Russian Literature: A Very Short Introduction

Five or six men follow after, along the narrow and treacherous trail. They

walk alongside the track not in it. [ . . . ]

Every one of them, no matter how small and weak he is, must stand on a

piece of fresh snow, not in someone else’s tracks. It’s only readers,

not writers, who ride on tractors and horses.

If Shalamov drew his readers’ attention to the problems of narrative right at the outset of his text, Solzhenitsyn’s novels The First Circle (1978) and Cancer Ward, began, quite traditionally, ‘in the middle of things’ without preamble. But they too were in literary terms heterogeneous. The citation in Cancer Ward of Tolstoy’s late story ‘What People Live By’ (1881), a tale in which an angel comes to live with a poor cobbler and his wife, emphasized that the novel was not merely a representation of a hospital as metaphor for Soviet society, but also a text preoccupied with the miraculous in the mundane (an insight fundamental to understanding the novel’s extraordinary last chapter). One of the inset narratives in The First Circle, ‘Prince Igor’, was an illustration of creativity in extremity, a tale told for the joy of the telling, precisely because it did not bear direct or oblique relation to ‘real life’. And One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich (1962), with its refrain, ‘How can a well-fed man understand the hungry?’ drew attention, like Shalamov’s preface to Kolyma Tales, to the fact that representing horror was impossible. The more ‘true’ a narrative, the less likely it was to communicate with its anticipated audience. Such utterances were more than merely a rhetorical strategy aimed at shaming the ‘well-fed’ into attentive silence. They also questioned the function of literature at a time when any utterance might leave only ‘the stamp of “good-night” on lips/that could say it to no-one’, in the words of a poem from Joseph Brodsky’s cycle ‘A Part of Speech’.

In the post-Stalin era, then, the concept of writers as ‘masters of minds’, compromised by Socialist Realism, was the source of serious doubt among many intelligent commentators on, and practitioners of, literature. These included not only Shalamov, recognized by Viktor Erofeev as a ‘literary’ writer, but also the supposedly ‘teleological’ Solzhenitsyn. With emerging doubts that the writer’s function was or should be purely didactic went a decline in the standing of the novel, the genre most privileged under high Stalinism precisely because of its supposed capacity for weighty moral commentary. (A cartoon published in the humorous magazine Krokodil

in 1952 showed two writers talking. Writer A to Writer B: ‘I’ve just thought of a great subject for a little short story!’. Writer B: ‘Well, get down and write it, then!’. Writer A: ‘No, you see the problem is I can’t think of how to turn it into a big novel!’.) (Ill. 14.)

However, the compromised standing of moral disquisitions on the one hand, and the novel on the other, was not well understood in the West during the post-Stalin years. Here, many readers looked to Russian writers for the direct and unironic discussion of ethical matters that had become unfashionable in the West after the Second World War. To many commentators in the late 1950s, Boris Pasternak’s Doctor Zhivago (1957) seemed a much weightier novel than any recent publication in the English language, while Solzhenitsyn’s One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich spoke with an authority recalling Dostoevsky’s memoir of prison-camp life House of the Dead (1861–2). If Nabokov wished that Tolstoy had exercised his concentration entirely on the free-floating curl hanging down at the back of Anna Karenina’s head, many readers, since Anna Karenina was published, have been more absorbed by the novel’s governing moral themes: whether personal happiness is legitimate at the cost of imposing suffering on others, or whether there may be such a thing as inescapable or deserved suffering. And they have expected that Tolstoy’s successors will provide them with ethical stimulation of just this kind. It was no accident that the first literary award to be supported by Western investors in Russia should have been the Booker Prize for the Russian novel, inspired by the quixotic notion of reviving the genre in the country that many still considered its natural homeland.

14. Cartoon of two writers by Yu. Gorokhov.

Chapter 6

‘And don’t dispute

with fools’

Men, women, and society

For you, my enchantresses,

Only for you, my beauties . . .

(Pushkin, dedication to

Ruslan and Ludmilla

, 1820)