Since the beginning of the school year on Sept. 1, millions of children across the country have been attending literature classes -- sometimes good, but often bad or even appalling.

For first-graders, the day begins with assemblies in front of their school buildings, when they nervously recite school-related poetry. Usually it is hideous, with poor rhymes and worse sense. The aversion of teachers to good children's poetry, which is available in Russian in truckloads, has always mystified me.

Then come the literature lessons. More often than not, the Russian classics are spoiled for kids forever. The lessons are usually so dogmatic and boring that kids end up hating all the major authors, and nothing could be worse for the development of their literary taste. While an inclination toward Fyodor Dostoevsky or Anton Chekhov might resurface at a later stage in their lives, their relationship with Alexander Pushkin's poetry is usually damaged beyond repair.

Of course, it does not always happen. Lots of pupils of all generations cherish the memory of teachers who taught them to love literature; I know a few myself. But the style of instruction certainly doesn't get any better as students progress to college. Here's an example of a question from an entrance exam in literature at one of Moscow's most prestigious colleges for the humanities. "In Mikhail Bulgakov's 'Master and Margarita,' love is opposed to: a) greed; b) death; c) the regime; d) everyday life."

I guarantee that I can successfully argue for each of these options, and besides, option e) sex would have been a correct answer as well. Putting aside for a moment the questionable value of multiple-choice exams in literature, the purpose of asking questions so patently devoid of a clear-cut answer truly eludes me.

Another way of checking students' proficiency in literature is a sochineniye, a term roughly meaning "composition" or "essay." Fantasy and personal opinions may or may not be encouraged, depending on a specific teacher. But if an entrance exam takes the form of a sochineniye, it is advisable to present one's views in a detached and academic manner.

The bitter aftertaste left by literature lessons might explain why the writings of almost all Russian authors about school, from Pushkin's recollections about the elite Lyceum in Tsarskoye Selo to Nikolai Nosov's books about children constructing beehives and incubators for chicken eggs, concentrate on extracurricular activities. But then again, so does the most celebrated school-related work of recent years, the Harry Potter saga.