DEAR READER,
In my head, over the years, too many times to count by now, I have already composed this letter.
In that imaginary letter, to an imaginary reader, I describe the start of my writing journey. I was nine years old and had just devoured Tamora Pierce’s Song of the Lioness series. I hated the ending. I ripped a sheet of paper from my Lisa Frank notebook and wrote a letter to Tamora Pierce, demanding that she rewrite the story with a different ending, and threatening to rewrite it myself. Deep down, of course, I was angry that the series was over. Deep down, I didn’t want any ending at all.
But now, in my real letter, I’d rather share how I almost didn’t become a writer. In 2016 I was a stay-at-home mother with a two-year-old and a baby. Both were wailing in the back seat one day when an interview with Tamora Pierce came on the car radio. My childhood dream of being a published author could not have felt further away, but listening to Tamora Pierce, I remembered being nine years old. I remembered characters that felt so real that I had to try to change their lives. I remembered a story so powerful that I had to put my own pen to paper.
In that imaginary letter, I explain that I first fell in love with Russian culture through works of great Russian literature. That even today, when I return to those texts, there is still a sense of wonder. I am still learning; I am still falling in love. I explain that it was this enduring awe that led me to write a love story and family saga set against the backdrop of the countryside of Tolstoy and Chekhov; of revolutionary Russia; of the decades of Soviet rule.
But now, in my real letter, I want to tell you why I picked up those novels at such a young age. Throughout my childhood, my father, a professional martial artist, would spend months at a time training in
martial arts in Moscow. I turned to books to try to under stand a place so far away it felt unreal. Russia is in the news today for the worst possible reasons; the actions of the current regime are abhorrent and tragic. But there is a culture and a history so rich and so vast behind it; there is so much awaiting discovery, and I hope that some of this can be found in the pages of The Last Russian Doll.
My imaginary letter is long and complex, going on for pages, detailing how my book came to be. It might read like a Russian epic in and of itself, there would be so many people involved, so many ups and downs. But it turns out that in my real letter, right now, the message is simple. In my real letter, there’s only one person that matters, and it isn’t even me. It’s you. Whatever the journey has been, the reader is the destination. Thank you so much, and I hope you enjoy the story.
ALL THE BEST, KRISTEN LOESCH
Questions for Discussion
In the first chapter of The Last Russian Doll, Rosie finds a key in a porcelain doll’s head.
Why do you think some people are drawn to dolls, while others find them repugnant? Do you find dolls to be uncanny or unsettling and, if so, why?
One of the main themes explored in The Last Russian Doll is the choice of silence versus speaking up, and the potential power of one’s voice. By the end of the novel, Rosie is able to speak aloud about her troubled past and Tonya has discovered the depth of her storytelling talent. What, in your view, is the significance of learning to tell your own story? Why might people choose not to?
Are you sympathetic to morally gray characters such as Countess Natalya Burtsinova?
What do you think is Natalya’s moral code, if she has any?
Rosie comments that names are just labels, whereas Lev thinks names have power. By the end of the book, Rosie goes by Raisa. What is the significance of this change? Did you notice other name changes over the course of the novel?
What do you think of Rosie’s assertion that when it comes to the truth about her family, “There’s an answer, and I’ll keep going until I have it. However long it takes”? Do you agree that discovering the truth about a painful event in the past is worth that kind of effort? Why or why not?
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How would you describe Tonya when we first meet her, in 1916? Contrast this with Tonya when we last see her, in 1992. Which life experiences, in your view, have shaped her the most? In an alternate reality, one without those experiences, what do you think Tonya’s life might have been like?
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What do you think of the relationship between Tonya and Viktoria? How do you think they are able to forgive each other? Are their actions unforgivable? Why or why not?
Tonya and Valentin’s romance spans almost eight decades. Russian literature is known for its epic romances, many of which end tragically. What is the appeal of an epic love story? How does the enduring nature of the relationship between Valentin and Tonya contrast with the chaos and instability of the world in which they live? How would you feel if The Last Russian Doll had a different ending?
Katya erases the dedication to Lena in her mother’s notebook, but Rosie is able to decipher it years later. How does this symbolize the way the past can endure into the present? Can the past ever be fully erased? Should we try to erase it? Why or why not?
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The different layers of a matryoshka, or Russian nesting doll, are often depicted with the dolls holding various objects in their hands: one might hold a basket of strawberries, another a baby, another a bird. (The innermost doll can be so small that you can’t even tell what it’s holding!) Imagine the three generations of women in this novel were one matryoshka. Tonya would be the outermost and the largest, with Katya within. Rosie would be the smallest. What would each of the three of them be holding, and why?
Do you think that Alexey got the ending he deserved?
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