Evangel University stages ‘Anastasia – The Musical' this spring
SPRINGFIELD, Mo. — Evangel University's theatre program is bringing 'Anastasia – The Musical' to the stage this spring and inviting the community to attend.
According to a press release, the musical will be staged in Evangel's Barnett Theater and brings the legend of the Grand Duchess Anastasia Romanov to life.
Following the Russian Imperial family's tragic downfall, it's rumored that Anastasia may have survived. Years later, Anya, a woman suffering from amnesia, partners with two charming con men who see her striking resemblance to the lost princess.
More than 50 students from across a range of academic disciplines are part of the cast and crew.
Showtimes are April 3-5 and April 11-12 at 7 p.m., and April 13 at 2 p.m. Tickets are available now online or at the EU box office and are $22 for adults (ages 19-59), $15 for senior citizens (ages 60+) and students/children (ages four to 18). Evangel students can attend for $10 with valid I.D.
Copyright 2025 Nexstar Media, Inc. All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten, or redistributed.
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Putin's suspected daughter found working in anti-war galleries in Paris
Nastya Rodionova, a Russian writer and artist who has been based in Paris since 2022, had only met gallery manager Luiza Rozova in passing at events before she learned who the 22-year-old's parents were. Described by a number of people as a 'very nice and well-mannered girl,' Rozova is the daughter of a Russian woman named Svetlana Krivonogikh — and, according to investigative journalists, Russian President Vladimir Putin. After learning about Rozova's family background, Rodionova took to social media on June 4 to share it, highlighting the fact that the galleries where Rozova works primarily showcase Russian and Ukrainian anti-war art. The post quickly went viral — but the reactions were divided. Some members of the Russian emigre community argued Rozova had no control over who her parents are and it shouldn't be held against her. Others agreed it was ethically questionable that a family member of the Kremlin leader worked in anti-war art galleries as Russia was waging war against Ukraine, and praised the artist for revealing it. 'We are talking about artists (showcased in the galleries) who fled the regime,' Rodionova told the Kyiv Independent. 'Many of them are in danger. They shared all their personal information with the gallery staff without knowing who works there — it upset them very much (to learn about her).' The Kyiv Independent reached out to Rozova for comment through her employer. He acknowledged that he had passed along the request for comment and 'if she considers it possible to answer' she would do so. As of publication, Rozova has not replied. In most of Rozova's photos that were posted on social media or taken by media outlets for interviews, her face is deliberately cropped or turned away — a subtle yet telling choice, which some believe is due to her uncanny resemblance to the Russian leader. In the few photos of Rozova where her face is fully visible, she does bear unmistakable resemblance to Putin. 'Listen, judging by (Putin's) younger photos — probably, yes, I do look like him. But as it turns out, there are actually a lot of people who resemble Vladimir Vladimirovich,' she told GQ Russia in 2021. In the interview, Rozova wasn't directly asked whether she was related to the Russian leader. Rozova first attracted international attention in 2020, when the independent Russian investigative outlet Proekt published an expose detailing the substantial wealth of her mother, Svetlana Krivonogikh, who at the time possessed over $100 million in assets. Proekt's investigation revealed Krivonogikh's longstanding ties to Putin and noted that her daughter Rozova 'bears an uncanny resemblance' to the Russian leader, fueling the widespread speculation about her parentage. In the rare instances that Rozova has granted media interviews since then, she has never outright acknowledged or denied that Putin is her father. Dmitri Dolinski — director of the L Association, which oversees both Studio Albatros and the L Galerie where Rozova is employed — confirmed to Rodionova that Rozova's mother is Krivonogikh, she said. Krivonogikh was sanctioned by the U.K. in 2023 due to her stake in Bank Rossiya, which has, among other things, supported investments in Russian-occupied Crimea following the illegal annexation of 2014. In her original viral social media post, the Russian artist Rodionova stressed the importance of Studio Albatros and L Galerie as cultural spaces showcasing Russian and Ukrainian anti-war artists — and why that made the presence of the Kremlin leader's alleged daughter there problematic. 'In the context of Russia's ongoing war of aggression, people organizing any public events involving anti-war artists — and in some cases direct victims of the regime — must act with maximum transparency and sensitivity,' Rodionova wrote. Rodionova previously participated in some gallery events but has chosen to no longer do so. 'We must know who we are working with and make informed decisions about whether we are okay with (exhibiting art there). My personal answer in this case is no.' Given the Russian and Ukrainian artists' outspoken anti-war positions, there is a potential risk associated with disclosing their personal information to L Association — particularly given the lack of clarity around Rozova's ties to the Russian regime. One artist who collaborated with the gallery had even welcomed Rozova into their home without knowing her family connections, Rodionova added. When Rodionova first asked about Rozova's background, Dolinski reportedly told her that he does not look into his employees' families. At the same time, Rodionova noted, it appears he hired Rozova while knowing who her mother was and the fact that her mother was already subject to U.K. sanctions. Amid the ongoing controversy, the L Association appears to be standing behind Rozova. 'We regret that some voices have called for forms of stigmatization or 'collective punishment,' and we remind everyone that no one should be judged by their origins, birthplace, heritage, or any other criteria beyond their control. This is a red line we will not cross,' the organization wrote on Facebook on June 9, although they didn't mention Rozova by name. In response to Rodionova's post, a number of Russian emigres argued in the comments that Rozova should not be held accountable for the crimes of her alleged father. They claimed she has made a public anti-war stance in social media — although her actual social media account is disputed — and pointed to her residence in Paris as evidence that she is unlikely part of Putin's close inner circle. The exact number of Putin's children remains unconfirmed. It's known that he has two daughters from his marriage to Lyudmila Putina, who he divorced in 2014. In 2024, the Russian investigative outlet Dossier Center reported that he also has two young sons with Alina Kabaeva, a former Olympic gymnast long rumored to be his partner. The two boys reportedly live in Putin's residence on Lake Valdai in northwestern Russia. Since coming forward with her revelation about Putin's alleged daughter Rozova, Rodionova told the Kyiv Independent that she has dealt not only with public slander but also threats made against her. 'I want to believe that these people have expressed their personal opinion but lots of messages were suspiciously similar,' she said, suggesting that there was an organized campaign of retaliation. Rodionova pushed back against those attacking her for raising questions about Rozova's parentage, arguing that they were distorting the reasons behind her decision. Regardless of Rozova's personal politics or the extent to which she has or hasn't benefited from the Russian regime, exiled artists like Rodionova emphasize that the ongoing dangers posed by Russia's full-scale war require extra caution and transparency when it comes to who is welcomed into anti-war cultural spaces. Read also: Controversial Russian literature prize sparks debate on separating culture from war crimes Hi there, it's Kate Tsurkan, thanks for reading this article. The story of Putin's alleged daughter working in anti-war art galleries in Paris is one of those crazy stories that make you realize culture and politics are never that far removed from each other, especially when it comes to Russia's war against Ukraine. I hope by reading this article you also reflected on questions of accountability, transparency, and trust during wartime. If you like reading this sort of material, please consider supporting us by becoming a paid member of the Kyiv Independent today. We've been working hard to bring you independent, locally-sourced news from Ukraine. Consider supporting the Kyiv Independent.
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'Ukrainians have been stripped of illusion of control' — Filmmaker Kateryna Gornostai on Russia's war, cinema and reclaiming the narrative
When Russia launched its full-scale invasion of Ukraine, film director Kateryna Gornostai found herself questioning whether she would continue working. "I had this feeling that life — at least professionally — had come to an end," she says. "Who needed directors or screenwriters, then? At most, volunteers were needed, but hardly anyone involved in filmmaking." The urgency of documenting the war soon became clear, but emotionally picking up a camera didn't come easily. The 36-year-old filmmaker struggled with fear and doubt, knowing any shot she filmed could be her last. "It felt scary that you're filming, and these could be your last shots because now a missile will hit here. And that's all that will be left of you." Yet, she did return. In 2023, Gornostai began working on her first film following the start of the full-scale war. Her latest documentary "Timestamp," was screened at the 75th Berlin International Film Festival — making her the first Ukrainian director in nearly three decades to compete for the Golden Bear. The last was Kira Muratova's "Three Stories" in 1997. Gornostai attended the Berlinale only briefly, arriving just for the film's screening on Feb. 20, days after giving birth to her son. "Timestamp" follows students and teachers across different parts of Ukraine, including cities regularly pounded with Russian missiles and drones, showing what everyday school life looks like in the war-torn country. The film is both intimate and unflinching, offering a glimpse into how kids endure the hardship of growing up under constant bombardment. Gornostai dedicated the film to her younger brother Maksym, killed in action in 2023 while she was still filming. On June 11, the movie premiered in Ukraine. "It should be both fun and sad at the same time," she told the Kyiv Independent days before the screening. "That's what we hope for." Read also: Author Yuri Andrukhovych on Ukrainian dissident art in Soviet times Themes of school and adolescence are in the spotlight of Gornostai's work, with autobiographical and personal elements running through it. Just over a month before Russia launched its all-out invasion, Gornostai's debut feature film "Stop-Zemlia" premiered in Ukraine in January 2022. The movie earned recognition both at home and abroad, winning the Crystal Bear in the Berlinale Generation 14plus section, a category for movies that explore the life of children and teenagers. "Timestamp" has the same focus, yet different story, showing a new reality that Ukrainian education is facing — remote learning, damaged infrastructure, constant air raids, studying in the subway, and the psychological trauma of kids at war. One of the most important scenes in the film for Gornostai is the funeral of the school principal in the town of Romny, Sumy Oblast, killed in a Russian drone strike on the local school in August 2023. It's the only moment in the film where Russia is directly accused of aggression against Ukraine, the phrase spoken by a priest. "Because already, so much pain has touched nearly every person. Everyone has experienced some kind of loss — from their homes to their loved ones. Many have lost the most precious thing of all: life itself." "This school didn't live to see its hundredth anniversary, which would've been next year. It survived World War II, but it didn't survive this war," Gornostai says. Since the full-scale invasion of Ukraine, around 3,500 educational institutions have been damaged, and around 400 completely destroyed, Deputy Education Minister Yevhen Kudriavets said in late February of 2024. The Euromaidan Revolution was a turning point for Ukraine — and for a new generation of filmmakers, including Kateryna Gornostai. She was studying in Moscow at the time of the Maidan protests in 2013 but returned to Kyiv to document the unfolding events. "We all started making documentaries that explored civil society," she says. "It was a moment of growth — personal and professional. You're filming real events but also thinking about how they'll come together as a story." She made two documentaries during that time — "Maidan is everywhere" and "Euromaidan." Rough Cut, of which she was a co-author. While many turned their cameras toward the front lines of Russia's war in Ukraine's east that followed, Gornostai chose a different path. "I'm very scared," she admits. "Even on Maidan, I couldn't stand between the Berkut (riot police) and the protesters like some of our colleagues. I stayed in the rear, and I remember thinking — there are stories here, too." More than a decade later, she sees that moment as the foundation of a powerful wave of Ukrainian cinema. "(The Euromaidan Revolution became) a separation from that post-Soviet, Eastern European blend — because it used to feel like our cinema was perceived as part of Russian cinema prior. During the interview, Gornostai's tone sharpens when the conversation turns to Russia's cultural influence. For decades, Moscow cast a long shadow over Ukrainian cinema. Even after Ukraine's independence, Russian money and distribution networks kept a grip on the country's film industry. That influence didn't vanish with the invasion — it just evolved. Since the start of the war against Ukraine in 2014, Russia's film industry has shifted to propaganda. Yet, Russian films still screen at major international festivals, and Russian actors who support the war against Ukraine continue to win awards. "Movies are just one small part of a much bigger (Russian) cultural push," Gornostai says. "In fact, there is a huge campaign that has lasted for many, many decades, involving enormous financial resources, all aimed at creating an image (abroad). This is something that we (in Ukraine) have not done. And what we are trying to do now is to build some kind of postcolonial lens through which Ukraine should now be seen." 'Most of the films that have been screened somewhere weren't made thanks to the circumstances in Ukraine, but rather in spite of them.' Abroad, she says, fascination with Russian culture persists, while the understanding of Ukraine still lags behind. "The fact that there are signs of genocide committed by Russia and that the Holodomor could have already been recognized as a genocide a century back — very few people know that abroad. But they do know the great Russian ballet, literature — all those things that were deliberately built up, promoted, and became part of a certain stereotype." According to Gornostai, for a long time, there was a prevailing belief in Ukraine that the answer to Russian propaganda should be counter-propaganda. But she thinks that Ukraine should be creating high-quality cinema, not propaganda of its own. "We simply need something completely different that will make us stand out and represent ourselves on the international stage. I think quality is very important now in this world," she adds. Gornostai believes that the current crisis in Ukrainian cinema stems more from domestic policy than the war itself. Even before Russia's full-scale invasion, government inaction had weakened the industry. Following the invasion, funding for the State Film Agency was slashed. In 2025, only Hr 204.1 million ($4.9 million) is allocated, nearly 70% less than in 2024. 'Most of the films that have been screened somewhere weren't made thanks to the circumstances in Ukraine, but rather in spite of them,' says Gornostai. 'They were funded either by private money, individual initiatives, or through international grants, producers, or festival pitching awards that made production possible. Documentary filmmaking can survive in this way.' A standout example is '20 Days in Mariupol' by director Mstyslav Chernov, which documented the Russian siege of the city in 2022 and won Ukraine's first Oscar in 2024 for Best Documentary. 'This is a huge victory for the truth itself. It preserves and engraves the history of Mariupol and no one will be able to distort it anymore,' Gornostai says. Gornostai's new feature film, "Antonivka," is expected to be released in 2027. Set in the aftermath of Ukraine's victory in the war, the film explores death. "Even when this war ends, it won't truly be over," says Gornostai. "Because already, so much pain has touched nearly every person. Everyone has experienced some kind of loss — from their homes to their loved ones. Many have lost the most precious thing of all: life itself." She believes that once the war ends, there will be a difficult period of collective reckoning — a time when people begin to process their grief. Her film, she says, is an attempt to open that conversation. "There's this ephemeral law that time heals. It works very strangely. It doesn't really heal. That's not the whole phrase," Gornostai says. "Time simply passes, and it's as if layers of new experiences start to build up after that very significant moment in your life — for example, the death of someone close to you. These layers grow, and it's as if they gradually distance you from that moment." "That's the subject I'm grappling with now — and it's a subject many others are facing too," she continues. "How do we grieve that kind of loss? How do we reflect on it? The film deals with many kinds of deaths, but at its core, one of its central elements is the acceptance of your own death — the one that awaits you." One of the central figures in the film is an elderly man who lived through famine and war. As Gornostai speaks, she recalls her two grandfathers who passed away. "Ukrainians have now been stripped of the illusion of control," the filmmaker says. "But still, I'd like to have the privilege of dying at a time when I know that my family will remain here, that people speaking the Ukrainian language will remain here, and that there is peace and life on this land. And that I am leaving it behind. Not dying in a moment of total turbulence and uncertainty about what will happen tomorrow — as if I'm leaving everyone in the middle of that." "So this is another privilege: a privilege to die in a free country. And this is one of the motivations for making this film." Read also: Wondering where to start with Dostoevsky? Try his Ukrainian contemporaries instead Hello there! This is Kateryna Denisova, the author of this piece. As Russia's war against Ukraine grinds on, Ukrainian filmmakers like Kateryna Gornostai are capturing stories that reveal the reality on the ground. I hope many people will watch these films and learn more about Ukrainian cinema and its directors through interviews like this one. Your support helps make this work possible. Please consider contributing to sustain our reporting. We've been working hard to bring you independent, locally-sourced news from Ukraine. Consider supporting the Kyiv Independent.
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7 hours ago
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Author Yuri Andrukhovych on Ukrainian dissident art in Soviet times
In Soviet times, being a pro-Ukrainian artist was dangerous. The Soviet secret police were particularly brutal in Ukraine, given that it was a country with a long history of resistance to Russian rule. Still, new generations of artists remained committed to their culture in the face of widespread Russification. Among them was Yuri Andrukhovych, who, in 1985, co-founded the Bu-Ba-Bu literary performance group. Today, Andrukhovych is one of Ukraine's most famous and celebrated authors. But his career started as part of a bold underground movement that quickly grew into a cultural phenomenon, signaling the country's push toward independence. Bu-Ba-Bu's rejection of censorship and societal taboos resonated deeply with the Ukrainian population, which was eager to embrace the ideals of creative expression. In an interview with the Kyiv Independent, Andrukhovych opened up about the origins of Bu-Ba-Bu, the struggle of Ukrainian cultural movements in the face of Soviet censorship, and the profound sense of pride he feels as he witnesses Ukrainian culture thrive despite the adversity brought on by Russia's war today. This interview has been edited for length and clarity. The Kyiv Independent: April marks a special month for the history of Ukrainian culture — it's the 40-year anniversary of the founding of Bu-Ba-Bu. For our foreign audience, could you just tell us a little bit about what it was and your part in founding it? Yuri Andrukhovych: Yes, it will be on April 17 — we have a precise date. I couldn't participate in that very first meeting which took place in Lviv, though. It was a meeting between my two friends, the poets Viktor Neborak and Oleksandr Irvanets. I was supposed to join them, but I fell ill the day before. The year was 1985, and we didn't know it yet, but it would turn out to be a very significant year in history. Bu-Ba-Bu is, of course, an abbreviation of three different notions. The first 'Bu' comes from 'burlesque,' and the second from 'buffoonery.' In between them is 'Ba,' which comes from the word 'balagan.' It is actually an old Hebrew world that means something akin to chaos or disorder. Later, the term took on a special meaning, particularly in the cultural spaces of Eastern and Central Eastern Europe. "Balagan" came to describe a kind of small, wandering theater — a nomadic circus. It was a form of cheap, simple entertainment for ordinary people. Marketplaces in cities and towns across Central Europe often featured them. We incorporated these three notions into our aesthetic program, but we never set out with a manifesto or a proclamation to change Ukrainian poetry or literature. We simply began by reading, writing, and sharing our poems — mostly with each other. Ukraine's longstanding aspirations for independence and freedom were seen (by the Soviet authorities) as the most dangerous tendencies in the former Soviet Union. So, there were three of us, young and full of energy. I was the oldest in our trio at 25. My friends (Neborak and Irvanets) were both 24. With everything ahead of us, we set out to create our own kind of circus in poetry. We wrote poems that could be both a show and a performance. Our goal was to blend live performance with poetry that was deep, clever, and witty. The Kyiv Independent: Could you talk about the public perception of your performances? Was there a hunger among the Ukrainian public for such poetry at the time? Yuri Andrukhovych: Yes, everything came gradually, slowly. In 1985, there was still a difficult situation regarding censorship, with various obstacles imposed by the system to hinder artistic and literary initiatives. For the first two years (of Bu-Ba-Bu), our activities remained mostly private — built on friendships, personal connections, and informal gatherings. Our first decision was to meet regularly. These meetings weren't limited to Lviv, where Viktor Neborak lived then and still does today. We also gathered in Kyiv and Ivano-Frankivsk, the latter of which is my city. In many ways, our activities revolved around traveling and visiting one another. Along the way, we organized small gatherings — let's call them informal readings — held in intimate circles, often in artists' workshops or friends' apartments. These gatherings usually included the three of us, along with five to seven others. Our first real public performance took place in December 1987. By then, we had already existed for two and a half years before making our debut presentation in Kyiv. The venue was Molody Theater. A significant change in its administration had just taken place. Sometime earlier, the theater had invited the renowned Ukrainian director and dissident Les Taniuk. After escaping the KGB in Soviet Ukraine, he spent several years in Moscow. Then, in 1987, he was invited back to Kyiv to take over as director and administrator of Molody Theater. Les Taniuk was just brilliant. He completely reorganized the theater. He introduced an entirely new program. At the same time, he also launched several parallel initiatives. One of these was a series of literary readings. Our Bu-Ba-Bu event was actually the second in this series. The very first event was dedicated to the authors of the Executed Renaissance (a generation of artists that perished in the Stalinist purges in the 1930's). It was a bold and risky topic for that time. But it resonated deeply — people in Kyiv quickly realized there was a place where previously banned texts could be performed. A stage was open to anyone talented enough to bring something fresh and of high literary quality. I look back on that evening with great happiness. It's astonishing to remember a time without the internet or social networks. We had no advertising, nothing on TV or radio. At best, maybe a tiny mention, three or four sentences buried on the last page of a newspaper. Yet, word spread. Somehow, people found out. The space filled up completely. More and more people kept arriving, but there were no seats left. It was an incredibly promising start. The Kyiv Independent: You mentioned censorship and how certain material was considered risky. Many foreigners tend to associate this with the earlier years of — Stalin, the Great Purges. But can you talk about how, even in the later years of the Soviet Union, being a Ukrainian artist was still risky? What was it like to embrace the Ukrainian language and culture at a time when Russification was the norm? Yuri Andrukhovych: When it comes to censorship in Ukraine, our Soviet Republic was a unique case. In the late Soviet period — the 1970s and 1980s, well after the Stalinist era — Ukraine still endured what felt like a softer version of Stalinism. In many ways, the situation here was much worse than in other parts of the Soviet Union. There was more openness in the three Baltic republics, in Georgia, and, of course, in Moscow. Many Ukrainian artists and poets in the 1970s fled to Moscow, where it was less dangerous than staying in Ukraine. It was there they could escape the reach of the KGB, losing their trail in the vast sprawl of the city. Ukraine's longstanding aspirations for independence and freedom were seen (by the Soviet authorities) as the most dangerous tendencies in the former Soviet Union. The Ukrainian Republic was under very specific control. The previous generations of Ukrainian poets, known collectively as the Sixtiers and the Seventiers, faced tremendous challenges. Over the course of two nights (during the New Year's celebration), for example, the Ukrainian KGB launched a massive operation. Many people were arrested, and the Ukrainian cultural sphere faced continued severe attacks over the following weeks. This led to numerous trials, and by the mid-80s, when our generation began, most of the people from 1972 — let's call them the "people of 1972" — were still political prisoners. They were either in labor camps or prisons. The most significant figure from that group was, of course, Vasyl Stus, who was killed in a Russian penal colony in September 1985. Looking back, we can say with certainty that the situation in Ukraine at the time was a form of neo-Stalinism — a continuation of the same longstanding oppressive policies. Read also: 10 authors shaping contemporary Ukrainian literature The Kyiv Independent: Since 2014, there has been much talk about . What is the most rewarding aspect for you about this comment moment in Ukrainian culture? Yuri Andrukhovych: For me as a writer, the most significant changes have, of course, been in the publishing world and literary life. Since 2014, we've seen the rise of so many new publishing houses. There are also numerous new literary festivals and public readings. And, most importantly, we've witnessed a new wave of Ukrainian readers. But it's not just literature and publishing. There has been a rebirth of contemporary Ukrainian theater, and, of course, our visual arts have flourished as well. In fact, I'd argue that our visual arts were already unique and impressive even before 2014. In my opinion, they represented a kind of avant-garde in contemporary Ukrainian art. These artists were creating brilliant projects using very modern forms of expression. They worked actively with installations and video art. Before 2014, whenever I was in Europe, I would always find exhibitions or spaces showcasing new Ukrainian art. I felt incredibly proud to come from a country with such remarkable contemporary art. Since then, this diversity and richness have continued to thrive. And, of course, we can't overlook film and cinematography. I particularly see success in Ukrainian documentary films. But we also have feature films that are truly outstanding. The most important thing is that people now want to experience this — attending theaters, paying to watch Ukrainian films, all of which is a very positive sign. The Kyiv Independent: I'd like to conclude by discussing your poetry collection, 'Set Change,' which was recently . This is a significant achievement, not only for you but also for Ukrainian literature in translation. Could you talk about this collection? As I understand, it features poetry written early in your career, before you started to focus more on writing prose. Yuri Andrukhovych: Yes, this collection consists of selected poems from my three first collections. The poems were written in the 1980s, and it also includes two cycles, 'India' and 'Letters from Ukraine.' It's a mix of work I wrote from around 1980 to 1990. This period represents the active stage of my poetic career. After 1990, I wrote more poems, but those were composed between 1999 and 2004. Some of the poems from that time, from my collection 'Songs for a Dead Rooster,' had been published earlier in English translation by Lost Horse Press. The idea for this new collection came from my American translators, Ostap Kin and John Hennessy. They suggested putting together the collection and I think they did an excellent job. I was involved every step of the way, reviewing each batch of new translations. I paid close attention to each line, thinking carefully about how they had translated it. We had many interesting and productive discussions through our email exchanges — I'm looking forward to holding the hard copy in my hands. Read also: Wondering where to start with Dostoevsky? Try his Ukrainian contemporaries instead Hey there, it's Kate Tsurkan, thanks for reading my latest interview. Yuri Andrukhovych is one of the greatest living voices in Ukrainian literature and this was my second time interviewing him. I hope more and more people across the world will learn about his work and his contributions not only to Ukraine but to world literature. If you like reading this sort of material, please consider supporting us by becoming a paid member of the Kyiv Independent today. We've been working hard to bring you independent, locally-sourced news from Ukraine. Consider supporting the Kyiv Independent.
