This outward stability masks an unprecedented campaign of pressure and intimidation, however. Independent bookstores are shutting down one after another, not for lack of customers but because siloviki raid their premises and find pretexts to close “unreliable” establishments. In 2023, several well-known independent publishers were subjected to searches, and some were later absorbed by larger players. Arrests followed. Employees of these publishers, even after leaving for new jobs, found themselves accused of serious crimes, branded as “extremists” and “terrorists.” Their offense was simply working with books. For example, a distribution manager at a well-known independent publisher was detained and placed on the terrorist list for selling titles that had not been banned by any court. Such measures against publishers, booksellers and authors are unprecedented in contemporary Russian history. Today they are part of the daily reality.

The Eksmo-AST monopoly

To understand the economics behind this, one must look at the dominance of the Eksmo-AST publishing group. This giant controls the lion’s share of the market, encompassing dozens of imprints, its own retail chain, printing facilities and Russia’s largest digital reading platform, LitRes. It is as if Penguin Random House, Barnes & Noble, and Kindle were a single corporate entity. In Russia, that entity is led by Oleg Novikov.

Novikov is a man of considerable entrepreneurial talent. He loves books, but even more he loves turning them into profit. Having started in the 1990s selling detective novels from a street kiosk, he went on to earn a business education and build a holding company by consolidating brands. In the early 2000s, he acquired his main competitor, AST, at a moment when the industry was in flux and rivals were faltering in their dealings with the state. Since then, Eksmo-AST has steadily absorbed nearly every promising newcomer. A small independent press would emerge, release a few bestsellers and then be offered a deal: sell out to the market leader and continue operations as a subsidiary. For many, this was the only way to survive.
The digital segment deserves particular attention. While most Russian publishers were wary of e-books – fearing that piracy and free online libraries would cannibalize sales – Novikov made a contrarian bet. He acquired a popular pirated library and, with the help of a major consulting firm, transformed it into a paid platform. This became LitRes, which, after systematically pushing out other pirate sites, turned into the unconditional leader of Russia’s e-book market. Novikov’s foresight gave him a commanding position in a niche few initially believed would be profitable, which made his empire even more powerful. 

Timing was also critical. In the 1990s, the old Soviet book distribution system collapsed and new businesses emerged in the chaotic vacuum. Novikov moved quickly to secure key assets. Today, Eksmo-AST dominates nearly every link in the publishing ecosystem, from printing to retail. Its influence is felt everywhere. Generally, when the state cracks down on an industry, a monopolist like Eksmo-AST either complies or dictates the rules of the game to the rest of the market. In practice, both occur in this case.

Repression of publishers and booksellers

For many in the industry, the new reality means living under constant threat. Independent publishers and booksellers are disappearing not for economic reasons, but because of political repression. The pattern is often cynical: law enforcement ramps up pressure on an “inconvenient” company; a monopolist acquires it at a discount; the most active staff are charged with criminal offenses.
The story of Individuum and Popcorn Books illustrates this. These young, disruptive publishers specialized in contemporary fiction and nonfiction, including books on “sensitive subjects.” First, their offices were raided and warnings issued. Then, weakened, they were acquired by Eksmo-AST. Later, several former employees, now working for the new parent company, were arrested on charges of “extremism” and “terrorism” for their earlier publishing work (even though, as I said before, no court banned the titles in question). One sales manager was accused of “terrorism” for distributing books from the “wrong” publishing house’s warehouse. This case has become emblematic of how far the authorities are willing to go to intimidate the book community.

Bookstores have been targeted as well. Independent outlets, especially those linked to cultural centers or museums, face closure as soon as the authorities deem their shelves to contain “unreliable” literature. The books may not be formally prohibited, but a pretext is always found: perhaps the author is a “foreign agent” and/or a critic of the regime. The shop is then stripped of its status as a “socially important business,” denied tax benefits and eventually forced to move out of the rented space. In recent years, dozens of small bookstores across Russia have shut down under such pressure.

In short, a wave of repression has swept over publishers, booksellers and even writers – people whose sole “crime” is producing and circulating books. They are increasingly cast as enemies of the state, to be neutralized rather than tolerated.

Censorship without rules: From black marks to denunciations

Censorship has returned to Russia, even though it is outlawed by the Constitution. Instead of a formal committee and clearly defined rules, there is now a chaotic system of bans that is unpredictable and arbitrary. Books that displease influential groups may vanish from shelves or appear in bowdlerized form.

In recent months, readers have increasingly encountered books with passages literally blacked out. Entire sentences or paragraphs are covered with black. The most notorious example was a Russian edition of a biography of Italian filmmaker Pier Paolo Pasolini in which more than a third of the text is hidden. Predictably, the censored material dealt with homosexuality and tolerance – themes deemed unacceptable by the state. Another case was the Russian translation of Salman Rushdie’s Knife, where the publisher, with the author’s consent, blacked out a passage linking modern Islamist terrorism to the war launched by Vladimir Putin in Ukraine. In that edition, a footnote directs readers to the relevant page in the English original. The result is a peculiar game: those who want to know the truth must seek out the source.

But not all interventions are so visible. Publishers often choose a quieter route: removing “undesirable” passages during the editing process without informing readers. Entire chapters disappear from Russian translations without any indication in the text. As the organizer of the Prosvetitel(“enlightener”) Prize (an annual award for popular science writing), I have personally encountered this. For the second year in a row, when checking translations against originals, we discovered publishers simply cutting sections or full chapters – sometimes without even notifying the foreign rights holders. Why? To avoid any chance of controversy over content touching on human rights, discrimination or contemporary politics. Easier to delete than risk questions from Russian regulators.

There are no rules; everyone hedges against danger as best they can. Nor is there a fixed list of taboo subjects. Criticism of the war in Ukraine and LGBT topics are obvious targets, but the repression machine is gaining momentum and functioning without logic. Punishment can be handed down for material never previously banned.

The case of the poet known under the pseudonym Glikery Ulanov is instructive. He was charged with “promoting suicide” for a poem he had posted online years earlier. The text had languished unnoticed on a small website until the authorities suddenly declared it dangerous. Ulanov was arrested and now faces several years in prison. Why? No one can say. In today’s Russia, every creative person is under suspicion.

This “censorship without censors” also fuels denunciations. Self-appointed watchdogs find each other on social media to look for “sedition” in libraries and bookstores. Spot a book by an out-of-favor author on a shelf? File a complaint with the prosecutor’s office. Somewhere in a provincial town, an eager official obliges – confiscating the book and fining the shop. The fact that the book is not formally banned is irrelevant: the law can be interpreted in the broadest possible fashion.
Even officials acknowledge the chaos. Recently, Mikhail Shvydkoi, the president’s special representative for culture, publicly proposed reinstating formal censorship. Writing in a state newspaper, he argued that defined boundaries would be preferable to today’s atmosphere of pervasive fear. At least with an official censor, one knows what is prohibited, the argument goes. Now, nothing is banned outright, yet everything is suspect, which is worse. As we see, the system has reached the point where even bureaucrats long for rules.

Publishing in exile

A natural response to these conditions has been the relocation of part of the Russian book industry abroad. Immediately after the full-scale invasion of Ukraine in 2022, as it became clear that a new era of repression had begun, authors and publishers began creating channels to publish outside the country. In effect, tamizdat – the practice of printing books abroad for readers in Russia – has been revived.

In just over a year, several new Russian-language publishing houses appeared abroad. The most visible is BA Book, founded by the famous writer Boris Akunin. Initially intended for his own works, the imprint quickly expanded and now publishes many authors blacklisted in Russia. Other platforms appeared. The Babel bookstore in Tel Aviv evolved into a full-fledged publishing house. The independent Latvian news outlet Meduza launched its own book series. Freedom Letters specializes in authors banned in Russia. And together with colleagues, I cofounded Vidim Books, a small but determined press publishing contemporary Russian prose and poetry that would not pass censorship at home.

The mission of these projects is straightforward: to publish what is forbidden in Russia. Their catalogues range from antiwar commentary to children’s books with LGBT characters, as well as poetry by writers labeled “foreign agents.” The audience is limited, however. We publish primarily for emigrants and Russian-speaking readers abroad. Print runs are a fraction of what they would be inside Russia. Vera Polozkova’s latest poetry collection, for example, sells in the thousands of copies abroad (whereas in Russia it once sold in the tens of thousands). Yet we see this as temporary. Should the political situation change, we hope to return.

Still, books continue to make their way into Russia. The channels are semiunderground but effective. Some copies travel in the suitcases of tourists flying from Tel Aviv or Riga. Others are mailed through neighboring countries. In some cases, small batches are printed locally as samizdat. And of course, there is digital: the internet is not yet fully closed and e-books circulate widely. Demand inside Russia for “forbidden” new releases is strong. Tourists report that in foreign bookstores frequented by Russian visitors, the first question is: “where is the shelf with banned books?” Despite every effort by the authorities, literature continues to find its readers.

Conservative turn: The origins of the censorship campaign

To understand why the persecution of books started in Russia, one must look back several years. Even before the war, the government had embraced the cause of “traditional values.” This marked an ideological shift to the right, toward ultraconservatism. The process had its champions: billionaire Konstantin Malofeev, founder of the Tsargrad TV channel; film director and propagandist Nikita Mikhalkov; and his protégé, Duma Deputy Elena Yampolskaya. This trio has loudly insisted Russia raise citizens in the spirit of patriotism and adherence to “traditional morality.”

In practice, “traditional values” meant a reinvention of the past. Any phenomena outside a narrow conservative worldview were declared alien to “Russian spirituality.” LGBT topics were an early target. Long before the war, books with gay characters came under attack and restrictive laws were imposed, covering everything from rainbow-colored jackets to neutral mentions of same-sex relationships.

A textbook case was the novel Pioneer Summer. This innocent teenage story, essentially fan fiction about two schoolboys falling in love, was never intended for a mass audience. Nevertheless, it was singled out as a supposed threat to “traditional values.” Public figures who had clearly never read the book denounced it, claiming it “corrupted youth” and “promoted perversion.” The accusations were absurd, yet the very spectacle of persecuting an innocent book, combined with orchestrated outrage on television, helped cement the new moral order.

At the same time, the authorities used this rhetoric to consolidate support among conservatives. The Kremlin courted Muslim-majority regions with messages such as “we, too, defend the traditional family and reject gay pride parades,” while borrowing from the example of Middle Eastern regimes like Iran and Afghanistan, where repression is justified as tradition. By 2020, the course was clear: no liberalization, only the bonds holding society together (skrepy) and prohibitions.
The war in 2022 poured fuel on this fire. Any dissent could now be branded “antipatriotic,” and cultural innovation dismissed as “enemy values.” This paved the way for the censorship and repression described above. In reality, however, the foundations had already been laid when obscurantists were allowed to set the agenda.

Will it only get worse?

Will the authorities keep tightening the screws until the book industry is destroyed? Will they ever stop?
The answer, unfortunately, is yes, they will continue. Nothing suggests the censors will retreat on their own. Experience shows the opposite: the repression machine is only picking up steam. If a dozen people are arrested today, tomorrow it will be a hundred and the day after, a thousand. Not every prominent writer has been branded a criminal yet, but the list is growing. Several well-known authors have already been charged in absentia or forced into exile. Publishers remain under investigation.

Not long ago, the idea of a writer imprisoned for a book seemed unthinkable. Now, the unthinkable is routine. Five years ago, today’s reality would have sounded like the ravings of a madman. But there is no craziness the system will not try so as to rule through fear.

Repression will not burn itself out; it follows its own logic. The trajectory points toward further screw-tightening. The only sensible stance is to prepare for the worst, while still holding on to hope for better.

An atmosphere of fear and self-censorship

The gravest consequence of this campaign is not confiscated books or arrested publishers, but the pervasive fear that seeps into the minds of writers. The result is self-censorship. Authors may not be formally prohibited from writing, yet they find themselves asking: should I delete this line? What if it is misinterpreted? Should I remove this character? Could someone see it as a signal? Even before a manuscript leaves the desk, the censor’s voice echoes in the author’s mind.

Unwritten rules are taking shape. Certain historical subjects are avoided lest they clash with the official narrative of “great victories” and “enemies of the people.” Writers shy away from love stories that extend beyond the “traditional family,” fearing accusations of spreading “nontraditional” propaganda. Even fairy tales are sanitized: images are trimmed to avoid offending moral guardians.

The anecdotes circulating among authors are both comical and chilling. One writer admitted making a Ukrainian character Russian “just in case” it was construed as sympathy for Ukraine. Another revised a scene where a teddy bear interacted too playfully with a dog, fearing censors might detect an LGBT subtext. It sounds absurd, but behind the laughter lies real fear: people are no longer free to write.

This is precisely what the government seeks: an atmosphere where the very possibility of free creativity is extinguished. In that sense, Putin’s “morality police” have achieved their goal.

Yet this, too, is temporary. Every pendulum, however far it swings, eventually goes back the other way. Russian literature has endured darker times and always emerged renewed. The clouds are heavy now, but in those corners still untouched by repression, normal literary life persists. And when the storm passes, books in Russia will spread their wings again. Our task is to preserve their spirit until that brighter day arrives.