This is a book-length idiosyncratic poem by e. e. cummings about his trip to the Soviet Union in the 1930s. He went as an iconoclast at a time when many American writers were embracing the new Russia as utopia. This book, like Joyce's Finnegan's Wake, has a unique voice and invented language - about as far from the current infatuation with the lowest common denominator as you can get - which is why I am rereading it after so many years. Elitism rules ha ha.
