Author Archives: John Penek

Ambiguity and its Direct Characterization in “Vera Pavlovna’s Ninth Dream”

“Vera Pavlovna’s Ninth Dream” is a dream narrative by Viktor Pelevin about lavatory attendants in the Moscow transit system. Much of this piece focuses on the perspective of storytellers, including but not limited to the observations of attendant Vera and her colleague Manyasha. The voice of the narrator in this text is also Vera but expressed as she looks back on her dream. Understanding perspective is important in determining the intentions of certain characters within this piece. For example, Pelevin characterizes Manyasha as “Vera’s oldest friend” and “mentor” (Pelevin 37). Manyasha is superior to Vera that gives her guidance. Small epithets like these are vital because they establish characters in relation to one another.

There is a group of characters that Pelevin does not characterize at the beginning of the piece. This stylistic choice implies ambiguity and leads us to believe that they are irrelevant, having no relation to Vera. However, they nonetheless strike Vera’s interest. Pelevin describes the leveler that they bring with them as “one of those special things on a tripod stand” (41). We get this roundabout description simply because “Vera didn’t know what it was called” (41). This is the first hint that Vera is also the narrator of this story; the narrator does not know the name for the level because Vera does not know the name for it, and it is perhaps because the narrator is Vera. Pelevin initially foreshadows this connection amidst this scene of ambiguous men.

I question the relationship between ambiguity and greater truth in this piece. I think it interesting that such an under-characterized scene causes Vera to express not only her position in this narrative but also display Vera’s perceptiveness to the “smiles on” the men’s “faces” (41). Before this, Vera’s interactions with Manyasha and the proletarians did not do much in terms of characterization (38, 39). She had simply listened to her superior and reacted to the bathroom fight amongst the men. Those specific references had not left much space for Vera’s characterization, while Vera’s observations of the ambiguous men reveal both Vera’s ultimate identify, and express Vera’s perceptive side, rather than simply labeling her as a listener/reactor.

Innocence and Optimism among Young Narrators in “Voices from Chernobyl” and “A Child’s Drawings”

The motifs of youthful innocence and child-like optimism are pervasive in Psychologist Pyotr S.’s testimony from the Chernobyl disaster during the Cold War. In describing his childhood years before Chernobyl, he states that he would dress up and “play dad” in an attempt to “see how life would appear” for those around him amidst the hostilities of war (Alexievich 26). With that said, Pytor states that he had still always felt protected, constantly believing that “the most horrible things had already happened” (26). This scene portrays one child’s optimism amidst an entire nation’s suffering. The juxtaposition of these images emphasizes innocence that had served to both symbolically and literally protect these children from the darkness of their war-environment.

This notion of being protected by one’s youth is not only a key element of Pytor’s testimony, but it is also clearly illustrated in the child’s drawings within Varlaam Shalamov’s piece “A Child’s Drawings.” In this short story, the boy artist had also lived in the Russian North during wartime, just like Pytor. However, this young artist functions merely as an apostrophe, represented only by the illustrated notebook he leaves behind. In this notebook, he draws bright green grounds and clear blue skies (Shalamov 137). Furthermore, he depicts numerous “yellow fences,” “black lines of barbed wire,” and soldiers traversing the Russian landscape (137). Just like Pytor’s childhood testimony, these illustrations are optimistic, expressing both bright, solid colors, and the images of defense and protection. Note, these drawings suggest that the boy’s memories focus more so on the notion of defense, rather than the specific destruction of war.

The final connective feature I would like to elaborate on is the sense of fear and greater understanding possessed by older characters within both of these pieces, despite the youthful optimism of younger ones. For instance, in Pytor’s testimony, he speaks about how his “past no longer protects ” him, as he is no longer protected by neither his childhood nor the optimism that had come along with it (Alexievich 26). The quotation that “there aren’t any answers” left in the past suggests that Pytor comes to realize that the world is more complex, now that he is an adult (26). Meanwhile, the convict in “A Child’s Drawing” functions as the older character, and has a similar realization about the complexity of life. He states that he is frightened by the brightness and lack of halftones in the artwork, and implies that there is a void of grey area and complexity in these illustrations. Overall, the wisdom of the narrator/artist in each of these pieces plays an important role in his perception of war scenes around him.

Silent Darkness versus Natural Imagery of Sound and Movement in the works of Zabolotsky and Rasputin

In his poem “I Do Not Look For Harmony In Nature,” Zabolotsky uses imagery of the river’s stillness and the sunset’s silence when describing the pain and isolation he feels amidst the dark Russian forest. The dark waters that grow quiet and “drop into exhaustion” are said to magnify a sense of pain for the narrator (Zabolotsky 177). Here, it seems that darkness and desolation transcend the boundary between nature and man through the elements of the environment itself: “human pain rises” up to the narrator “from the dark waters” around him (177). However, this is a passive and weak sense of connection between man and nature compared to man-made components of the landscape, which have expressive description, such as “glittering turbines, voices of labour, electric power,” and “construction” (177). It is man’s artificial impact, namely factory and production that supply the energy to the setting of this piece, rather than the silence and darkness of the natural environment.

In contrast to Zabolotsky, Valentin Rasputin characterize the Russian waterscape by the natural sounds and lively movements of its constituents in “Baikal.” These sounds and movements successfully transcend the boundary between man and nature. “Crying seagulls, falling snow,” and “fish playing in lavish abundance” are three distinct images that independently speak to the liveliness of nature around Lake Baikal (Rasputin 191). These sensory elements have a direct effect on Rasputin’s colleague, and in a similar sense to the still, dark images that cause pain to Zabolotsky’s narrator, transcend the boundary between man and nature, yet do so more actively by “lifting his spirits” (191). Whereas nature pales in comparison to industrialization in “I Do Not Look For Harmony In Nature,” and thus falls short of reaching harmony with man, an opposite result is achieved here, as Baikal, “created as a mystery of nature not for industrial requirements,” functions more actively in transcending boundary and thus inspiring the Colleague. It seems that Lake Baikal and its natural movement and sound extend far beyond the stifled attempts of Zabolotsky’s setting, largely due to the energy of nature itself, rather than the artificial energy of man’s industrialization in Zabolotsky’s poem.

Nature’s Moral Goodness versus its Deception in Valentin Rasputin’s “Baikal”

After close examination of Lake Baikal in Rasputin’s essay, there seems to be great variability between the moral and heavenly descriptions of Lake Baikal, versus mysterious and sometimes deceptive illustrations of what Rasputin and his colleagues observe within the region.

From the beginning of this piece, descriptions of “the sacred sea,” “the sacred lake,” “ the sacred water,” illustrate Lake Baikal as a region closely connected with the divine. It is said to be “considered enlightened” by those who frequent it, and Rasputin states that this part of Russian is “wrought by God” (188). Here, there is a connotation of spiritual goodness paired alongside Lake Baikal. Later, the accounts of the colleague’s miraculous transformation after visiting the region similarly associate a divine and everlasting power with the region. This colleague states that his “spirits have been lifted” by Baikal, and that he now addresses the lake formally as “Father Baikal” (191). Spiritual imagery, specifically the epithet “Father,” implies Lake Baikal becomes a heavenly force for those who witness it. Now with that supernatural, divine connotation comes a sense of morality mention on page 193—Baikal’s heavenly abundance is evidenced by its vast nature, which in itself “is always moral.” Furthermore, Rasputin states that Baikal “has never refused to help human beings,” even despite their constant utilization of its resources. By use of notions like morality and unconditional support of Russian people, Lake Baikal and its heavenly nature suggest moral and spiritual goodness.

With these various (and seemingly harmless) characteristics of Lake Baikal, such as spiritual enlightenment and even its physically bright, blossoming rocks, there is surprisingly also a notion of deception and mystery portrayed through Rasputin’s observations. In the beginning of this piece, it is mentioned that Baikal noticeably “dumbfounds” its visitors due to its otherworldly nature (188). Specifically, “its rocks seem to blossom” and its snowy mountains are accentuated so much so that the human “eye perceives” them “as many times closer than they actually are” (189). Here, there is a deceptive component to the Baikal region, which almost tricks its visitors into imagining scenery different than it really is. Another scene that depicts similar deceptive notions is during winter when “the transparent ice seems so thin” that one is “afraid to step on it” even though it “might be over one meter thick” (191). This second excerpt and its imagery of ice and transparency coincides the moral goodness of the Baikal region; however, the fact that frozen lake is so clear that it deceives its visitor contradicts the region’s divine, moral goodness.

In sum, Lake Baikal in Rasputin’s essay seems to encompass both moral and divine notions yet simultaneously comes across as deceptive and mysterious. Do you think these characteristics should mutually co-exist? Perhaps they enhance one another, and purposely portray the region as complicated: spiritually divine and moral, yet also deceptive, a force to be reckoned with. I would love to hear your thoughts!

Harmony versus Disunity: Rivers in Yuri Norstein’s “Hedgehog in the Fog” and Nikolai Zabolotsky’s “Winter’s Start”

There is a clear distinction in the symbolic functions of the rivers that are present in both Yuri Norstein’s short film Hedgehog in the Fog and Nikolai Zabolotsky’s poem “Winter’s Start.” Specifically, in Norstein’s film, the river exists as a larger metaphor for the randomness of life. It both literally and figuratively intersects the routine homecoming of Hedgehog, who all along intends to return home promptly with raspberry jam for the owl. Disoriented by the fog and enamored by a majestic white horse, the hedgehog falls victim to the natural, untouched elements of the Russian forest. There is a scene where the Hedgehog loses his balance and falls into the river after being deeply distracted by both the fog and the horse. I read this as the river and surrounding environment working in unity to divert the Hedgehog in his mission to return home. Here, the Hedgehog’s self-made schedule to traverse through the Russian forest is collectively obstructed by elements of said forest. The river, portrayed as a windy labyrinth, is just an element of the random and natural aspects of the Russian forest.

Meanwhile, Nikolai Zabolotsky’s “Winter’s Start” illustrates a less harmonious interaction between a river and its natural environment. Here, instead of combining forces to obstruct the notion of routine and order, the “cold start of winter” instead “numbs” the river, causing it to “tremble” and “sense its own demise” (1; 9; 11 Zabolotsky). In other words, the weather does not work with the river, but rather works against it, causing it to freeze over and “die” (17). This time, the animals of this environment are neither enamored nor sidetracked by the elements of their environment; instead, “huge birds stare down,” “attentive” and agent of the forest around them (35-36). Because the weather works to harden the river, there seems to be more of a focus on the transition of seasons, i.e. impending winter, rather than on the animals or the narrator. There is clearly something greater to be said about the comparison between the natural environment and its harmony in Norstein’s short, versus the natural environment and its disunity in Zabolotsky’s poem. To me, it seems that when the natural environment works together in Norstein’s film, it collectively transcends the lives and routines of inhabiting beings. However, when the environment is disunited, as in “Winter’s Start,” there is shortcoming in transcending the natural world alone— a lacking that impedes connections to and influence on forest dwellers.

Do you all have any thoughts on this topic? I am interested in discussing more about how the changing of the seasons seems to represent not only a change in temperature and climate, but more so: a change in the chemistry of the environment. Any other examples of Russian literature where the transition of seasons functions as a disruption of unity, like it does here in Nikolai Zabolotsky’s poem? Or perhaps this transition preserves natural harmony, as nature exists in Norstein’s film? I would love to hear your thoughts!

Uniqueness versus The Collective: Soldiers in Blok’s “On the Field of the Kulikovo,” and Mosquitoes in Tolstoy’s “Cossacks”

In his poem “On the Field of the Kulikovo,” Alexander Blok narrates a fictional scene of the Battle of Kulikovo— or more historically known as the war that birthed the Russian nation. In the last stanza of part II, Blok’s narrator anticipates battle, and in doing so, reflects on his status as “not the first, nor the last, [Russian] warrior,” implying that not only is he but one of the many present soldiers, but he is also just a single soldier out of the many past soldiers and future soldiers; all of whom have “suffered” for and will continue to “suffer” for their “country” (Blok, II. 13,14). Still, the narrator tells Russia to remember the “one” who had loved her, suggesting that “[his] darling Russia” should remember each, singular “one” that had defended and will defend his or her country (16). There is an emphasis on this pronoun “one”— even though there are innumerable Russian warriors, each individual “one” should be remembered and thus valued.

This notion of uniqueness despite similarity to one’s environment, reminds me specifically of Olénin’s accounts while hunting in Chapter XIX of The Cossacks. In this chapter, while Olénin shoots pheasants, “myriads of mosquitoes cover his face” (Tolstoy 366). Even though Olénin describes the very atmosphere that he inhabits as “[insect]-filled,” he remarks that each individual mosquito “is separate from all else” (Tolstoy 366). Similar to the narrator of Alexander Blok’s “On the Field of the Kulikovo,” the battle environment is described as a long road infested with “troops” (Blok, II. 8). Though there were many soldiers before and many soldiers to come, Blok’s narrator similarly states that Russia should remember him with the same outlook as Olénin: “separate from all else—“ unique in the narrator’s personal dedication to and love for “[his] darling Russia” (Tolstoy 366; Blok, II. 16). Comparing these two readings alongside one another makes it seems that while there is a great emphasis on the size and span of Russia, there is a necessary attentiveness to each of the singular parts that make up the Russian environment—whether that be humans, or even animals/nature.

Please let me know if you can think of any other pieces that we have read where similar themes are at play (i.e. the mosquitoes versus their mosquito-infested environment, and the narrator versus the many past and future Russian soldiers). What does this method of juxtaposition (singular aspect versus collective aspects) do for descriptions of the Russian environment? I would love to hear your thoughts!

Symbolic versus Literal: Stone Grave, Stone Demeanor in “A Dream in Polar Fog”

An interesting observation I made this week near the end of Chapter 30 of “A Dream in Polar Fog” by Yuri Rytkheu, occurs shortly after a ship hits the shoreline and John’s mother Mary MacLennan arrives to bring John home. In this scene, John returns back to his late daughter’s grave amidst an ongoing back-and-forth where his mother Mary attempts to convince John to “go pack,” and “not stay” in Enmyn “for a moment longer” (30). While debating about his impending decision—to stay with his wife Pyl’mau and his children, or to return to the shoreline of Lake Ontario— John makes the visit to Tynevirineu-Mary MacLennan’s grave. This visit functions as a very symbolic conquest to the Far Cape right before John’s impending decision the following day, mostly because right after visiting his daughter’s tomb (which is expeceted to have been constructed with stone), John “seems to turn to stone” (30)!

There is little clarification by the narrator as to what exactly this phrase entails, but with all future conversations between himself and Mary MacLennan, John seems to be very mechanical in his delivery: “John nods wordlessly,” “’Yes,’ John quietly manages” (30). It is almost as if the connection between John’s mother and John’s daughter is materialized when John visits his daughter’s tomb. This materialization amounts in the form of John’s sad and stony one-word responses to his mother. I find it interesting to examine these scenes not only literally, but also figuratively with respect to certain images such as the tombstone that houses John’s daughter. Perhaps, a greater symbolic connection is at play here: not only between the John’s mother and John’s daughter (who both share the same name), but also between John’s daughter’s current state (within stone), John’s subsequent demeanor (turned to stone), and the delivery of future interactions with his own mother (stony and cold). Does anyone else find a similar interaction between symbolic and literal subjects within this piece? Please let me know what you think!

Imagery of Fire, Imagery of Ice: Rytkheu’s Portrayal of John’s Crew versus the Chukchi People

This week’s reading of Yuri Rytkheu’s A Dream in Polar Fog opens with a quick developing narrative about John MacLennan, a Canadian university dropout, and his near death boating accident in the Russian arctic sea off the coast of Chukotka. In order to develop the scene within the first few chapters, MacLennan utilizes imagery such as “blasts of icy wind” and “frosty air” that “surge” through the “ice strip,” a description of the ever-freezing waters that surround the boat (Rytkheu’s chap. 1,2). Rytkheu’s utilization of cold and unforgiving diction about climate and topography suggests that the coast of Chukotka is strong, frigid, and even isolating. As for the MacLennan and his fellow sailors, Rytkheu’s utilizes imagery of fire and warmth, which ultimately differentiates these Canadians from the region they newly inhabit. For example, beginning chapter two, Rytkheu describes crew-members “Hugh and John” as “on fire for explorers’ glory” (2). Then again after John’s accident, he is referenced as a body that “suffused with fire,” with a “hot stream pulsating in his wrists” (2). Rytkheu continues to reference John’s state of “fiery pain” for the duration of this chapter, which directly precedes John’s introduction to the three Chukchi that agree to bring him to Anadyr after learning of his physical state. Up to this point, Rytkheu’s utilization of hot and uncomfortable imagery distinguishes John and his crewmen from the frozen regions that surround them.

 

With all this said, I do find an interesting divergence in Rytkheu’s use of imagery in describing the Canadian crew versus the Russian environment. At the beginning of chapter three while Grover notifies the “three Chukchi” of their task: to “deliver John MacLennan to Anadyr’, wait there until he is recovered, and then bring him back here,” one of the Chukchi named Toko “looks over” at John and notices his “icy, cold eyes” (3). Rytkheu emphasizes this moment, harping on the fact that “Toko could feel John’s star pierce him through, giving rise to a strange chill in the pit of his stomach” (3). Note Rytkheu’s in-depth description of John’s frigid stare. John no longer represents a hot, fiery force; instead, he is now cold and somber in relation to those around him, giving off a chill that “not even the fiery run could chase away” (3). I find it very interesting that while there is a complete transition in John’s nature from warm to frigid, there also exists a reference to something “fiery,” but this time “fiery” describes the rum offered by The Chukchi. It is interesting to think of not only the purpose of this change in Rytkheu’s differentiation between John’s crew and the people Chukotka, but also the implications that this transition has on John’s placement in and among the Chukchi. Could this adoption of regional characteristics, i.e. ice-cold features, be a form of foreshadowing John’s budding relationship alongside his Chukchi acquaintances? Or perhaps that both peoples are on track to connect with each other more connectively as they set out to begin this month-long trek. I would love to hear your thoughts and comments!

Repetition of Stanza and Repetition of Line: One Rhetorical Technique that Yields Two Interpretations of Romantic Poetry

In this week’s short poems “Sing Not, My Love,” by Alexander Pushkin and “Farewell to Russia” by Mikhail Lermontov, I took note of stanza and line repetitions, both of which contribute to a recursive, and almost nostalgic, perspective on each author’s life during their periods of exilement. To begin with some background from earlier class discussions: both of these authors had dominated the Russian literature produced in the mid 19th century. Their contributions to lyric poetry during the literary era of Russian Romanticism remain as some of the most significant additions to recorded Russian poetry (Gillespie). I found that a large component of Russian Romanticism revolves around nostalgia for the past. This “longing for the past” is expressed not only through the subject matter of these two poems— which references old Russia whilst written from exile—but is also expressed through form—whether that be the repetition of entire stanzas, or the couplet repetition evident in Lermontov’s “Farewell to Russia.”

 

To begin, the most prevalent stylistic choice utilized by Alexander Pushkin in “Sing Not, My Love,” is his entire duplication of the first stanza at the end of the poem, in which he expresses a sadness and distance from the memories of his childhood. Note that Pushkin begins this lyrical poem with a rejection of his childhood memories, symbolically represented as “Georgia’s songs” (Pushkin 1). His memories from his youth from the small southern province Georgia become encapsulated and represented by a channel of mixed emotions that possess a “mournful grace” (6). These memories harbor the fondness of his early years all while reminding him of his loss, specifically the “poor maiden’s face,” which we later learn is a “reference to Maria Raevskaya,” one of Pushkin’s first loves who had “followed her husband to Siberia when he was exiled” (129). I find it interesting that Pushkin invokes this historical character that followed her husband, Prince Sergey Volkonsky, who had been previously exiled to Serbia before Pushkin. The main difference between Volkonsky’s exile and Pushkin’s is that Volkonsky was trailed by the same lover that Pushkin had lost year’s prior. This detail, along with the repetition of the entire first stanza leads me to believe that Pushkin remains unresolved regarding his exile. He rejects the recognition of his old life, as it is no longer attainable nor pleasant for him. His lover most distinctly has chosen a different man who had inexcusably similar circumstances to Pushkin. What is most interesting is that this reference is closely followed by the aforementioned repeated stanza, as if the initial and ultimate presence of this stanza bounds Pushkin into isolation, leaving him handcuffed to the “haunting force—“ the recursive and seemingly eternal sentence to Siberia (11,12). The resolve of this stanza is rhythmically pleasing, precise, and accurate: it seems almost natural that instead of thinking forward, or looking back to his past childhood, he should remain both symbolically and physically entrapped between not only the bookends of repeated stanzas, but also the between the isolating forests of his Siberian exilement.

 

Furthermore, I found a similar stylistic choice utilized by Mikhail Lermontov in his “Farewell to Russia,” produced in 1840, which was promptly before his second exile (Manuylov, V.A. The Life of Lermontov). This shorter poem features a resolved narrator who begins with a quatrain referencing negative characteristics of Russia, calling it the “land of the masters— “the land of the unwashed” (Lermontov 2,1). Unlike Pushkin, Lermontov does not look nostalgically towards the past: he instead calls his very Russian’s “cringing slaves,” clearly rejecting them (4). Also, notice the clear sense of direction in Lermontov’s narrative. Instead of remaining encapsulated by a mix of mourning and rejection as does Pushkin in “Sing Not, My Love,” Lermontov hopefully lists his wishes for his exile: “peace[ful]” skies, and distance from “tsars” and “everspying eyes”(7,8). His clear and assured direction in thought is supported by the emphatic usage of couplet repetition in each adjacent phrase: “Land of…”, “You…”, and “Far from” (1-2,3-4, 7-8). Each of these repetitions reference a strong sense of movement away from “unwashed Russia, and towards the “peace beneath Caucasian skies” (6). Finally, I find it very interesting that this poem precedes Lermontov’s second exile from Russia, and within this poem, Lermontov utilizes duple line repetition in order to emphasize direction of thought. It is arguable that this is a clear reference between style and meaning; I think it is safe to at least presume that with an experience of previous exilement, this line repetition could perhaps just represent his sureness to move on from his contentious Russian past.

 

In sum, I think that both of these poems, each by Pushkin and Lermontov, represent how different uses of rhetorical style can offer various interpretations of each poem’s relationship with exilement and nostalgia for the past. In my analysis, Pushkin’s repetition of a stanza informs my assumptions that Pushkin had perhaps felt entrapped by his exile and his isolation form society. His style seems to reflect both a physical and emotional isolation from both his past childhood and his future aspirations. Meanwhile, Lermontov’s anaphoric repetition at the beginning of each two lines in his “ Farewell to Russia” functions as an emphatic and resolute method to dismiss his past and move towards his future exile. Lermontov’s strong rhetorical technique establishes a strong sense of direction to which he envisions a peace in isolation. Thus, even though both of these lyric poems regard Romanticism, including its themes of nostalgia, each poem utilizes various repetitive styles, which inform various interpretations of each author’s perspective on exile.

Cycles of Power and Cycles of Pain: Symbolism of the Peg Leg and Borzya in Shukshin’s “Harvesting”

Shukshin’s “Harvesting” recounts the exhaustive farm-work of a teenage boy under the abusive power of Ivan Alekseich, a fictitious chairman of a collective farm during Soviet Russia. This week’s blog post, inspired by last week’s class comments on the restrictive and communal nature of Soviet Russia, will thus attempt to analyze the symbolism of various images and scenes in Shukshin’s piece, such as Borzya’s visceral response to the chairman’s peg leg, and the chairman’s reaction to higher authority, i.e. the committee representative.

We are first introduced to interactions between the chairman and Borzya, the “infinitely good-tempered scamp of a dog,” when the chairman meets with his farmhands Sanka, Ilyukba, Vanka, and Vaska, to scold them each for their workplace laziness (Shukshin 231). Note that Borzya, instead of being introduced as the farm dog, is identified with the plural personal pronoun “our” (231). Already, we get a connotation of sharedness and communism that often goes hand-in-hand with descriptions of “the kolkhoz” during Soviet Russia. Even the dog, a seemingly unimportant character, is shared communally. That said, the part of this passage that I want to pay closest attention to is the moments amidst Alekseich’s berating of the four teenage workers when he notices his higher committee representative. Fear of the representative and his impromptu arrival propels the chairman out of his chair in order to demonstrate a more attentive and administrative demeanor. Recall that before the chairman began his scolding, Vanka reveals that the “chairman [Alekseich] is simply incapable of flying into a rage on demand” (231). Instead, Alekseich usually delivers a “wishy-washy,” indirect scolding (231). Beating-around-the-bush implies that Alekseich’s strict control is not initiated entirely by his own reactions and sentiments. If they were, their delivery would be more natural and succinct. Instead, his “wishy-washy” suggest uncertainty, especially since he often becomes distracted by independent, unrelated thoughts such as “the quails … [that] destroy all sorts of larvae …” (231). To me, this uncertainty implies that he himself represents a second-hand funneling of power from some other, more authoritative force. Perhaps, this force is the representative, for as soon as he enters, Alekseich “leap[s] to his feet,” and “start[s] banging his fist on the table and shouting” (231). Clearly, the prominence of the committee representative evokes a more aggressive and authoritative façade from Alekseich.

Furthermore, right after the sudden shift of Alekseich’s authoritative tone due to the representative’s arrival, we see the only interaction between Chairman Alekseich and the communal dog Borzya, specifically: the chairman’s trampling of Borzya’s tail, and his subsequent obliviousness to Borzya’s painful cries. Naturally, Alekseich’s peg leg and its inability to sense its position like a normal human foot would perfectly explains why Alekseich would not feel Borzya’s tail underneath him. However, what strikes me as odd is that even after Borzya “let[s] out an otherworldly howl,” the chairman still remains oblivious, and instead of realizing Borzya’s pain, “shout[s] over the dog” (232). Alekseich’s peg leg— and its lack of spatial senses—justifies his initial disregard of Borzya, the communal dog. However, Alekseich still fails to acknowledge Borzya after Borzya clearly expresses a perceivable vocal gesture. For a generally attentive chairman, that had even “caught sight of” Vanka after descent into the rye, I am surprised that he Alekseich remains undisturbed by Borzya (229). That said, I think this outright ignorance is purposeful on Shukshin’s part, as if to say that all sense and emotion is subservient to the perceptions of authority. The fact that the chairman cannot feel Borzya’s tail is understandable, but the fact that the chairman cannot hear Borzya’s cries conveniently while the chairman performs for the representative, suggests that another force is at work here—similar to how the unplanned and convoluted delivery of Alekseich’s scolding suggests the indirect authoritative force of the representative. Also, it is ironic how that in each of these cases, relaying of discipline comes indirectly: the committee representative never explicitly states anything to Alekseich, and Alekseich’s neither purposely steps on Borzya’s tail, nor does he directly nor fervently scold the four teenagers. However, when power is present, i.e. the committee representative, Alekseich becomes a completely different person that angrily scolds his workers and even potentially injures Borzya with purpose. And Borzya, this symbolic dog representing the ownership of the entire community, aimlessly writhes in pain. There is something ironic about the image of this dog biting at an animate peg and thus biting at his own tail. Further, this illustration of the Borzya, a conduit for the entire community, (if you will), biting his own tail, suggests a sense of self-sabotage that is almost comical, evidenced by a unanimous uproar by the peasants, “rolling on the ground with laughter” (233). As readers, we see an illustration of Borzya (the community), responding to oppressive authority (the chairman) who himself does not primarily harbor his own anger, but rather channels the sentiments of more superior authority (the committee representative). In sum, we are left with two cyclical processes: the funneling and subsequent magnification of power and control from high society down through local superiors in Soviet Russian, and the aimless self-sabotage that occurs when the masses fight back against this exponentially strengthened power and control.

In sum, I hope that my analysis, though up for extensive interpretation, lends meaning to some of the symbols in Shukshin’s “Harvesting—” specifically the working class community and its apparent entrapment beneath the “communist” yet obviously authoritative power chain. I personally believe that this reading of Shukshin’s piece could perhaps initiate a dialogue regarding the inextricable connection to power and authority in a society that is meanwhile run by and intended for public’s greater good.