Author Archives: scsaxton

Transcendent Themes

After watching Leviathan, I could not help but think about the film we watched earlier in the course, Urga: Close to Eden. Though the films are about entirely different periods in Russian history, they focus on similar aspects of Russian culture that we have seen throughout the entire semester: the awe inspiring beauty of Russian nature, the complex relationship between man and nature, and the superfluous man.

First and foremost, both movies display the landscape in similar ways. For example, both movies begin and end with long sweeping scenes of the landscapes without any of the characters. Urga: Close to Eden focuses most on the steppe in reference to how the mongols coexisted with nature and roamed throughout the vast Russian Steppe. Though Leviathan takes place in a very industrialized modern Russia, there is still serious screen time for the Russian coast. The vastness of the steppe and the coast invoke similar emotions of awe and uncertainty in the viewer.

The endings of Leviathan and Urga: Close to Eden also both comment on the complex relationship between man and nature. In Leviathan, nature provides the location for Lilya’s death, which though left unspecified, is likely a suicide. Though there is evidence found that incriminates Kolya, Lilya’s husband, it is possible for that evidence to have been fabricated to make Kolya answer for previous misdemeanors against the corrupt Mayor Vadim. Regardless of the official cause of Lilya’s death, the ominous sea shown throughout the film is directly involved in Lilya’s death. The ending of Urga: Close to Eden shows the steppe where Gombo and his family used to live with a smokestack that has been built there. Though Gombo’s family practiced a fairly traditional Mongol lifestyle, the ending reveals that their fourth son works at the factory that was built in place of the Urga. The endings of both films invoke the complexities involved in the relationship between the Russian land and the Russian people.

A theme that both of these movies share that is unrelated to nature is the trope of the superfluous man. Kolya is stubborn and hotheaded, rarely thinking about what might be best for his family. He is a mechanic who constantly has trouble obeying authority, corrupt as it may be. Lilya is constantly upset with Kolya’s refusal to move on from his trivial arguments with Mayor Vadim that are impossible to win. Gombo refuses to modernize with his wife. He is so afraid of buying contraceptives in front of the women at the pharmacy that he does not buy them at all, even though it would be to the best interest of both him and his wife.

Voices of Reflection

Though we have studied many dire historical situations throughout this course, such as the flood at St. Petersburg or time spent imprisoned at the Gulag, Voices From Chernobyl is the first time I noticed any serious intrapersonal reflections on death. I think that this reflection on death is shown in conjunction with the repeated theme throughout the testimony about any lack of choice. Whether it be the lack of choice of when to live or die or whether or not to stay in the town despite the numerous warnings, having choice removed seems to encourage deep self reflection.

The loss of control that many near Chernobyl felt is first described in the “Monologue on Why We Remember:” “I’ve been there many times now. And understood how powerless I am. I’m falling apart. My past no longer protects me. There aren’t any answers there. They were there before, but now they’re not. The future is destroying me, not the past” (27). Instead of focussing on description of the events at hand, this novel focuses more on how the events affected the people involved. In a situation as dire as that at Chernobyl it seemed that “death is the fairest thing in the world. No one’s ever gotten out of it. The earth takes everyone—the kind, the cruel, the sinners” (27). The testimonies continue to beg these big questions: ones that question how to move forward when you have no choice but to run away. Leaving homes is described as emotionally and physically disruptive, but staying put is dangerous and isolating.

The presentation of testimony in retrospect is striking and different than much of the literature we have read so far. It is also important that the novel uses so much evidence from different perspectives. Within the first two sections countless testimony are introduced from both those who fled Chernobyl and those who returned. I am interested to see all the other angles that Alexievich introduces throughout the rest of the novel.

Mayakovsky’s Conflict

After reading the Mayakovsky poems, I did a little research about his political views. I found many of his poems ambiguous in interesting ways given the subheading “Soviet Aspirations and Environmental Disasters.” I was not surprised to find out that Mayakovsky had a very complicated relationship with the soviet state— he was a strong soviet supporter, specifically he was a big fan of Lenin, yet he also questioned the state’s involvement in cultural censorship.

I saw this conflict in the poems assigned. Where I believe the most obvious contradictions appear are in his poem “Vladimir Mayakovsky Rented a Dacha One Summer; You Won’t Believe What Happened Next.” He begins the poem with his contempt for the sun. He shows this anger through his frustration with the sun’s constant rising and setting: “The next day he would rise again/ to flood the world with light./ This happened day after day after day:/ what a load of… rubbish!” (97). The sun clearly represents more than just the physical sun because, after the speaker loses his patience and calls the sun a “parasite,” the speaker and the sun engage in a dialogue. Though at first the speaker is angry at the sun, the tone of their conversation quickly changes: “I end up sitting comfy, chatty,/ absolutely normal./ I talk about that,/ I talk about this,/ how work’s driving me crazy (nearly)” (98). The different tones of conversation I believe emulate Mayakovsky’s relationship with the Soviet State.

Mayakovsky’s “Love” also shows the complexity of his relationship with the Soviet State. Though the poem is entitled “Love,” the body of the poem argues a relationship more complicated than positive love. The speaker describes himself as “a melting July pavement,/ where she throws her kisses like the butts of cigarettes” (10). That line transitions into the third and most disturbing stanza:

Come on then, walk out on the city,
go naked in the sun, you dumb fucks!
Pour drunken wines into wineskin-titties
pour, rain-kisses onto your coal-cheeks.

This stanza portrays what I think might be Mayakovsky’s relationship to the Soviet State as an incredibly turbulent relationship.

Art and the Environment

After reading “Baikal” by Rasputin and looking at the Aivazovsky paintings I was struck by the different portrayals of water in both the literature and the paintings. Though the paintings did not necessarily depict Lake Baikal, they paired well with the descriptions, both positive and negative from the narrator in Rasputin’s text.

There were many descriptions of Baikal as sacred, specifically “for its miraculous, life-giving force and for its spirit, which is a spirit not of olden times, of the past, as with many things today, but of the present, a spirit not subject to time and transformations, a spirit of age-old grandeur and power preserved intact, of irresistible ordeals and inborn will” (Rasputin 189). After introducing Baikal as such an important and powerful lake, he reflects on a time when he brought a colleague on a walk around the lake when its “beauty was in full bloom and at its peak” (190). The man by the lake’s beauty that, by the end of the day, he cannot intake anymore beauty. The Aivazovsky paintings, specifically “The Sea,” “Sailboat near the Crimean Shore,” and “Moonlit Night” struck me as portraying the kind of serenity and beauty that the man saw on his visit that day. The landscape is vast and shocking and the water is call and beautiful.

The other paintings by Aivazovsky parallel the other side of Baikal that Rasputin is careful to mention to his friend. The side that “can rage for no reason” and when “the transparent ice, swept clean by the winds, seems so thin that the water beneath it is alive and stirring” (Rasputin 191). The paintings “Night Storm at Sea,” and “The Ninth Wave” show the other sides of water that aren’t seen when the sea is calm and the sky is blue. Though these conditions are different and sound more daunting than the picture-perfect day initially described, they are all shown in the paintings to be stunning, striking, and rich in color. Rasputin agrees with this intensely beautiful portrayal of a raging sea, regardless of the dangers. He ends “Baikal” with a cry for protection of the lake, which is interesting given the lack of thesis or obvious political motivation. I wonder if art and literature ever collided to advocate for the environment.

Working From Home

Both the Zamyatin and the Ginzburg stories describe the role of food during starvation in relationships between men and women, but the two stories depict the role of men and women during these periods of starvation very differently.

Although the Zamyatin and Ginzburg stories take place in very different venues, the Ginzberg in an urban setting and the Zamyatin in a remote setting, they both focus on the roles of men and women during extreme rationing. The Ginzburg story discusses siege queues in great detail. Though there are no enforced rules about the queue, Ginzberg tells us that it is mostly a woman’s job. She says that “men cope particularly badly with queues, since they are used to the idea that their time is valuable… A man considers that after work he is entitled to rest or amuse himself; when a working woman comes home, she works at home” (39). Ginzberg begins this thought by just saying that men tend to be more frustrated in siege cues, but ends it with a more broad social commentary about difference in how men and women value time. In times of conflict it seems that these values are exaggerated. She argues that men feel like “a stray individual, a woman is the representative of a collective” (39). Because it is normal for women to spend hours on end in queues, it is no longer considered inconvenient, whereas a man is incredibly inconvenienced by this hardship.

The Zamyatin story focuses on one specific couple, Martin and Masha, rather than a starved population. Martin and Masha are living in a very remote setting without easy access to food or resources. Masha is very unwell and she is unable to contribute to gathering and preparing food and wood. The story begins one day before Masha’s birthday, which Martin is preparing for by stealing wood in order to please her. When he boils water for tea, they realize that there is not enough for both of them to have some: “She saw. A moment shot through and through with clear, naked, cruel electric light… ‘Mart, darling! Give it to me!’ Martin smiled distantly. ‘But you know, Masha, there’s only enough for one” (101). Although he considers taking the tea for himself, Masha argues that she’s “not living any more. This isn’t me any more, anyhow, I’m going to… Mart you understand, don’t you? Mart, have pity on me! Mart!’ … Martin Martinych slowly rose from a kneeling position. Slowly working the crane with an effort, he took the blue little bottle from the desk and handed it to Masha” (101). Unlike the Ginzburg story, Martin is the one who is constantly working. Masha is unable to help provide, yet she expects all of the fruits of Martin’s labor.

Terrified Fascination

While reading Vladimir Korolenko’s “The Cold,” I was struck by the similarities and differences he describes in the reactions to the cold by animals, humans, and nature. A theme throughout the short story is how the cold affects humans physically and emotionally. While animals are showcased reacting to the cold and changing their mannerisms or habits, they do not seem to suffer any fundamental change regarding their priorities. As for nature, Korolenko frequently personifies the cold as an angry perpetrator with the river as its victim.

Sokolskii introduces the idea of the cold changing people after the men watch the deer, who they presume to be mother and child. He says that his friend is wrong in thinking that the cold makes people kinder: “Cold is death. Have you considered, for example, that a man’s conscience can freeze up?” (6). The idea that the cold can change something so engrained in a person as their conscience is incredibly striking, especially considering the frequently seen, yet futile, power struggle between humans and nature.

The relationship between animals and the cold is best seen by the deer. The men describe the how the deer “overcame such danger right before our eyes, and I think that even Polkan was ashamed to have it end with them being killed on the shore… Did you notice how unselfishly the older one protected the younger from the dog?” (6). Though the deer are facing challenging circumstance, they do not panic in the face of danger, regarding the danger of both the ice and the humans, and they continue to protect each other regardless of the adverse conditions.

As the ice takes over the river, it flows “in a thick and unbroken mass, ready to restrain – once and for all – the submissive and now powerless current” (3). Korolenko referring to the river as “submissive” and “powerless” builds on the idea of the cold as an uncontrollable and terrible force. If the cold is so unmanageable, I can’t help but wonder why the arctic and antarctic have such a strong draw for adventure-seekers and researchers.

Respectful hunting?

Something that struck me early in this section of A Dream in Polar Fog was the comparison between hunting in this novel and hunting in some of the much earlier literature we read in the course. Because the Chukchi people are hunting exclusively for subsistence, they seem to have a much greater respect for the animal that they are hunting than the aristocratic hunters described in the earlier short stories we read.

Although I know that these pieces were published in very different time periods (A Dream in Polar Fog published in 1970, much of the other literature late 19th century-very early 20th century), they show an interesting contrast between those who hunt for food and those who hunt for sport and are about similar time periods (early 20th century). Though written in different times and about different groups of people, I think the comparison highlights a theme that comes up constantly in class about respecting nature. The Chukchi are able to live in one of the harshest environments in the world because they respect nature and, in turn, nature respects them. The old wives tale about the White Woman, mother of whales, told by Toko introduces the idea of  “universal brotherhood— that unattainable dream of mankind, rooted in the first beginnings of history” (108). The aristocratic hunting we read about earlier in the class, which was largely segregated by class, ignored any dream of universal brotherhood both between different classes and animals. In some instances, the animals would be captured and mamed so that they could be contained and more easily captured by a wealthy aristocrat. The Chukchi, on the other hand, are thankful for every catch they make. Toko demonstrates this respect for animals when he cautions John “not to get too many nerpa. What’s the sense in killing the animal for no use?” (112).

The contrast between different approaches to hunting made me think about how the geographical location and traditions of different people influence their relationship with nature in Russia and the different ways that this is represented in the literature we have read.

Trade Relations

Rythkheu’s A Dream in Polar Fog brings back the theme of a mutually beneficial relationship between man and nature: nature will be kind to the man that is kind to it and, in contrast, will do no favors for the man who is unkind to it. This relationship between man and nature is shown in the contrast between the white man and the Chukchi and in the value of trade in the different societies.

The relationship between man and nature first appeared when the Belinda was getting overrun by the ice field. Rythkheu explains that “Belinda’s speed depended on the speed of the north-easterly wind that was driving the churning ice… The last hope that they had was that the ice would carry the vessel through the straits and into the open waters of the Bering Sea” (18). Though the men are capable sailors, they are totally at the will of nature. When the sailors try to manipulate nature by blowing out the ice, John is punished by the explosion. In describing the explosion, Rythkheu invokes the northern lights: “That first instant, John saw a blazing light, as though it were the Northern Lights rearing up in front of his eyes” (20). The use of the Northern Lights as the description for the explosion makes it seem like nature is teaching John a lesson for trying to over power it. Had not the snow and ice covered the fifth cartridge, the explosions still would likely not have helped the Belinda return to sea.

The Chukchi, who have a much more positive relationship with nature than the sailors, value trade over money. When the Captain first tries to enlist Orvo’s help, he “laid down a crumpled wad of paper notes, the kind that Orvo had not much faith in, despite knowing well that the whites liked them no less than the metal ones” (11). Money offers the Chukchi little value in the arctic, but because the white man is just a visitor, he does not grasp the value of useful items for trade until later in the bargain. Trade is also a symbol for the relationship with nature that the Chukchi have. After the Shaman Kelena heals John and kills the dog, she buries the dog’s bones in the snow and afterwards chants: “Let the white man’s anger blow past us like a springtime storm. We saved his life. Teach him this, and make him understand what we did” (59). Though Kelena would not accept payment for her services, she does hope that John will understand the ways of the Chukchi and, in turn, the way to both give to and receive from nature.

There is not enough space in a blog post to include all of the evidence I found about this connection, and it is definitely not a fully formed thought, but I found it impossible to ignore the resurfacing of the idea of a mutually beneficial relationship between humans and nature and how trade, both human to human and human to nature, is often a factor in man’s relationship with nature.

Hopeless Citizen vs. Hopeless Romantic

Although I’m not sure about the historical context of both of these works, I found the theme of hopelessness in both Bunin’s “Caucasus” and Lermontov’s “Farewell to Russia” to compliment each other in an interesting way.

Lermontov’s “Farewell to Russia” seems to speak to Soviet Russia from a post-exile perspective. The speaker refers to Russia in many unfavorable ways, such as “unwashed” and a “land of knaves.” He also addresses the soviets directly as the people in “neat blue uniforms” who “live like cringing slaves!” The speaker’s tone is resentful, which implies that he preferred Russia as it was before the revolution. The second stanza deals with the speaker’s exile from Soviet Russia, presumably for his dissenting opinions. Although exile is normally seen as a fate worse than death, the speaker says that he “may find / peace beneath Caucasian skies, – / Far from slanderers and tsars, / Far from ever-spying eyes” (1840). The speaker’s preference for exile shows how unfavorable his view of Soviet Russia truly is.

Bunin’s short story “Caucasus” is about a woman who runs away from her oppressive husband with her lover. In the conclusion of the story, the scorned husband searches for his wife at all the false locations she gave him. When he does not find her he “drank a bottle of champagne and coffee with Chartreuse, slowly smoked a cigar. Then he went back to his room, lay down on the couch, put a pistol to each of his temples, and fired” (285).

Though the Bunin story does not deal as directly with Soviet Russia, the feeling of hopelessness comments on how collectivization affected all sectors of life at the time. Additionally, both works appreciated the vast expanses of nature that make Russia has and allude to some sort of pastoral beauty that was lost through industrialization.

Sympathetic Cows

Both Shushkin’s “Gogal and Raika” and Platonov’s “The Cow” humanize cows, making them into martyrs for the starving Russian Peasants during political change and uncertainty.

The cow in “Gogal and Raika” is used as the name of the short story: Raika. She immediately becomes a sympathetic character when the speaker, after lamenting about spending short stints of time outside in the harsh Siberian winter, reminds the reader that “the cow’s out in the pen” (220). The cow is described as having “sad eyes” and an aura that once she has been seen “you feel no peace inside: here — poor and badly off though you may be — you can at least warm up, but she has to stand out there” (220-221). Raika’s freezing starvation could be compared to those exiled to the Gulags (This could definitely be a reach but Gulag and “Gogal,” from the title of the short story” are very similar sounding words). After the harsh winter, which the family barely survives, “Raika was no more… Raika arrived at our gate with her intestines hanging out of her belly, dragging along after her. She’d been run through with a pitchfork” (227-228). Raika was killed eating from a neighbors haystack so that she did not starve. 

The cow in Platonov’s story, “The Cow,” similarly has sympathetic human qualities, such as her “warm, dark eyes” and how she misses her son: “Our cow’s already crying!” (248, 259). When her son dies, the cow falls into an irreversible depression. Platonov includes a crucial difference between cow grief and human grief that makes her loss even more tragic: “She was unable to allay this grief inside her with words, consciousness, a friend or any other distraction” (255). This absolute hopelessness is similar to the hunger felt by Shushkin’s cow, and many peasants alike.