I’ve never met a werewolf story I didn’t dislike—at least on some level. Which is unfortunate, as the werewolf is without a doubt my favourite mythic creature of all. I constantly yearn for a rippingly good werewolf tale, something that eschews nonsense about clans, honour, and especially something that in no way whatsoever involves any sort of mild misunderstanding (let alone all-out war) with vampires. So it was with a mix of trepidation and eagerness that I sat down to read Victor Pelevin’s highly acclaimed novel, The Sacred Book of the Werewolf.