Dmitrii Prigov (1940–2007) has now achieved the status of a full-scale classic of contemporary Russian literature. The book by Mikhail Iampol'skii appears in a range of recent opuses: critical evaluations as well as continued volumes of collected works. The reviewed book not only makes use of texts published in Prigov's lifetime. The author also had access to unpublished manuscripts, which is an undeniable merit. The book touches upon the protagonist's multiple activities as poet, playwright, draughtsman, and performance artist. For his purposes, Iampol'skii has constructed an impressive theoretical apparatus: he refers to psychoanalysis, post-structuralism, and iconology, as well as to other movements. Erudition, however, appears to be a double-edged sword: at times, it does not seem to serve Iampol'skii, rather he is carried away by its current.

The book opens by Iampol'skii's statement of “Pictorial Nominalism” as his profession de foi. He must be aware of Thierry de Duve's book on Marcel Duchamp with the same title (1991; Russian translation 2012). Iampol'skii construes “Nominalism” as recognition of the arbitrariness of all artistic styles' names; so he implies, it is futile to “seriously discuss … [any] tendency”: it is “a term we invented” (5). Some of these terms, however, happen to be artists' self-definitions (Kazimir Malevich's Suprematism); some eyewitness testimonies (such as of Impressionism) ought to be considered part-and-parcel of the phenomena themselves.

Discussing interpretation of Prigov as a conceptualist (Moscow conceptualist!), Iampol'skii cites western sources as well as the article “Moscow Romantic Conceptualism” (1979) by Soviet émigré critic Boris Groys. Iampol'skii misreads Groys, however: the remark that “in Russia it is impossible to paint a decent Abstract picture without referring to the Light of Tabor” (8). Iampol'skii takes at face value the speculation on Hesychasm and Dionysios the Areopagite, which Groys intended as a sardonic comment upon Abstractions by Mikhail Kulakov and Mikhail Schwartzman (described as a “sectarian” by Ilya Kabakov).

The main flaw of the book is the fact that Iampol'skii removed Prigov from his social context: the milieu of unofficial Moscow artists, the Soviet Underground, is never discussed in the book. Iampol'skii reads Prigov “through” Baruch Spinoza and Gottfried Wilhelm Leibnitz as if he were John Milton, and “through” Friedrich Nietzsche as if he were Stefan George. Russian parallels would seem more appropriate; yet neither “Commonplace Absurdism” of Daniil Kharms, nor “Philosophy of Everyday Existence” intimated by Vassilii Rozanov are mentioned.

In 1992, Prigov wrote his Afterword for a collection of Vladimir Sorokin's stories. Sorokin's heroes are described as “people from the Metro” or “little people” (malen'kie liudi), traditionally championed by “classical Russian literature.” This definition fits Prigov himself. Quite often, he wrote/ spoke as a “little fellow”: not very intelligent, poorly educated, and quite vulgar. One can take Prigov out of the Soviet reality (as does Iampol'skii), but one cannot take Soviet reality out of Prigov. So when he writes that “in our [times] an object was displaced by nomination,” (10) he meant the situation described in the 1980s Soviet anecdote: “In the USSR nobody does anything,—but everyone's employed. Everybody works,—but shops are empty. Shops empty,—but everyone's fridges are full. Fridges full,—but everyone's discontented. Discontented,—but everybody votes ZA” (in support of).

One of the strategies invented by Moscow conceptualists was the so-called “author-personage” in whose name texts were composed, pictures painted, and so on. This was the strategy employed by Prigov: the “mask of the little fellow” was used by others, including Ilya Kabakov, Timur Kibirov, and younger conceptualists from the “Medhermeneutic” group. What Prigov ultimately demonstrated was “not-getting-stuck” (nevlipanie), a term coined by conceptualist Pavel Peppershtein; rolling everywhere like the Kolobok (a quasi-folk image from conceptualist lore).

In post-Soviet, comparative literature exists a study by Vadim Rudnev: “Winnie-the-Pooh and the Philosophy of Colloquial Speech” (1994). Analyzing Pooh the Bear's verse, Rudnev concludes that they are composed by a charming simpleton “of Little Brain” who celebrated Cottleston Pie. Pooh as a personage—same as the Kolobok, popular in Soviet culture—seems to fit Prigov's assumed persona. When Iampol'skii discusses the collection entitled “Echolalia … and Other Moments,” he refers to Jacques Derrida's Voice and Phenomena: Introduction to the Problem of the Sign in Husserl's Phenomenology (1967). But in fact, echolalia/ glossolalia are border-states of verse (like Humm or Tiddely-Pom). In the circumstances of the 1980s–90s, Prigov tried to compromise the traditional role of Russian Poet as the Prophet/Teacher. The last ones who projected themselves into this position were the “Sixties' Poets” (shestidesyatniki), who failed in the eyes of conceptualists. That is why was Prigov opposed to this ceremonial avatar—Pooh-the-little-fellow.

Another of Derrida's observations seems more relevant in Prigov's case: on the “discourse which borrows from a heritage the resources necessary for the deconstruction of that heritage itself” (Derrida, Writing and Difference, 282). That is, Prigov's major task (sverkhzadacha) was to deconstruct the Soviet ideological heritage. He accepted the influence of German performance artist Joseph Beuys (30). The latter's activities are often interpreted as “Shamanic rituals” as he recognized/redeemed the guilt of ordinary Germans (the little people!) for Nazi atrocities. One wonders, did Prigov secretly wish to redeem the crimes of the Soviet communist regime; to “ritually purge” totalitarian clichés from Russian consciousness?