Writing a short history of Russia is one of those tasks that is almost designed to expose the limits of the form. To compress over a millennium of political, social, and cultural history into 250 pages requires not only ruthless selectivity but also narrative skill of the highest order. Abraham Ascher’s Russia: A Short History sets out to achieve this, and while it covers the ground dutifully, it does so in a way that is structurally confused, stylistically flat, and surprisingly careless. The result is a book that offers information but little insight, a skeleton of history without the connective tissue that would make it meaningful.
The first problem is one of structure. The narrative has a habit of doubling back on itself in ways that feel clumsy. More than once a tsar is declared dead, a successor introduced, and then five or six pages later the reader is abruptly returned to the earlier reign for unfinished business. This is more than a minor lapse in organisation; it disrupts the chronology that should be the very backbone of a short history. In a long, detailed study one can afford to meander, but in a work of compression, clarity of structure is non-negotiable.
The second problem is style. Ascher’s prose is plain to the point of being deadened. A short history should feel like a guided tour, a knowledgeable historian helping us to understand not just what happened but why it matters. Here, the sentences plod. There is little rhythm, little sense of narrative propulsion. A book like this has to live off the energy of compression — that ability to capture an era in a few deft strokes — but too often it feels like a set of lecture notes converted into text. There are glimpses of interest, certainly, but they are buried beneath flat presentation.
The lack of scholarly apparatus is more troubling still. The entire volume contains just nineteen footnotes. This would be acceptable in a popular history if the author stuck to consensus views, but Ascher sometimes challenges received wisdom without support. His treatment of Catherine the Great illustrates the problem. He dismisses her as paying only lip service to Enlightenment ideals, citing the Pugachev Rebellion as evidence. Yet in his own account he admits that Catherine forbade Pugachev’s torture and insisted on his execution being swift rather than accompanied by the traditional, grotesque dismemberment. This hardly makes her a radical reformer, but it does suggest a more complex engagement with Enlightenment principles than Ascher allows. Without references or engagement with the broader scholarship on Catherine, the claim feels flat and unearned, one more pronouncement delivered without context. The same pattern recurs elsewhere: judgments offered without scaffolding, as if the reader must simply accept the historian’s word.
The book also suffers from a striking tonal inconsistency. The section on Vladimir Putin, added in the second edition, is factually accurate but markedly more editorial in style than the earlier chapters. Where the accounts of tsars and Soviet leaders are dry, bordering on lifeless, the Putin material shades into commentary, with a sharper edge that feels more like journalism than history. One can agree with the content and still find the inconsistency jarring. The voice of the book ceases to be steady.
Then there are the editorial lapses. The most glaring is a misquotation of the Organic Statute of 1832 under Nicholas I, which declared that Poland was an “indivisible part” of Russia. Ascher has it as an “invisible part.” The mistake is comical but also symptomatic. This is not a first edition; the book has been through revision. That such an error slipped through is baffling. History depends on precision, and misprints in quoted documents shake confidence in the text as a whole.
What makes the book doubly frustrating is that it exists in a crowded field where the art of writing Russian history concisely has been demonstrated with far more skill. Geoffrey Hosking’s Russia and the Russians is a model of how to balance compression with clarity. Hosking manages to trace the long arc of Russian political power while interweaving social and cultural history, and though his book is not perfect, it never feels either skeletal or careless. Richard Pipes, though highly ideological in his interpretations, nevertheless offers in works like Russia under the Old Regime a clear, provocative framework that sparks debate. Orlando Figes, in A People’s Tragedy and Natasha’s Dance, operates at a larger scale but demonstrates the power of narrative history to bring Russia alive, filling even the most abstract political changes with human texture. Robert Service’s survey histories, though uneven, provide breadth with some analytical bite. Nicholas Riasanovsky and Mark Steinberg’s A History of Russia remains a staple textbook precisely because it combines scope with balance. And for a concise but lively single-volume survey, Paul Dukes and Kees Boterbloem have produced works that are both readable and careful. Even at the more popular end of the spectrum, writers like Simon Sebag Montefiore bring narrative flair and human characterisation that make Russia’s story vivid, if occasionally at the cost of rigour. One may read him with a more sceptical eye, but one cannot deny that he engages. Compared to all of these, Ascher’s book feels anaemic. It has neither the analytical framework of Pipes, nor the balance of Hosking, nor the narrative energy of Figes or Montefiore. It offers instead a thin broth, under-referenced and under-edited, without the interpretive weight or stylistic spark that might compensate for its brevity.
And that is the true disappointment. Russia’s history is one of the most dramatic on earth, a story of tsars and serfs, reformers and tyrants, revolutions and empires. From Ivan the Terrible’s oprichnina to Catherine’s salons, from the emancipation of the serfs to Stalin’s gulag, from the poetry of Pushkin to the machinery of Lenin, from Napoleon at the gates of Moscow to Hitler’s invasion, from the collapse of the Soviet Union to Putin’s resurgence — it is a history bursting with narrative possibilities. A short history cannot capture everything, but it can at least convey the drama, the tension, the uniqueness. That this book fails to do so is not a failure of scale but of craft.
I closed Russia: A Short History not enlightened but irritated, not enriched but frustrated. The information is there, but the voice is absent. The book reads as though it were assembled rather than written, summarised rather than shaped. For the absolute beginner it may serve as a bare outline, a map of names and dates. But for anyone who cares about the craft of history — its clarity, its rigour, its narrative force — this book is a disappointment.
And perhaps that is the one lesson I did take from it. By being so unmemorable, by failing to rise to the level of its subject, it sharpened my own sense of what history should do. When I read literature — whether it was Madame Bovary with its merciless psychological detail, or Lord of the Flies with its allegorical bluntness, or even Descartes with his crystalline philosophical prose — I measure them not only by their content but by the balance they strike between clarity and depth. I expect history to meet that same standard: accuracy, yes, but also energy; brevity, yes, but also substance; analysis, yes, but also narrative life. Hosking, Figes, Pipes, Service — whatever their flaws, they remind you that history can be both concise and alive. Ascher reminds you, by contrast, of what happens when history becomes little more than notes on a page. Russia deserves better. Two stars.