, and I frequently receive generous contributions from supporters.

As for piracy, limited-edition books are rarely pirated. Those who have paid a premium for their copies are less likely to share them publicly, as it diminishes their value. Other protective measures, such as targeted announcements, can also be effective against piracy.

Without these steps, the book market risks complete collapse. History has shown us similar patterns before, such as during the "Computer Games Industry Crisis of 1983." This would be tragic, as I firmly believe that books represent the finest leisure activity for an intellectually curious individual.

Chapter 2: The Future of Literature

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