The poet in Russia is more than just a poet. This fleeting phrase attributed to Yevgeny Yevtushenko is repeated by anyone who cares to when the conversation turns to poetry. For some reason, no one speaks of fantasists in the same way. This is unfair. A fantasist in Russia is more than just a fantasist. Sometimes, it even happens that he is bigger than fantasy itself. Not every fantasist, of course. The circle of such writers is small. Ivan Efremov, the Strugatsky brothers, Vladislav Krapivin, Kir Bulychev, Boris Shtern, Mikhail Uspensky… To this rare minority rightfully belongs Yevgeny Lukin. For him, fantasy is a device, akin to Leskov's small microscope: you look through its lens and see that beside the flea on the tray, there is also a little key lying there. Reading the writer Lukin is a joy and a pleasure. Joy from the quality of his prose, pleasure from the jester-like atmosphere in which his characters dwell. You read his works and see how suddenly Gogol winks at you slyly from the page, or Saltykov-Shchedrin twists a finger to his temple, or the tail of Behemoth's cat flutters somewhere between the chapters. If you start counting all the awards and honors that Lukin has received throughout his writing career, you will lose track somewhere in the fifth or sixth decade. He has over a hundred of them. “Aelita,” “Wanderer,” “Bronze Snail,” “ABS Prize,” Interpresscon, Roscon, named after Ivan Efremov, Belyaev Prize, “Golden Ostap” and many various others. Even once, “Literary Gazette” declared him the laureate of the “Golden Calf” prize for his ironic poems. In 2015, Lukin was awarded the honorary title of Grandmaster of European Fantasy.
