A Precocious Autobiography

I’ve never read Yevtushenko’s work, so I can’t comment on his poetry; however, his autobiography is very, very good. I admit to crying multiple times, particularly in his depiction of Stalin’s funeral, however, it collapses toward the end, wherein Yevtushenko spends twenty pages being very smug, very self-congratulatory, and very, very arrogant. When he writes about the Russian people, he is incredibly moving; when he writes about himself, he just comes off like a pompous ass.

3.5/5