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by Sergei Dovlatov
A few years ago, when I first starting reading and writing about Dovlatov, I focused on the wickedly humorous side of Dovlatov’s deadpan. But a few years later, and a few more books into his body of work, I find myself more interested in that earnestness and regret -- in Dovlatov the evolving man and artist, who crafted and, yes, honed a version of himself in his fiction that was just distorted enough to be true.
The New Yorker published nine of Dovlatov's stories between 1981 and 1989. Why is he so little known or read in the West today?