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.

The story revolves around a two thousand year old asiatic were-fox named “A Hu Li” (whose name roughly translates to “Go Fuck Yourself” in Russian) and her adventures working as an “underage” prostitute in Moscow—despite being two thousand years old, she apparently looks no older than fifteen.

While on the surface this might sound like a lurid sex-drenched novel for furries, surprisingly little sex actually occurs in the book. A Hu Li hypnotizes her clients (using her fox tail), and convinces them they’re having the best sex of their lives, rather than actually partaking in the act herself. This has allowed her to refrain from sexual activity and lay claim to the title of The Two Thousand Year Old Virgin. While her clients writhe on the bed by themselves, A Hu Li amuses herself reading—usually Stephen Hawking’s A Brief History of Time. As we quickly discover, A Hu Li is one cerebral werefox. She has an opinion and an observation to make on everything; and that she does, in great detail throughout the book.

Her career as a prostitute takes a turn for the worse when one of her clients has the equivalent of a bad acid trip during one of these hypnotic sessions, and A Hu Li runs afoul of the Russian security services—in particular, a high-ranking officer by the name of Alexander who turns out to be a werewolf.

Surprising absolutely no one, the two of them engage in a little wolf-on-fox love affair—which turns out to be far more cerebral than torrid. They discuss Russia’s history, its politics, and culture; and soon they’re off discussing the meaning of life.

The concept of a being known as the super-werewolf is introduced. Much time is spent pontificating on the true meaning of the super-werewolf and how one becomes the super-werewolf. It’s interesting for a while, but once the characters broke out the Power Point presentation to discuss the finer points of the origins of the super-werewolf, I started to lose interest.

From here, the novel starts to drag, as the characters spend page upon page sitting around, having sex, and engaging in ever more cryptic philosophical discussions on the meaning of life and the super-werewolf. While this is perfectly fine in smaller doses (as Pelevin peppers throughout the first half of the book), it’s at this point that it all becomes too dense and starts to feel like I’m reading a philosophy textbook rather than a novel. Perhaps there are people out there who will have the patience to pore over scene after scene of these werecreatures lounging about and discussing the greater philosophical points of life; regrettably, I am not one of them. Thankfully, Pelevin finds his balance again, and things pick up towards the end.

Pelevin is at his best when he uses A Hu Li to make asides to the reader, often going off on tangents unrelated to the events in the book. Of particular note is A Hu Li’s commentary on the meaning of beauty. She spends two pages comparing the beauty of a woman to that of a ray of sunshine passing across a pane of window glass. The metaphor is exquisite and Pelevin carries it off brilliantly. Those two pages alone made the entire novel worth reading, Power Point presentations and all.

Was The Sacred Book of the Werewolf able to overcome my bias against werewolf stories? Frankly, I think that’s a trick question, as I wouldn’t call this a werewolf story, per se. The werecreatures are merely the looking glass Peleven uses to reflect our lives and our world back upon ourselves. They are Swiftian monks in wolf’s clothing, with a whiff of Kafka thrown in for good measure. Overall, the book is a mixed bag, though that bag is mostly full of tasty goodies, and is well worth rummaging through.