‘The number of words you can say keeps shrinking’ Meduza investigates how wartime censorship has (and hasn’t) reshaped Russia’s book industry

Since the full-scale invasion of Ukraine, cultural life in Russia has endured a new wave of censorship. The government bans not only works of art — films, plays, songs — but also the artists themselves. Literature, of course, is no exception. The Russian authorities have designated writers as “foreign agents” and “terrorists,” charging them with felonies and ordering their books pulled from the shelves in stores and libraries. Many have been forced to leave the country or cease public activities. Abroad, this has led to the revival of tamizdat: several new publishing houses (including Meduza) are releasing books that cannot be printed in Russia. Despite these challenges, work that tackles today’s reality is still being written and sold in Russia. This includes books about what has upended Russian society in recent years: the war in Ukraine. Meduza special correspondent Kristina Safonova explores how this remains possible.

This article cites books published in Russia after Vladimir Putin ordered the full-scale invasion of Ukraine on February 22, 2022. Meduza is redacting the titles of these books to protect their authors, publishers, and booksellers.

Author A. writes a novel

As soon as he finished a draft of his novel, writer A. went looking for a willing publisher. He realized that publishing even a fictional story that so closely echoes the reality of ████ ████ ████ ████ in wartime Russia would be a challenge few would dare undertake. And a series of rejections followed. Some editors praised the manuscript but regretfully added, “You understand why we can’t.” Others, A. recalls, “weren’t as forthcoming,” but it was clear that the novel’s content explained the refusal to publish.

When A. eventually found “daredevils who liked the book enough to risk it,” they warned him that the manuscript had to pass a legal review before publication. This unsettled A., but the lawyer’s revisions, it turned out, didn’t apply to the “political sections” that had scared off other publishers. “It all went surprisingly smoothly,” A. now admits.

Yet just before the book’s release, online marketplaces received the synopsis and demanded that the publisher obtain a statement from a “reputable expert” confirming the absence of “extremism” in the text, A. told Meduza. According to the editor-in-chief of a Russian publishing house, whom Meduza will call “B.,” marketplaces often base their purchasing decisions on book abstracts. 

████’s publisher found an expert who “promptly identified extremism” in the novel.

“A completely ridiculous censor,” A. told Meduza. “He could never clearly explain why something was prohibited, but he kept promising us, ‘You’ll all go to prison for this.’” (Meduza learned the hired expert’s name.)

Initially, A. crossed out and rewrote parts of the text that the “censor” didn’t like. These edits, the author says, “didn’t significantly affect the plot.” However, no matter how many changes A. made, the expert was never satisfied. Eventually, A. realized that complying with all the recommendations would “completely destroy the novel.” “I desperately wanted to publish in Russia because my readers are here, but there’s a limit to everything. When this happened, I reevaluated what I thought I knew about Soviet censorship. I felt like a frog being slowly boiled alive.”

A. believes he “got off relatively easily.” The publisher sided with him and agreed to disregard some of the expert’s suggestions. A. doesn’t know how they ultimately resolved the marketplace’s request for an expert assessment, but the novel soon appeared in Russian bookstores and on online platforms, albeit in a “slightly abridged version.”

“I managed to hop into the last car of a train hurtling into the abyss, but not before they managed to chop off a finger,” A. says. He is not alone in this sentiment: Four other writers publishing in Russia echoed similar frustrations to Meduza. “Everyone is hurrying to release books that could still use more work,” says writer V., one of A.’s colleagues. “But it feels like you’ve got to act fast, or you might lose the chance to publish at all.”

A ‘literary boom’ in a nation at war

In the early months of the full-scale invasion of Ukraine, Russia’s book market faced unprecedented challenges. Numerous Western publishing houses, including the major conglomerate Penguin Random House, announced their withdrawal from Russia. Global literary stars, such as Stephen King and J.K. Rowling, forbade the sale of their works within the country. Amid international sanctions, a market already struggling with shortages of paper and printing capacities braced itself for price spikes and declining sales. Even so, the most serious threat to Russia’s book business was clearly the arrival of outright censorship.

“The patient is more alive than dead,” says a publishing industry insider whom Meduza will call “T.” However, the editor-in-chief of a publishing house, source D., was more pessimistic, calling out the market’s “gradual degradation” and warning that print runs are dwindling despite state efforts to keep the industry afloat. Vladimir Kharitonov, the technical editor of the Freedom Letters publishing house (blocked online in Russia for publishing banned books), says quarterly reports from the Russian Book Chamber support the gloomier assessment:

After the first year of the war, says E., an employee at a book publishing house, some foreign copyright holders resumed working with publishers in Russia (a claim echoed by J. at another publishing house). “It’s a business, after all, and everything comes down to the price [for the book rights],” E. explains. “Of course, there are authors with very strong principles. At the same time, a lot of writers want to collaborate but worry about potential backlash from their government. So, it’s less about ethics than fear of getting your ass handed to you.”

According to Z., the editor-in-chief of a Russian publishing house, and book publisher Felix Sandalov, demand for sanctions circumvention has fueled the emergence of specialized companies outside Russia that enable “selling rights for Russian translations without risking one’s reputation.” Even so, says J., an employee of a publishing house, bagging a bestseller remains extremely difficult.

Book pirates were quick to exploit Russians’ unmet demand for Western bestsellers. For example, in 2023, the Luhansk-based publishing house Trophy Book released new works by both King and Rowling. (Journalists at RBC report that pirate publishing houses are often based in unrecognized territories like occupied Ukraine and Abkhazia, where international law is essentially unenforceable.) “There’s been a surge in counterfeit editions,” complains E. “On [the classified advertisements website] Avito, there are countless ads like ‘I’ll print for you,’ and it’s impossible to shut it down.” At the same time, she adds, Russian publishers have increasingly commissioned books that imitate foreign bestsellers. “That doesn’t mean they’re low-quality. But it’s like, if you enjoyed XY, here’s some Z,” the source told Meduza.

Additionally, the book market is increasingly shifting its focus eastward. “Asian literature already had a fan base [in Russia]. They used to read everything for free online and translate it themselves. At some point, they broke through, and even people who hadn’t read this literature before became deeply interested,” says E. “Korean and Chinese novels, manga, and Eastern comics are driving a 200-percent annual growth in print runs,” claims publisher D.

Amid international sanctions, homegrown authors have also gained considerable attention from Russian publishers seeking their industry’s version of “import substitution.” Due to the shortage of available titles, E. explains, a manuscript rejected at one publishing house for commercial reasons is still “likely to be published within five months by someone else.” Editor I. also told Meduza that Russian publishers struggle to fill their portfolios, noting that some companies have resorted to “pitch sessions” where writers meet with publishing representatives to share ideas. “I suspect the major print houses used to scoff at such things, but now they can’t afford to ignore it,” I. said.

Writer V. sees the situation differently. “We’re living through an absolute literary boom,” she says, explaining that interest in Russian-language authors coincides with a generational shift in literature: “There’s a new wave of authors actively writing about their own experiences. Autofiction [a form of fictionalized autobiography] and regional narratives are trending. It’s a kind of golden age.”

At the same time, V. worries that the positive changes for Russian writers are happening only “out of inertia.” “The real shitshow will unfold slowly,” she warns.

A more dangerous world of books

Officially, there’s no censorship in Russia. However, there are prohibited subjects designated in a growing body of laws adopted by the federal government.

• “You can’t talk about war — no matter which war it is,” says Z., the editor-in-chief of a publishing house. “Even with the Great Patriotic War [the Soviet fronts of the Second World War], you can’t say anything unless it’s praising the heroic deeds of Russian and Soviet soldiers.”
• “Anything at all can be labeled as [LGBTQ+] propaganda,” says E., an editor at a publishing house, explaining that an entire print run can be pulled because of a secondary character who “acts flamboyantly” or says something like, “My parents will never accept my choice.”
• “If characters smoke weed and don’t shout about how disgusting it is and all die before the page ends, you risk getting flagged for [drug] propaganda,” adds editor I.

The earliest bans, which targeted children’s book publishers, arrived long before the invasion of Ukraine. In 2010, the federal government adopted legislation “On the Protection of Children from Information Harmful to Their Health and Development.” Three years later, Russia started prosecuting offenses involving the dissemination of so-called “gay propaganda” among minors. “We’ve always faced much stricter requirements, always existing under this censorship,” says Irina Balakhonova, the founder of the children’s publishing house Samokat. (In the spring of 2022, Balakhonova moved to Europe and launched Samtambooks, an online store for children’s books in Russian.)

“Drugs and LGBTQ topics have always been sensitive,” agrees writer L. Completely unrelated subjects can also create problems, editor I. told Meduza, recalling how — long before the full-scale invasion of Ukraine — one publisher had to withdraw an entire print run because the author had used the word “occupation” in the context of the Soviet occupation of one of the republics. “The laws always had poorly thought-out provisions that made our work more difficult,” says I.

Even so, says K., who works at a children’s publishing house, there was a sense before the war that Russia’s book industry was “the last place of interest to officials.” Fourteen other sources from the Russian book market interviewed by Meduza agreed with this sentiment.

It seemed, K. explains, that controversial topics in books — unlike in films, for example — were incapable of “incurring the wrath of the authorities.” “The book world, compared to other creative industries, is very poor, very niche. It’s inhabited by bookworms who don’t even have the means to galvanize public opinion… That’s why what unfolded in the year or so after the war began was so shocking.”

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Sources in Russia’s book market who spoke to Meduza identified different events as the decisive moment in the industry.

Some believe the turning point was banning the novel A Summer in the Red Scarf by Katerina Silvanova and Elena Malisova. Published by Popcorn Books in early 2021, the coming-of-age story about a romantic relationship between a Pioneer scout and a counselor had become a bestseller by autumn. Russian conservative propagandists later pounced on the novel. After lawmakers adopted a total ban on “gay propaganda” in November 2022, the book and its sequel, Silence of the Swallow, were pulled from shelves. The Russian authorities also designated Sylvanova and Malisova and several corporate interests tied to Popcorn Books as “foreign agents.” Sylvanova and Malisova now live abroad.

Other sources told Meduza that expanding “foreign agent” designations into Russia’s literary world was the industry’s watershed moment. One of the first writers added to this blacklist was Dmitry Bykov in July 2022. Today, the Justice Ministry’s registry includes no fewer than 20 individuals linked to literature, including popular Russian authors Dmitry Glukhovsky (who was sentenced in absentia to eight years in prison in August 2023 for spreading alleged “fake news” about the Russian military), Lyudmila Ulitskaya, and Boris Akunin (the pseudonym of Grigory Chkhartishvili, who has also been added to the Federal Financial Monitoring Service’s list of “extremists and terrorists”).

“Writers have become dangerous people,” says publisher D. “The idea of ‘dissent’ is back, and it's something to be punished. Because it’s better if everyone thinks the same and thinks the right way.”

The radical Orthodox movement Sorok Sorokov took aim at Vladimir Sorokin’s latest novel, Legacy, and in January 2024, they asked the Internal Affairs Ministry to investigate the book for supposedly promoting pedophilia. Soon after, the modern Russian literary classic faced a wave of complaints filed with the Federal Investigative Committee. “It felt like the window of freedom was closing,” recalls writer A.

By April, the publishing house AST had pulled six books from sale, including Legacy. In an official statement, the company explained that Sorokin’s novel (along with A Home at the End of the World by Michael Cunningham and Giovanni’s Room by James Baldwin) violated Russia’s ban on “promoting LGBT [themes] and gender reassignment.”

AST said it based its actions on assessments by the Russian Book Union’s Expert Center, a non-governmental organization that ostensibly advocates for publishers’ interests in dealings with state regulators. This was the first time many had even heard of the Expert Center.

How lobbyists turned to ‘self-regulation’ to shield themselves

When Russia started enforcing its ban on “the promotion of non-traditional sexual relationships,” E. recalls that her publishing house pulled almost all its “specialized literature”: “We kept one book because the characters suffered and died in the end. In other words, the book didn’t violate current legislation. But we still had to pull it later because of [the federal censor] Roskomnadzor.”

Since then, E. adds, regulators have written regularly to her editorial office. “They’ve taken notice of us, started winking and saying, ‘We’re keeping an eye on you,’” E. says.

The “gay propaganda” ban’s adoption led to “uncertainty in the market and fear among publishers and bookstores about releasing and selling a range of fiction and non-fiction works,” Russia’s Digital Development Ministry later concluded. By January 2023, just a month after the law’s enactment, industry leaders began discussing the need for a new agency to evaluate books for compliance with the legislation.

In January 2023, at a roundtable organized by the Russian state’s newspaper of record, Rossiyskaya Gazeta, Dahl State Museum of Russian Literary History director Dmitry Bak raised this very issue, saying, “We need an expert agency to review each individual case when a problem arises.”

Bak — a well-known literary scholar and professor at the Russian State University for the Humanities, who in 2014 signed a letter supporting “the president’s stance on Ukraine and Crimea” — would later head the same Russian Book Union’s Expert Center that flagged Sorokin’s Legacy.

According to minutes published on the Digital Development Ministry’s website, the agency’s expert councils held a joint meeting on September 1, 2023, to discuss an upcoming literary festival in occupied Ukraine and self-regulatory mechanisms in Russia’s publishing industry. At this point in the meeting, Vladimir Grigoriev and Mikhail Arzamanov, officials from the Digital Development Ministry, announced the creation of a special expert center to review “works potentially containing destructive content.”

At the same meeting, participants decided that Dmitry Bak, as the head of the new center, would collaborate with the Russian Book Union to develop and approve the ministry’s “methodology for conducting evaluations.” The Russian Book Union also pledged to provide the ministry with nominations for future experts. The project was scheduled to be completed by October 1, 2023.

The identities of those at the Expert Center assessing books for “destructive content” remain a public mystery. According to Digital Development Ministry official Vladimir Grigoriev, its members would include representatives from Roskomnadzor, the Russian Historical Society, and the Russian Military Historical Society. A source at the Russian Book Union told the newspaper Vedomosti that the experts also include representatives of the Russian Orthodox Church, the Spiritual Administration of Muslims of Russia, the Federation of Jewish Communities of Russia, and the Gorky Literary Institute. However, an industry report the Digital Development Ministry prepared last year mentions only a “pool of specialized experts” that includes writers, sociologists, and psycholinguists.

Virtually nothing is known about the center’s work, either. None of the four heads of Russian publishing houses interviewed by Meduza had encountered it, nor had any of our 12 sources among editorial staff and writers.

“[The Expert Center] is actually one way publishers protect themselves against constant attacks,” says M., who works in Russia’s book industry. Three other industry sources interviewed by Meduza share this view. “When you’re facing daily fines, even the largest publishing conglomerate could go bankrupt… If you can’t escape the pogrom, you might as well lead it,” says Georgy Urushadze, the former director of the Big Book Prize and founder of the Freedom Letters publishing house. “To ban a book now, you need something like a decision from this Expert Center. And who knows when the group convenes or how many months it takes to finish a single review.”

Few believe the Russian Book Union’s Expert Center could become a true censorship agency akin to the Soviet-era Glavlit. “Censorship [in the USSR] required many personnel for a significantly smaller volume of texts. Recreating that mechanism today would be extremely difficult,” says M., another industry insider.

Vladimir Kharitonov, the technical director at Freedom Letters, argues there’s no need for a formal censorship agency. “All efforts are focused on creating a censorship mechanism that operates autonomously and doesn’t drain economic resources,” he explains. That mechanism is self-censorship.

The Russian Book Union declined to answer Meduza’s questions about the Expert Center, stating that it “does not consider it appropriate to provide information about its activities” to an outlet designated in Russia as an “undesirable organization.” Dmitry Bak told Meduza that he “hasn’t headed the center for a long time,” though at a meeting in early April 2024 (according to minutes published by the Digital Development Ministry), Bak presented “the first results of the Expert Center’s work.” He ignored our follow-up question about who succeeded him as the head of the Expert Center.

Leave it to the ‘most neurotic little critters’

Source E. told Meduza that no one at a publishing house, beyond the editor, typically knows what’s actually “inside the book,” so it falls directly on editors to ensure that manuscripts comply with the law. J., who works at another publishing house, says editors who fail at this can even face “disciplinary action”: “It’s the same fines as for any mistake — for example, in the title. Usually, it’s a small percentage of their bonus.”

Most editors clearly understand what the law explicitly prohibits from print, but many regulations are worded so vaguely, says editor I., that “almost anything could fall under a violation.” In such situations, publishers turn to lawyers or outside consultants — not to the Expert Center at the Russian Book Union but to specialized firms and individual experts accredited by Roskomnadzor.

Although the list of specialists is publicly available on Roskomnadzor’s website, publisher Felix Sandalov says, “Everyone just goes back and forth to each other.” “I wouldn’t call them ‘loyal experts,’ but there are certainly organizations where you know in advance what kind of response you’ll get to any request,” E. remarks.

An expert from Roskomnadzor’s registry, who spoke to Meduza on condition of anonymity, confirms that inquiries from publishers have increased over the past two and a half years. His organization receives new and older work alike, which they review for compliance with Russia’s rapidly changing legislation. “We need to figure out what’s already been printed. With works that are, shall we say, complex… It’s necessary to determine where there’s cultural value and where there isn’t,” the source told Meduza. “You see, there are quite a few ‘pseudo-Lolitas.’ And they have to be assessed for potential destructive influence on consumers.”

Usually, reviewers look at the entire manuscript, not just excerpts. One expert told Meduza that his office takes this holistic approach: “We understand that the overall context must be present. We have to analyze the integrity of the object of study.” According to him, book analysts rely exclusively on “scientific methods,” including “communicative-semantic” and “lexical-semantic” methodologies. Analysts look at the cover art, too. “We don’t just have linguists, art historians, religious studies experts, and sexologists,” said the expert. “We also have psychologists who need to infer or identify the presence of certain effects on the potential audience based on the imagery.”

These literary examinations take at least a month, says Meduza’s source. At his organization, a manuscript review’s cost is calculated based on recommendations from the Justice Ministry. “We do everything with quality. And we are genuinely independent in our scientific analysis and conclusions about informational products,” another expert listed on Roskomnadzor’s registry argued. “Because of this, we’re frequently summoned to courts, where we defend our point of view.” When Meduza asked this individual if the state ought to be regulating literature in the first place, he said he considers censorship “an integral part of a nation’s morality and ethics within a historical timeframe.”

“Shady companies that churn out 40-page documents in clunky bureaucratic language,” says publisher Felix Sandalov when asked about the expert groups hired to analyze manuscripts. Publishers typically order reviews only “in contentious cases,” he says. That way, if there are complaints against the book later, they can produce the expert opinion in court. “It doesn’t fix everything, but it offers a means to minimize problems or even prevent them altogether,” explains Sandalov.

The publishing house where E. works typically hires expert reviewers after a book is released, but only if the sales are high enough to invite additional scrutiny (or if a book draws a large number of complaints). Sometimes, an examination’s cost is simply too high, making it pointless to review the book. “It’s just a piece of paper to cover your butt. It offers protection ‘legally’ but not really,” E. says. In most cases, the reviews end up forgotten in a desk drawer, Sandalov told Meduza.

Publishers need to consult with lawyers far more often than they seek help from content analysts, but legal professionals can be useless, too. “Lawyers all say the same thing: Ban everything. They’re the most neurotic little critters,” E. says. Chief editor Z. describes these legal consultations as a kind of homeopathy: “It’s something to reassure the author, and nothing more.”

“We recently worked on a book that two or three different lawyers reviewed. They all came to completely contradictory conclusions,” editor I. recounts. “One said we needed to cut out everything and cancel the book’s publication altogether. Another said it was all fine.” In the end, complains I., everyone “tries to self-censor to the best of their intellectual abilities.”

An industry driven to absurdities by self-censorship

Black boxes like “████” instead of words. Disclaimers. The names of publishing house personnel removed. Bracketed notices indicating [censored data]. And, of course, subtle edits that are invisible to readers. The Russian book industry’s self-censorship has become full-blown in “a general atmosphere of caution and sometimes fear,” says B., a publishing house editor-in-chief.

Here are just a few examples:

• “There was a case where an editor even redacted the word ‘drugs,’” recalls E.
• The phrase “Swan Lake,” lawyers explained to editor-in-chief Z., could “be interpreted as a call to overthrow the government.” (This refers to the August 1991 coup attempt, when Soviet television broadcast looping videos of Tchaikovsky's Swan Lake instead of reporting on the mayhem in the streets.)
• A publisher refused to accept a manuscript from L.: “They openly said, ‘We’re scared because you’ve got sensitive socio-political themes.’”
• E. says that after the war began, the publishing house she works for started hiding the origins of Ukrainian authors: “We pretend they’re not from there.”
• Writer V. was offered a reprint of her short story collection, but one of the stories — ████ ████ ████ ████ ████ — needed to be “somehow veiled” due to its queer themes.
• Writer P. recounts that her latest novel ████ was already set for publication when the editor unexpectedly asked her to remove an anti-government slogan.
• “They asked me to change a phrase in the text. Instead of ‘Do you realize what kind of country we live in?’ they wanted me to write, ‘Do you realize what kind of place we live in?’” recalls writer N. (She ultimately found another publisher that released her book without the change.)

“The number of words you can say keeps shrinking,” says writer A. “It’s absurd in a world made of words. There’s a profound tragedy in that.”

Publishing industry insiders told Meduza that self-censorship isn’t limited to editors and authors, either — it also affects bookstore employees:

• Editor-in-chief D. complains that some bookstores and libraries have “suddenly started circulating lists of ‘banned’ authors”: “They tell us, ‘We won’t buy this, this, or this. They’re on the lists.’” He had to work hard to convince staff that these lists are fake.
• There were cases, E. claims, when a book ordered online arrived at a store, but the staff refused to hand it over to the customer “out of fear.”
• “In some places, our books can only be bought under the counter,” says Freedom Letters publishing house founder Georgy Urushadze.
• According to M., publishing houses themselves often request the removal of books from shelves by authors designated as “foreign agents” or “undesirable.”
• The owner of an independent bookstore, O., says major chains “removed Ulitskaya and Akunin” even though there’s no legal ban on selling their works. “There are stores where all books by ‘foreign agents’ were immediately taken off the shelves. There are stores without Ulitskaya’s books. There are stores without Sorokin’s books,” confirms M. “At the slightest hint of media controversy, the response is always the same: ban it, remove it, forget it.”

On the one hand, says writer N., she’s constantly haunted by the desire to “free herself from self-censorship.” Then N. says she remembers that she’s “an adult” and responsible for her actions in a very real, legal sense. “Fighting both fear and the desire to say something takes enormous energy,” N. admits. “It’s terrifying to wake up one morning, take a look in the mirror, and realize you’re disgusted with what you see because you’ve choked yourself silent.”

Writer V. is convinced that editors make changes to texts, in part, to ensure the authors’ safety. Editor-in-chief Z. adds: “If the wording is too risky, we propose an alternative that retains the essence but can’t be prosecuted. There’s no censorship.”

Editor I. explains that she only looks “at the letter of the law.” “Literature is all woven from synonyms and analogies,” she says. “There are many different techniques you can use to achieve your artistic goals.” E. agrees, describing her efforts to evade limitations as a “creative exercise”: “I understand that either I do this, or someone else will do it instead, possibly worse.”

Editor-in-chief D. admits that he “feels bad,” though he says he’s managed to avoid any “major moral compromises”: “For now, we’re still trying to hold to our old views without altering them to fit the new order. For now, that’s still possible… [But] if we come up against insurmountable moral obstacles, we’ll have to stop.”

“It’s shameful,” editor Zh. bluntly told Meduza.

The birth of a new Russian literature

“It was a realization of what future literature would look like: bold enough to speak out, but forced to navigate a minefield,” says writer A. about a novel he recently read, published in Russia. The book doesn’t mention the word “war” once, he explains, but it is “a deliberate omission around which the entire text is built.”

Some books published in Russia since February 2022 use poetic imagery to allude to the war and dictatorship. Others turn to fairy tales or science fiction. Some writers transport their readers to an imaginary world that’s nonetheless deeply familiar to Russians, whether set in the past or the future. Others depict the present day, weaving news headlines and court transcripts into their narratives.

“We published a couple of books that dive into the current state of affairs,” says B., the editor-in-chief of a publishing house in Russia. “We did it because we couldn’t not publish them. That’s how our moral principles came into play.” “If the writing is brilliant, the risk is always worthwhile,” argues publisher Felix Sandalov.

However, the tightening of laws since the full-scale invasion of Ukraine has forced Russian publishers to rethink even standard marketing strategies. “Previously, if there was a hook that caught people’s attention, we focused on that,” Sandalov explains. “For example, in the case of nonbinary individuals, you might see a combination of avtorka [a feminized version of ‘author’] and a male name. That’s no longer done, although the people remain the same.” Sometimes, says B., publishers refrain from offering their books to marketplaces and major bookstore chains altogether.

Literary critics (like Galina Yuzefovich) also try to avoid certain “thorny subjects” in book reviews. “Sometimes, when there’s a good relationship with the critic, they might be asked to smooth over certain details. But often, there’s no need to ask — everyone gets it,” Sandalov told Meduza.

“You open a book and immediately understand why nobody has written about it. One look and it’s: ‘No way in hell I’m touching that!’” says O., the owner of an independent bookstore. “But we’ll tell customers ourselves that the book is great.”

R., the founder of another independent bookstore, says some shops prominently display certain books as topical literature. Bookstores typically exclude pro-invasion “Z-writers” from this category (three industry insiders told Meduza that no one is forced to sell these books). “If they didn’t write only shit, there would be a place for them, too,” adds O. When customers complain that they can’t find books by these authors, by people like Zakhar Prilepin, O. usually lies and politely says, “We’re sold out!”

“It’s important to keep it as peaceful as you can,” says O. “We know we won’t change anyone’s mind, but we can at least be a welcoming space.”

Some publishers continue to release even queer literature. Chinese danmei novels [featuring romantic relationships between male characters] remain popular in Russia, editorial staff member E. told Meduza. “The hottest topic now is bromances, where the men share a friendship that’s allowed under the law but strong enough for readers to see through it,” she explains. Sometimes, E. adds, publishers have to change the gender of a character in an LGBTQ-themed story (with the consent of the author or rights holder): “It’s the safest option. If readers want the original version, they can imagine it in their heads when they read.”

Despite Russia’s total ban on “propaganda of nontraditional relationships” and the designation of the “international LGBT movement” as “extremist,” there is no explicit ban on selling books with queer themes. “There’s no formal ‘LGBT organization,’ so there are no books published by it,” explains bookstore owner O. But much depends on how the Russian authorities enforce the law, and police can find “propaganda” in any LGBT-themed book “if they really want.”

Last summer, officials in regions remote from Moscow and St. Petersburg started conducting unscheduled inspections at independent bookstores, two industry sources told Meduza. So far, state prosecutors have been interested only in books by designated “foreign agents” (whose content must carry an “adults only” disclaimer and be packaged in opaque wrapping). “It’s incredibly humiliating to comb through the authors every week for [the latest] ‘foreign agents’ and flag them accordingly,” said one source. “It feels like you’re complicit in a process that you have no investment in whatsoever.”

Sometimes, publishing a book in Russia is simply impossible — for example, if its very plot could be interpreted as a violation of the law, explains editor-in-chief Z.: “We offer these manuscripts to friendly publishers abroad.” His colleague D. occasionally does the same: “It’s a revival of Soviet tamizdat — with much more favorable conditions than in the past.”

Irina Balakhonova, the editor-in-chief of the children’s publishing house Samokat, recalls how she moved two truckloads of books out of Russia at the start of the war. Many of these books are now for sale at her Europe-based online store, SamTamBooks. “I have a publishing house where I can print whatever I want for the diaspora, and I have [the publisher in Russia], where I can print what my government allows,” Balakhonova says, adding: “We break no laws.”

A publishing house that violates Russia’s censorship laws risks fines and could even have its operations suspended for 90 days, says Sandalov. “The problems are so overwhelming,” he explains, “that most people just break under the pressure.” On top of this, store executives can face personal liability, including felony charges for offenses like “drug propaganda.” “We’ve adopted the motto: ‘Do what you can,’” says editor-in-chief B.

“Life goes on, and you can still work,” says independent bookstore owner O. “It’s a worthwhile pursuit for today. You’re still free to say that war is awful — just not through protests, but in another way.” Writer N. agrees, telling Meduza: “The only thing left for us is to say something, anything — even if it’s in Morse code and only we understand.”

An Internet mob and comfort-seeking readers

Last summer, author V. was planning to attend a book festival in a Russian city. However, shortly before her trip, the organizer called with a surprise update: “Sorry, you’ve been banned.”

Bans on authors speaking at festivals (and sometimes even the cancellation of entire events) didn’t start in the summer of 2024, another author, S., told Meduza. But this kind of thing was rare until recently. “Everyone understands what’s going on,” adds author P. “It’s all done quietly.”

Four authors whose book festival appearances in Russia were canceled at the last minute told Meduza that organizers either didn’t disclose the reasons or offered patently absurd explanations. “They said it was because my book has a restricted rating,” says F. “But other writers also had books that are restricted to adults, and they were kept on the program.”

One canceled appearance doesn’t necessarily mean an author is blacklisted for life. “Sometimes you’re added to the lineup for a festival event and then removed, but later you’re invited to the next one,” says author N.

“I don’t know what determines it, but, for example, in City A, it’s absolutely impossible for one author to take the stage, yet in City B, the same author is welcome without any issues. And then the same place bans a different author,” says T., who works in Russia’s book industry. “This idiocy can happen anywhere.”

Not all festival lineups require the authorities’ approval, says T., but some must be cleared, “always at different levels.” T. is unaware of any formal “list of undesirable authors.” M., another industry insider, also said there’s no single blacklist in Russia’s literature world: “Speaker lineups are censored but in a very sneaky way. There are volunteers working with the authorities to review the programs. If they find someone who’s said or done something ‘inappropriate,’ the volunteer posts a complaint on some online group that meets the [legal threshold of] 300 readers. Then somebody in law enforcement writes to the local government with a link to the complaint, and local officials panic and start banning whatever they can.”

Virtually anything can precipitate one of these complaints, though what’s actually printed in a book is rarely the trigger, seven sources in Russia’s book industry told Meduza. “Nobody in this country reads anymore, so the censors usually focus on blurbs or reviews,” says S., citing two queer-themed books as examples: “One book’s blurb mentioned LGBT content. The other — which has even more LGBT content — didn’t mention it, and there were no complaints against the second one.”

Another example is Ivan Filippov’s novel Mouse, which Freedom Letters published in November 2023. Eight months later, the Prosecutor General’s Office banned the zombie apocalypse story for supposedly risking a public panic by spreading “false information about Russia’s vital infrastructure.” In an interview with Meduza, Filippov speculated that his Telegram channel, where he monitors pro-invasion bloggers, is what attracted the attention of Russia’s book censors.“The authorities don’t read books,” says Freedom Letters founder Georgy Urushadze. “If they had read Mouse, they’d see it’s not about disrupting the ‘work of financial institutions.’”

Five other sources working in Russia’s book industry told Meduza that an author’s popularity and book circulation also matter. “Public outcry plays a role,” says K., who works for a children’s book publisher. “If a well-known ‘war correspondent’ visits your booth at a fair and decides that your book is blasphemous and then writes about it on Telegram, the fallout could be complaints, police inspections, articles in the press — who knows.”

The fear of attracting Z-activists’ attention, P. says, often outweighs concerns about state censorship. Meduza spoke to four writers whose book festival appearances were canceled after pro-invasion bloggers targeted them on Telegram. “They started spreading unspeakable filth about me and my books,” recalls N. “I couldn’t believe that people would waste so much energy on such pointless hatred — hundreds of people writing about the glass bottle the guards should use [to rape me] in prison.”

Another writer, F., admits that the harassment from Z-bloggers brought her to tears: “I cried a lot. I thought my life was over.”

A few weeks later, the authors say, the Telegram channels moved on to other targets. “Every week, I see them grabbing first-time authors and humiliating them,” says F.

Some cases are more extreme. L. faced such intense harassment after her book was released (“People messaged me saying they’d find and kill me — it was terrifying”) that she was forced to leave Russia. “After I left, I was in a terrible state. I didn’t think I’d survive it,” L. says. “I wasn’t ready for this separation. People I love dearly are still there [in Russia].”

* * *

“The repressive apparatus doesn’t operate on a mass scale; it’s selective. Some people get caught in the middle of it. But I wouldn’t say it has a major impact on the book market as a whole,” says editor I.

Most books in Russia, I. argues, are unaffected by either state censorship or self-censorship. She points to fiction, which accounted for 16.1 percent of Russia’s total print runs and 20.3 percent of the total publications in 2023. “Most fiction titles are leisure books — detective stories, romance novels, genre stories,” I. explains. “When we discuss censorship on the market, we’re talking about a very small group of writers trying to tackle today’s socio-political realities.”

Interest in books that address sensitive social issues is declining among Russian readers, says editor-in-chief Z. Bookstore owner R. told Meduza that many readers are turning to fiction, “including time-tested classics.”

At the start of the war, recalls O., customers in her store wanted to discuss current events. “We even brought in a psychologist to talk to staff about coping,” she says. “Because everyone who came in was just unloading all their grief.”

Nearly three years later, “the emotional intensity is gone,” she says. “Now we ask, ‘Want a little ‘crisis book’ or would you rather read something comforting?’ More often, they choose comfort.”

Meduza’s publishing house releases books that cannot be printed in Russia due to censorship. Our Magaz online store now sells not only physical books but also e-books and audiobooks in Russian, in addition to clothing merch. Additionally, Meduza has started publishing fiction. Shopping at Magaz is one of the easiest ways to support our editorial team and publishing project.