The other week, when director Andrei Zvyagintsev was greeted at the Rotterdam Film Festival by all and sundry, journalist Dmitry Bykov published an online essay in Russky Zhurnal directing sharp and poisonous remarks at "The Return," the film that brought Zvyagintsev international fame in Venice last fall. Bykov's words came as a surprise to no one: Anyone following his work would have long ago noticed his tendency to dissent.

For over a decade, Bykov has been one of the loudest voices of Russian journalism. His career began in the weekly paper Sobesednik, which, during perestroika, was as close to a cult publication as it got. It was startling even then to see how Bykov combined piercing observations of the new Soviet reality with a sophisticated taste for poetry. A member of the Courteous Mannerists, a group that rejoiced in its loyalty to traditional poetry at a time when everything traditional was breaking down, Bykov was by far the most gifted, and his mastery of verse close to perfect.

More recently, Bykov has made a name for himself as one of Russia's most controversial journalists. His wit and brilliance are rivaled only by his verbal violence. Critics accuse him of supporting views for which he is amply paid, but in present-day Russia it is equally hard to prove or to disprove such allegations.

Still, when Bykov published his novel "Orthography" last year, almost everyone gaped in wonder. Even his numerous critics joined his supporters in saying that Bykov had written the best Russian novel in quite a while. His literary ambitions had always been obvious, but no one expected them to be fulfilled.

The novel is set in Petrograd and the Crimea in 1918 and stars, not surprisingly, a popular journalist with literary ambitions. All around him are academics, writers and artists who are taken aback by the political turmoil. Many of the characters are variations on real people of that time, and it is a special delight to trace the prototypes behind the pseudonyms. A novel about Russia and its historical destiny, "Orthography" is unique for lacking the high-pitched pathos that one might easily expect from Bykov. A love novel, it never resorts to tasteless eroticism or sentimentality, and is remarkably well researched. It is, in short, the closest approximation to "the great Russian novel" of post-Soviet times.

One can only regret that Bykov's spiteful journalism distracts him from his creative writing. But the novel makes it clear that, for him, literature and journalism are inseparable. And if bile is the by-product of things such as "Orthography," does anyone actually mind?