The theater opens with a coat rack, the home library with a Soviet lineage of classics. Ragged volumes, bound in the same kind of covers, priced at a ruble and pressed into every shelf as a cultural fixture—like tapestries on the wall or jars of thread spools. In recent years the book market has flooded with reprints of Russian and global classics to suit every taste. It feels like the nineties all over again: more and more titles poured out, yet the market now closes in on itself, producing one reprint after another. People might mutter,
“Just like Orwell, rights now belong to the public, heirs no longer demand fees, so everyone rushed in…” And what came after that?
Perhaps a mystery, but a careful look offers some clarity.
There was talk once that cinema or theatre would vanish, leaving room only for television; the same forecast shadowed e-books, claiming a decisive victory for one format over another. Yet such predictions proved hollow. Consumer habits, especially around literature, were hard to forecast years ago. The book endured as a form of art and even as a symbol of shine. Prices rose quickly, and publishing costs grew scarcer for insiders, yet more stylish objects appeared: from pages edged with color to coated paper and velvet covers. Holding a publication feels almost ceremonial—placing it on a shelf, then photographing it. The print culture of books, surprising in its persistence, resonates strongly with younger readers even today. Does this affect the classics? The simple answer is yes, and the broader question remains who benefits and how.
Some publishing houses now emphasize design: covers and interiors illustrated by well-known web artists who sometimes twist the original in bold ways. A modern example sees Mr. Hyde depicted as a pop star, Grigory Pechorin posing on a Vogue cover, or a cramped apartment turning into Hayao Miyazaki’s sanctuary. One widely recognized series by the publisher Myth explores various visual styles. While such aesthetic refreshes lure audiences, the truth is that a cover never truly substitutes for the work inside. However, there is nuance: if a whole ecosystem forms around classics in a new package—podcasts, video features, and online resources—the effort can deliver a cohesive cultural experience. Content, not just design, builds durable interest. The revival of classics often serves marketing purposes as much as cultural development. In a market economy, every publisher is primarily a business. Profitability can miss the mark at times, yet beautiful design drives purchases, especially when multiple volumes appear for different groups. Younger readers gravitate to illustrated editions, while older collectors favor a more restrained, elegant look for their shelves.
Yet the surge in reprints isn’t only about visuals. Some publishers treat meaning with care. Alpina.Proza, for example, presents a classic series that doubles as a large pop-science project, described by the team as somewhat innovative. Every volume includes a foreword by journalists and cultural experts from the Shelf project, offering readers context on the author’s life and the work’s consequences without leaving the book box. In effect, this approach refreshes school and university curricula: it invites readers to recall landowners named in Dead Souls and to marvel at the productivity of Ilf and Petrov.
Between these approaches lies a surprising third space: a growing culture of comics and graphic novels inspired by classics. These are often adaptations—modern takes much like contemporary film adaptations—turning literature into tangible art objects enriched with new meaning. A recent release of Dorian Gray by Corominas stands out as an illustration of how art can reframe a familiar story. Any adaptation aims to illuminate a plot from a fresh angle, letting artists convey their vision and, in non-commercial cases, attract new readers to the original text. Illustrated biographies of Silver Age poets are also gaining traction. This trend signals a new openness to different storytelling forms.
So what really happened? Are publishers short on funds? Are they guiding the next generation toward smarter choices? Or is a shift in meaning simply underway? The reality is more practical: modern readers crave variety and convenience. Even a typical web browser can be tailored to personal taste, and the world of books is no exception. It’s easier to browse among ten different design options than to pick up a worn edition for a ruble and twenty kopecks. The book market uses this variety as a signal—let it set a pattern for readers and retailers alike.
Trends come and go, but classics endure unless they are rewritten—or banned. Yet that possibility is, for now, a distant topic. The broader point remains: the cultural landscape shifts to meet changing tastes, technologies, and lifestyles.
PS: Who could resist imagining Pushkin approving of Dubrovsky in anime style? The instinct says yes, perhaps with a bit of bragging about catching the moment.
The author presents a personal view that may not align with editorial positions.