The importance of the three authors of the Soviet era - Tolstoy, Dostoevsky and Solzhenitsyn cannot be understated in the entire repertoire of Soviet era literature, or to put it more aptly - the importance in part toppling the authoritarian and communist regimes laid by the likes of J. Stalin and V. Lenin in Soviet Russia. One common resistance is the sheer complexity and wordiness of these works - Crime and Punishment, War and Peace, Anna Karenina are all monumental novels that require at least a few fortnights of intense reading to even make a dent! I ordered The Gulag Archipelago by Solzhenitsyn through the Book Depository weeks ago, and since snail mail requires some patience on my part, I decided to purchase a copy of One Day in The Life of Ivan Denisovich by the same author.
A brief synopsis first. The book is exactly what'd you expect - a day in the life of the wrongly incarcerated soldier Ivan Denisovich in the Soviet Siberian labor camp (Gulags), getting up at reveille then slogging through tough marches in the Soviet cold, working breaking-back jobs with no end in sight. A day stretches into this gruelling recollection of different squadmates, each with their own philosophy and ways to deal with the inhumane authoritarian machine. You have to read the book to get the fleshed-out details of the life in camp.
What surprised me in the way Solzhenitsyn writes his recount (the book is largely based on his experiences in the Soviet Gulags) is that his way of compiling the daily events. His recount of the reality in camps might not be dramatic or hypocritically emotional (much appreciated in the landscape of being overtly dramatic in this day and age - just read up some pseudo-intellectual's Instagram and you'll get a sense), but instead put things brutally honest and genuine. The camps are inhumane, dehumanizing and ultimately depraved of any sense of human rights - squads are starving and worked to death - yet Ivan dealt with all of this suffering with the best parts of humanity - he does not whine or gain delusions of grandeur. He does not get bitter and resentful over all of this happening. He understands the gravity of his situation and still makes the best of it - what good does fine craftsmanship bring working in a labor camp? You do not get paid nor applauded for dishing out your best in this hellscape - the authoritarian machine only cares about the results written in reports and the facade of progress - in which it feasts on the collective mediocrity of the masses. What good is it for one to work his best? Ivan Denisovich knows, yet he strives for excellence, not for the insanity he exists, but simply for he himself. He slogs through the day with not a optimistic or pessimistic view - he just tries to survive with every ounce of soul in his being.
This resonated with me deeply throughout the entire reading of this book. PhD work is hard - in a sense which no one really has a metric to sufficiently gauge progress - experiments and hypotheses are endless - in which I have seen many who try to cheat and get by the system. The system simply does not care an ounce whether you succeed or fail - nor does your colleagues and your boss. Like the compatriots of Ivan, the machine simply wishes not to breakdown - as long as the cog does its job. Yet what is great in man is that it has to have a value structure which propels itself into greatness. Aim the trajectory high and you'll find meaning. Everytime I see myself working the extra mile, I think of Ivan Denisovich. I contemplate in retrospect and strive on - despite what is expected and despite what others think. Hell is other people, as said by Sartre, and it would be hell if you wallowed in every nook and cranny hell has to provide. Struggle and suffer for a reason - a reason or goal - and meaning follows.
Of course, the Gulags were a well oiled machine in which human values are thrown away and fed to the dogs. You might be high and mighty, but once you're in, try being all high and mighty and you'll be broken. Hard. What this meant was every one was equal in a sense which the raw humanity within each of the squadmates in the Gulag shines through. In a similar sense, what we are currently in - no matter the shackles (be it a corpo rat race or the ivory helltower of academia), the true self shines through. This obviously is not an appraisal for the Gulags, but in which of itself an appraisal of the human condition itself.
It would be absurd if I did not recommend this book. I would also in the same vein recommend books such as Man's Search for Meaning (by Victor Frankl), and Gulag Archipelago.
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