In the second Book of the Dead, Eduard Limonov continues to keep records of those who died and remember those who remain in the baggage of his personal memory. He writes obituaries abruptly, unflatteringly, vividly, in exact accordance with Chilo's famous dictum: "About the dead it is either good or nothing but the truth." His dead are his father and mother, Natalia Medvedeva, childhood friends, writers Sergei Dovlatov, Anatoly Pristavkin and Alexander Zinoviev, photographer Helmut Newton, it's hard to imagine more different people, but they all left some kind of mark on the writer's life, and he has something to tell about each one. So-called writers are actually pathetic creatures. There are few Johann Wolfgang Goethe among them. They are mostly wrinkled, sluggish people with pronounced disharmony in their clothes, face, and figure. Both in the details of the face and in the details of the figure. It seems that disharmony is their hallmark. The covers of the series are decorated with iconic portraits of Eduard Limonov, taken during the years of writing each book in the series. The editor-in-chief of an emigrant newspaper is forced to assume the role of a kind of head of a mafia clan. He may not accept the advertisement for a new sausage shop, Russians and Jews will not go there, and you will burn out.