The Snail on the Slope is a neglected masterpiece by Russian science fiction greats Arkady and Boris Strugatsky, who thought of it as ther "most complete and important work." now, in a stunning translation, this tour de force is ready to be introduced to a new generation of American readers. The novel takes place in two worlds. One is the Administration, an institution run by a surreal, Kafkaesque bureaucracy whose aim is to govern the forest below. The other is the Forest, a place of fear, weird creatures, primitive but garrulous people, and violence. Peretz, who works at the Administration, wants to visit the Forest. Candide crashed in the Forest years ago and wants to return to the Administration. Their journeys are surprising and bizarre, and readers are left to puzzle out the mysteries of these foreign environments. Brilliant, enigmatic, and revelatory, The Snail on the Slope is one of the greatest literary works to come out of Soviet Russia.  “ The Snail on the Slope may be the most dizzyingly concentrated dose of the Strugatskys’ strange and powerful medicine.” —Jonathan Lethem “[Arkady and Boris Strugatsky] open windows in the mind and then fail to close them all, so that, putting down one of their books, you feel a cold breeze still lifting the hairs on the back of your neck.” —New York Times "Approached as a meditation on the human inability to comprehend more than a very small part of the universe, this is a surprisingly satisfying, if often perplexing, work." — Publishers Weekly Arkady  (1925–1991) and  Boris  (1933–2012)  Strugatsky  were the most famous and popular Russian writers of science fiction, with over 25 novels and novellas to their names, including  Roadside Picnic ,  The Doomed City ,  Hard to Be a God  and  The Inhabited Island . Their books have been widely translated and made into a number of films.  Olena Bormashenko  has been acclaimed for her translations of the Strugatskys'  Roadside Picnic  and  Hard to Be a God . The Snail on the Slope By Arkady Strugatsky, Boris Strugatsky, Olena Bormashenko Chicago Review Press Incorporated Copyright © 1968 Arkady and Boris Strugatsky All rights reserved. ISBN: 978-1-61373-754-5 Contents Title Page, Copyright Page, 1. PERETZ, 2. CANDIDE, 3. PERETZ, 4. CANDIDE, 5. PERETZ, 6. PERETZ, 7. CANDIDE, 8. CANDIDE, 9. PERETZ, 10. PERETZ, 11. CANDIDE, Afterword - BY BORIS STRUGATSKY, CHAPTER 1 PERETZ From this height, the forest looked like dappled, fluffy foam; like a gigantic, world-encompassing porous sponge; like an animal that had once lain hidden in wait, then had dozed off, becoming overgrown with coarse moss. Like a shapeless mask, hiding a face no one had ever seen. Peretz threw off his sandals and sat down, dangling his bare feet into the abyss. It seemed to him that his heels immediately became damp, as if he had actually dipped them into the warm lilac fog that accumulated in the shadow beneath the cliff. He took the stones that he'd gathered out of his pocket and carefully arranged them next to him, then chose the smallest one and gently tossed it down into that living silence, to be swallowed forever by its sleeping, indifferent maw. The white spark went out, but nothing happened — nobody blinked, no one's eyes opened to take a look. Then he threw another stone. If you threw a stone every minute and a half; and if the one-legged cook nicknamed Cazalunya had been telling the truth; and if Madame Bardot, the head of the Assistance to the Locals Team, had guessed right; and if truck driver Randy and L'Estrange from the Penetration Through Engineering Team, whispering together in the cafeteria, had gotten it wrong; and if human intuition was worth a damn; and if, for once in your life, wishes were granted — then on the seventh stone, the bushes behind you would rustle and part, and the Director would emerge onto the clearing: shirtless, wearing gray gabardine pants with purple piping, breathing loudly, glistening with sweat, yellowish-pink and hairy. Then, paying no attention to anything, neither the forest beneath him nor the sky above him, he would begin to bend, sinking his broad palms into the grass, and unbend, creating a breeze with each swing of those broad palms, and every single time, the mighty crease in his stomach would roll over his pants, and a stream of air, saturated with nicotine and carbon dioxide, would shoot out his mouth, hissing and gurgling. Like a submarine flushing out its air tanks. Like a sulfur geyser on Paramushir Island ... The bushes behind him rustled and parted. Peretz glanced cautiously over his shoulder, but it wasn't the Director, it was his acquaintance Claudius Octavian Bootlicherson from the Eradication Team. He approached slowly and stopped two paces away, staring down at Peretz with his dark eyes. He knew or suspected something, something very important, and this knowledge or suspicion immobilized his long face, the transfixed face of a man who