I finished this book fast—the whole thing in a day. And yet, here I am reviewing it, still unsure if I understand the thing. It completely took me over, I could hardly put it down, but if pressed, I equally could not tell you what it is about.

On the very surface, the action follows a "stalker" named Redrick Schuhart and his various encounters with "The Zone." We are told that, some years ago, an alien visitation left regions of the Earth blighted, dangerous, and highly anomalous. Red works as a scavenger-thief, going into the zone and stealing leftover alien detritus to sell on the black market.

At first I thought, however naively, that these "Zones" were an allusion at least in part to the Chernobyl disaster and looters exploiting its subsequent fallout. But no, the brothers Strugatsky finished their manuscript in the winter of 1971, close to seven years before the famous meltdown. Although, by the time the book had made it past the Soviet revision and censor boards, the explosion had happened. Boris lays all this out (sans Chernobyl) with gorgeous retrospect in the afterward of my edition.

Next I tried comparing it to a recent read of mine: Annihilation by Jeff Vandermeer. Both follow a wounded protagonist through "Zones" of their own, except Roadside Picnic is simply the better book. Vandermeer's is a highly allegorical and somewhat trite read, and I thought it was pretty good all things considered, but it was ultimately nothing like the Soviet blitz I'd just read.

So then I gave up; I stopped scrambling for a foothold or reference. It helped, thankfully, but I still don't feel comfortable claiming to have a grip on this story. I know that it grapples with ideas of greed, systemic failure, lust, the futility of science, etc., but all that's pretty vague. So, with the preamble aside, let me try to explain why I like it so much.

Roadside Picnic is absolutely canine; I've never read anything like it. It simply sinks its teeth into you and thrashes you around: a literary death roll. The reading experience feels like white water rafting. It is torrential and exhilarating and nonstop. And I know this is far from the canonical idea of great prose; there are no flowery descriptors or Tolkeinien turns of phrase. The text is not gentle with you, but it is every bit as enrapturing.

All this, and it still manages to be thematically dense. There are a multitude of ideas floating around in its pages, and I find all of them compelling if occasionally incoherent. The title ties into its ideas beautifully, too, but it would be a spoiler to explain exactly why.

Why then, with all this praise, am I withholding a perfect from it? Well, honestly, It just comes down to taste. While I was genuinely swept up by it and enjoyed it tremendously, it lands ever so slightly below my all-time favorites on an allegorical level. I'm currently working on a review for a book that did earn a perfect score, so look forward to that.

In swift conclusion, I echo the chorus of praise this book continues to receive. There's really nothing I can detract from it. Although it may not have bulls-eyed my individual preferences, I recommend it wholeheartedly.

- Lebenaut