pyat is probably the most inhabited "unreliable narrator" voice I have ever encountered. I love his confused rants about slavic blood and socialism and The Jews. I love his obvious lies, his tall tales about heroic deeds, or how some lowly scum without his purity of vision ruined his plans at the last moment, and that's why you never read about his brilliant death ray atop st George's cathedral in the history books. I love his mental and emotional fragility; you can imagine an old pyat in his shop in Westminster, weathered and diseased, collecting bile and hurt all day at work from young people who laugh at his racist conspiratorial pamphlets, then going home and scribbling out furious recollections of his youthful importance - his coke fueled sexual escapades and no less coke fueled tromps through the war torn sundered Russian Empire. he is a living, breathing figure, and moorcock understands how he thinks on a deep level. I won't go into current geopolitical implications of pyat's stances here except to say that this is an illuminating book for a set of views that is more widely held than any of us would like to admit. I can't wait to see what this sick freak gets up to next!!!!