Author Archives: Diego Lasarte

What it there to live for but ‘The Opiate of the Masses?’

In The Motherland of Electricity by Andrey Platonov, the absence of God and the emphasis of labor in the creation of a new world creates a sense of alienation for the characters, a loneliness of setting out into uncharted territory without a supernatural force looking out for you. These characters are the participants in a revolutionary movement attempting to do what has never been done before, to progress past capitalism, religion, and other traditions and create a state of utopia. And this conflict between the revolutionary zeal of the revolution and generations of religious faith in Russia has thrust the characters minds into doubt and confusion, and their lives into a dreary existence of menial work and poverty.

Throughout the text, Platonov implies that the life of the worker is miserable. He compares the weary eyes of the worker to to the beauty of a statue of the Virgin Mary, a relic of Russia’s Christian past: “…the dark beauty of her face, her fine nose or large eyes—which did not seem like those of a worker, since such eyes tire too quickly.” The worker Platonov is describing is specifically a worker living in a world where atheist thought prevails. A world where work has no heavenly purpose, it is solely being done for the real, physical world. This lack of meaning in the most basic, daily part of their lives causes the characters to question their existence and purpose in this new communist world.

Feelings of loneliness are emphasized in this Soviet world; while the decision that the people’s will is law, and that everyone is in complete charge of their future, is of course empowering, it is also intensely depressing to walk throughout the world and make decisions without the confidence that is guaranteed by the idea of a higher power. At the end of the story the narrator is sitting at night, thinking, and is struck by that feeling of intense loneliness: “I sat in thought by the river, which was quietly flowing into the distance, and I looked up at the concentration of stars in the sky, that future field of humanity’s activity, that deathless sucking emptiness filled with anxious and diminutive matter beating away in the rhythm of its unknown fate…” The cosmos are empty, and thus he realizes that the consequences of his actions are entirely his, and the consequences of humanity entirely ours, a profoundly heavy burden to bear.

There is, of course, meaning to be found in this communist world, not necessarily in the menial nature of the work, but rather in the grand spirit of socialist idealism. This is expertly shown in the character of Secretary Zharyonov, the party leader who creates poetry out of his life of bureaucracy. This is especially apparent in the image of him sleeping with his two hungry children: “Only their father lay there with a happy face that was as welcoming as ever; he was in command of his body and of all the tormenting forces of nature, the magic tension of genius continually bringing joy to a heart that had faith in the mighty future of proletarian humanity.” He is able to compartmentalize his suffering for what he believes is the common good. And not only is he able to do that, but it is also that very faith in the system and a brighter future that keeps him going each and every day.

‘Legal Nihilism’ and Cynicism within Russian History

The reading this week, “State Suppression of Baikal Activism” an article by Kate Pride Brown, was obviously a radical departure from the literature, poetry, and art we have been analyzing each week. But, in a way, it had the similar goal of teaching the reader about Russian identity, and its people’s relationship with their country. The article posits that “Democracy has never successfully taken root in Russian soil.” A claim the author backs up by describing a country with an ambivalent relationship to the law, an ambivalence that seems to influence every part of a Russian’s daily life.

The author defines this ambivalence as “Legal nihilism.” A term that measures the willingness of Russians to break the law and the willingness of the law to unjustly target Russians. It is the pervasive idea in Russian society that laws are political tools, meant to be broken and abused. It seems that how widespread this idea is across Russia is a testament to how cynicism is intimately tied to the mindset of the average Russian. Russian society has suffered one setback after another, not too mention facing the brunt of two world wars, countless devastating famines, and a series of autocratic regimes with an affection for prison camps. These tragedies are even more terrible when contrasted with the potential Russian society has shown throughout its history. From its immense and powerful empire to its trailblazing step as the first society to (arguably) successfully realize a Marxist revolution, Russia has often had the latent desire and means to be a truly successful world power.

Of course, this modern pessimistic mindset was exacerbated by the chaos of the fall of the Soviet Union and the turbulent nineties, but this reading makes it clear that this way of corrupt governing was present in the tsarist autocracy and throughout the span of the Soviet Union. This is clearly shown when Jennie Sutton is at the courthouse arguing against an unfounded accusation and when she succeeds in getting only the police chief on her side, her case is dismissed. Russians, correctly, see the law as situational and volatile, which makes life unpredictable and which will weigh down on the spirit of a people, as well as impact their relationship with the concept of power. And if power is malleable and impermanent, it will inspire nothing more than a culture of irreverence and skepticism.

What Separates Man From Beast

One theme represented in these short-stories that fascinated me was the idea that there is a clear and important distinction between the lives of humans and their animal counterparts. And that the different experiences are profound, so much so that it defines what it means to be human. This difference poses a difficult question: who is freer, humans or animals? While humans have criss-crossed the world with roads, trains and planes, discovered the secret laws of our universe, and literally broken through the boundary of the cosmos, humans overwhelmingly feel trapped and overwhelmed by the society that they have created. That is in sharp contrast to a bear walking through the woods, able to urinate wherever it wants (satisfy its primal urges) and be able to sleep soundly, not plagued by existential dread or the thought of billions of its kind needlessly suffering around the world. The animal’s only worry while sleeping is if it will eat that night, or be eaten.

In the short story Among Animals and Plants by Andrey Platonov, the main character Fyodorov describes when he would watch sleeping dogs, cats, and chickens: “They had chewed with their mouths and pronounced blissful sounds, sometimes half-opening eyes blind with sleep and then closing them again, stirring a little, wrapping themselves in their own bodies’ warmth and moaning from the sweetness of their own existence.” These animals aren’t burdened by their own existence the same way in which humans are. Of course, their lives are often less secure and predictable, but they have no conception of good or bad, of being embarrassed or heartbroken. Their lives are governed by the far simpler impulses of hunger, self-protection, and sexual desire.

Because of this blissful ignorance, and lack of self-reflection, Lydia Zinovieva-Annibal argues that animals don’t fear death in the same way humans do. In Wolves, Annibal argues that “‘Well, but what does it matter that we’re sinful?’ ‘Well, then, we need to repent.’ ‘Well, so?’ ‘Well, now that only God knows. Even death isn’t fearful for an animal, see, because, like I explained to you, an animal has no sin. Man’s the only one has to worry about death.’” She is arguing that because animals don’t have any conception of sin, they are liberated from the shadow of death that hangs over humans their whole life.

This is not to say that the stories are always arguing that the added complexity of human life is a negative. I was struck while reading the same story, Wolves by Annibal, the description of the invalid mother, who describes the beauty of society while telling her daughter about her connection to the broader world in spite of her disease: “I can go all over Russia, over the whole earth, through mountains and villages and cities, into the monasteries and wild forests . . . And sons and daughters-all God’s children on the earth, and you, my loved ones, are also in my heart. For there’s an endless amount of room in the human heart, and there’s more of love’s flame than is needed to set earth on fire, but that fire of love does no harm, like the burning bush, the fire did no harm, but burned, and has not burned out.” No matter the difficulty of human life, there is a profound beauty in the human heart’s capacity to love and to connect with other human’s hearts. A privilege that is (probably) found in only one species on Earth.

The Setting of Emotions

I found the short stories and poetry, as well as a few of Brodsky’s paintings, to effectively show a connection between emotions and settings. In much of the art and literature, the setting, not just the places but also the seasons, act almost as characters in the story. They are powerful settings, filled with images that evoke strong reactions in the reader.

When you are a kid, summer is a world not forced into the regular confines of adult society. You are content to wander the mysterious world, giving yourself over to impulses and fleeting thoughts. Tolstaya puts it well in On the Golden Porch when she says “In the beginning was the garden. Childhood was a garden. Without end or limit, without borders and fences, in noises and rustling, golden in the sun, pale green in the shade…”. There is also a sense of unpredictability about summer, a strange haze that changes the way you see the world. Like shortly later in the short story when a naked man appears out of the lake.

The Scent of Apples elicits a similar sentiment. Bunin starts the story with feelings familiar to anyone who has experienced the magic of a late summer. “In August there were warm and gentle rains – rains that seemed to fall deliberately to help the sowing.” There is a reason that this sets the tone for the story so well, it is easy to connect to and instantly calming. The narrator keeps describing the idyllic surroundings: “I remember a fresh and quiet morning… The air’s so clear it seems there is no air at all” This aura is also well represented in Isaaak Brodsky’s painting “Golden Autumn”. It is colorful and nostalgic, and though its leaf’s visibly changing colors may signify the end of something, they also imply and remind us of the intensely familiar cycle of a year.

I imagine that this idea of setting and climate evoking strong reactions and connections from the reader in art and literature will prove to be important throughout this course, as it shows that a humans connection to nature can be universal, and that nature can foster feelings that people of all different cultures can share.