Kolme ystävystä I (Three Friends I) is the kind of book that grabs you by the collar. Maksim Gorky, the rough-and-tumble voice of Russia’s downtrodden, throws you into a world of cramped rooms, empty pockets, and voices that refuse to be silenced.

The Story

Three pals—Vanya (the thinker), Arkasha (the talented but wild dreamer), and Lyalya (the quiet heart of the group)—have stuck together in a dreary industrial city. Their lives are full of small joys: shared bread, borrowed cigarettes, and wild plotting about escaping to the countryside. Then things turn sour. Arkasha is accused of nicking a shopkeeper’s purse. It’s probably a setup, but the evidence is salty. Vanya and Lyalya must juggle work, family shame, and the maddening urge to fight the system that’s stamping them down. Without spoiling too much, the first book sets a stage: trials, redemptions, and the question of whether friendship can survive when you’ve got one foot out of the pit.

Why You Should Read It

Gorky doesn’t paint a noble picture of the poor. His characters are messy—spiteful, generous, cruel, and tender by turns. That’s the point. The book vibrates with real conversation: yelling in tenement halls, whispered laughs at night, deals struck over pickled vegetables. It fells those stories where suffering is gilded with honor; here, suffering is just plain painful, and friendship is the one bare light bulb in the room. The book begs you to think: if society rewrites the value of human lives, what binds a person to their friend? It’s raw material for the soul—written by a guy who didn’t candy-coat his city for any literary nobleman.

Final Verdict

This one’s a scruffy, beautiful ride focused on people who read more through each other’s silence than from libraries. Perfect for readers who like a literary classic without snooze-worthy prose, especially if you love friends going through teenage-to-adulthood levels of messy drama with no escape hatches. If Les Misérables had smaller, dirtier boots, it would look a whole lot like this book. Best devoured cold evening with a chai - probably Indian or spiced to feel different, but old Russia style. Think steam locomotive, dried fish, hard laughter. If you read Ilya Repin’s paintings turned story, or if you ache for faithful characters making bad choices with raw heart, dig in. Book two awaits later; tempo is older but spirit yells fresh.