Another Friday, another, frankly dreadful, portrait of a literary great. And today we travel to Russia to meet Alexander Pushkin, who apparently was quite good at writing. Not so good at duelling though by all accounts and he met his premature end at the hands of his French brother-in-law, who apparently had a bit of a thing for Pushkin’s wife. It was all a bit unfortunate really, but Pushkin had already churned out a fair bit of literature by that point so it wasn’t all bad.
Maybe I’ll read some of it one day. Not in Russian obviously, that would be really hard. But I expect some of it has been translated into English by now.