Shostakovich and Solzhenitsyn: Laughing at Authority

The U.S.S.R. no longer exists. The world (or at least the democratic capitalist governments) thought that the influence of Mother Russia as a Superpower had ended permanently with Mikhail Gorbachev exiting in shame, and Boris Yeltsin dancing on top of a Russian tank to the delight of the Muscovite masses. The idealist/propagandists world looked at this as a miracle--the more realistic groups knew enough to know that Perestroika and Glasnost had done their work, little by little, in breaking the mold of Soviet rule. But before the so-called "Cold War" was over, there were men and women risking their lives, daring (without an open dare) against a system they thought unfair. Most of these valiant individuals were artists.

Alexander Solzhenitsyn was both a visionary and a traitor after the publication of "One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich," and "The Gulag Archipelago." That was, of course, after Solzhenitsyn was sentenced to hard labor for anti-Stalinist comments around the same time he was being decorated for his service in World War II. From where, hence, comes the contradiction? His prose seemed to praise the system within a veil of criticism. Not even the Union of Writers (a puppet of the party) was able to keep up with the hidden meanings of his work. The Union knew, of course, that Solzhenitsyn was playing with fire, but could do little to control the output of this driven artist. Not even the KGB could stop the writing power of this man, and, some time after that, Solzhenitsyn won the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1970. Solzhenitsyn came under attack, all the while writing, hiding, writing some more. The KGB managed to confiscate some of his works (he had to recreate "The First Circle" entirely from memory). All the way up to 1974, Solzhenitsyn continued to write, hiding and existing in a world of shadows, but writing nonetheless. Shortly thereafter he was forced into exile and spent the better part of his advanced age in Vermont. (Incidentally, Mstilav Rostropovich was shortly after sent into exile for having sheltered and supported Solzhenitsyn). In 2005, Solzhenitsyn returned to a post-Soviet Russia for the first time, but he found out (the hard way) that the young nation was not going to be delivered by an author--the people needed jobs and the hope for a better future. Solzhenitsyn (might have) died of a broken heart.

Dmitri Shostakovitch was considered a sell-out by his contemporaries when, in 1960, he joined the Communist party. What his contemporaries failed to realize (as in Solzhenitsyn) was the hidden messages in his musical compositions. For example, the second movement of the Symphony No. 5 presents a theme that can only be compared to the music of a puppet show. The first movement sets the tone to a glorification of the U.S.S.R., the vast, sweeping and militant themes can be seen as a set up of sorts. Here, Breshnev and all the rest in the Politburo nodded and approved of his seemingly Soviet-exalting pieces, and all the while Shostakovitch laughing under his breath. There are many other examples of Shostakovitch's work that fall under the category of subversive; so much so that it is nearly impossible to present in any categorized manner. As a result, I selected the piece I thought best represented his rebellion.

One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich: A Walk Through the Gulag

The main criticism I get from teaching this book is that it deals too closely with action-related scenes, and not enough with what the literature of the oppressed really is about. Almost one third of the book is spent learning how to lay brick and mortar. I personally love the book, but it would be a disservice not to point out what others (my students) think is a wave of mundane details that deliver a pat rather than a literary punch. I am most interested in reading deeply into the existential structure of the novel. While there are very few passages to point out as support for an existential interpretation, the few that I found on this re-reading might go far to prove my point. One thing that I find fascinating about the novel is that despite the title "One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich," most of the time the protagonist is highlighted the narrator uses his last name, Shukhov. That in itself began my inclination to interpret this as an existential novel. What is it about the last name that promises more intimacy than the first/middle name featured in the title? Dehumanization? I rather think that the last name, being the element of trace into the past, genealogy, ancestry, etc., would be more self defining. I don't want to bog down with interpretative stretches, only these passages made me think of anti-Sartre commentary in some inordinate way: "If you suffer, it must not be for murder, theft, or sorcery, nor for infringing the rights of others. But if anyone suffers as a Christian, he should feel no disgrace, but confess that name to the honor of God." This passage comes across as masochistic if one reads it with the intention of proving that religion explains away one's suffering and gives meaning to our suffering itself. These workers are doing hard labor in -22 degrees cold weather, with only basic clothing. I would have to promote the idea that that suffering really has very little to do with God and the church doctrine. By breaking the law--either that of the state or the church--man puts himself in a sphere all of his own. What Nietzsche declared as taking one's destiny in one's own hands, leading to Ubermensch, (or in Dostoyevsky's view: I kill because I can.) is nothing more than another morality which can be as addictive and as damaging as the metaphysical embrace of the suffering. Another passage that recalls existential theory is that of Shukhov being patted down before they take the squad out to work that morning, "Shukhov was in regulation dress. Come on, paw me as hard as you like. There's nothing but my soul in my chest." This passage is reminiscent of Viktor Frankl's "Man's Search for Meaning," when he says something to the effect of "We had nothing to lose but our ridiculous naked selves," as they were entering the Nazi Concentration Camp.

This is a stretch, and you must forgive me for making it, but "One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich" is very much in structure like Clint Eastwood's "Unforgiven" film. The tension builds and builds and builds, and then the story resolves itself in a split second twist of violence and self-made justice (read, own moral standard). The only reason I am making this point here is that in teaching this book for over 10 years, I always heard my students say something to the effect that the book drags and then all of a sudden, it ends. It's about 50-50 when it comes to whether they enjoyed reading it or not. Thankfully, it's a quick read... young people today do not have time for painful stories of suffering and despair. Little do they know.

Lost in Place

I've lost so much in the last month that it is nearly incomprehensible to me how I've managed. In the same token, I now have time to finish several of my projects that I have been ignoring for the better part of two years. I've finished another Moleskine notebook, and I continue to write every day a minimum of two hours. The diaries of Christopher Isherwood are driving me insane, really, in a good way. I knew starting off that the task of reading this massive volume was going to be a tough going, but after 580 pages, and as I am starting to see the end of the tunnel, I feel rather prematurely nostalgic about what I am going to miss from reading this book. First of all, Isherwood's voice--it comes clean and loud through all of his writing (even the most mundane entries). Also, there's a great deal of detail about addresses of places he frequented; I am now one of those who "Google Earth" every address I find in any of the books I am reading. It's a sickness, I tell you, researching this so obsessively. I still have 400 pages to go, but I may have to put it aside and read some short fiction. All of this non-fiction reading has given me a metaphorical headache. And to think that I had proposed for next year to read only biographies! I better rethink that, pronto.

I am taking a short detour to re-read Alexander Solzhenitsyn's "One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich" because and simply because I want to. The weather has been terrible here for almost a month--cloudy and raining all of the time, with only sporadic cameo appearances by the sun that last less than 15 minutes. Solzhenitsyn's little masterpiece is as short as Isherwood's diaries are long, so I won't be away without an entry for as long as I have been lately.

I want to thank all of those who have sent me an electronic mail to wish me well. I have printed all (every single one) of those notes and I've placed them in a prominent place on my desk. Really, thank you from the bottom of my heart! I'll never forget all of your kindness.

The Last Literary Crusader is Dead... where do we go from here?

Alexander Solzhenitsyn, father and undisputed champion of the Modern Russian novel is dead at the age of 89. Back in 1993, while on a fishing trip to Vermont, a friend of mine who lived in the area wanted me to "walk up the road" with him to go meet "some writer dude you might find interesting." Adding that he "couldn't pronounce his name even if he rehearsed it for a month." I got so very close to seeing a real life Nobel Prize winner and a holy vessel of literary truth, but a peculiar set of circumstances came between us and the Man.

Alexander Solzhenitsyn lived in exile in Vermont for years. He went back to Russia after the fall of the Soviet Union, but the times had changed... and at that time, Russia didn't have use for a literary god... there were "other issues" of pressing importance getting in the way. Literature couldn't feed people, that happened to be a simple fact. I wonder how capitalist Russia feels about losing one of its last links to a glorious and momentous past. We may forget (in a digital age) that before we lived off images given to us by technology, there were men and women who by hard work, dedication, art, method or even alchemy, helped us create images in our minds by simply using words. Alexander Solzhenitsyn was such a man. His works outlive him. Now "he belongs to the ages."

I do no justice to his life and work here. The New York Times is running a great article this morning... here is the link: http://www.nytimes.com/2008/08/04/books/04solzhenitsyn.html?_r=1&hp&oref=slogin#