Samizdat 2020

САМИЗДАТ Samizdat

Russian Undergraduate Students' Society Winter 2020

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Table of Contents

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List of Contributors

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Editor's Note

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History An Analysis of North American Russian Jewry

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by Elisabeth Levin

Caught in an Extended Intermission

by Emily Vaillancourt

Literature The Liminal Space -- UnderstandingTime & Change in Chekhov's "The Cherry Orchard"

by Hannah Cheslock

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The Hysterical Mad Woman: An Analysis of Female Laughter in Fyodor Dostoevs󿵒's "The Idiot"

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Paradox and Interiority in "The Brothers Karamazov" and "The Underground Man"

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Pnin The Conqueror:Re-Examining Conceptions of Authorial Control in "Pnin"

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"War and Peace"...and War and Peace... and War and Peace: Repetition in Tolstoy's Longest Work

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"Schizophrenia, as Expected": Institutional Psychiatry in Soviet Literature

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by Marie-Agnès Claverie

by Michaela Drouillard

by Nicholas Howel

by Ethan Mendell

by Michael Frolek-Turner

Short Stories Time to Leave

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Hunger

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by Angello Alcázar

by Abbie Arnold

Editor's Compendium

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List of Contributors Editor-in-Chief Gabrielle Oddenino

Graphic Designer Valentina Gheorghe

Editors Anna Murakhnyak Fernanda Rengel Katharine Morrill Mathilde Vallieres Sarah Sturken

Authors Angello Alcåzar Abbie Arnold Hannah Cheslock Marie-Agnès Claverie Michaela Drouillard Nicholas Howel Elisabeth Levin Ethan Mendell Michael Frolek-Turner Emily Vaillancourt

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Editor's Note To briefly preface the 2019-2020 edition of Самиздат I want to thank each of the editors and authors and artists who put their time and effort into this journal. Not only did they make this publication possible, but each one brought their own skills and flair to the journal, allowing us to create as a group something far beyond what any of us could have produced on our own.

The works contained within cover a diverse variety of topics, hitting on the Russian literary greats of the 19th and 20th century, the state of Russia and Russians in the post-Soviet era, and short creative pieces based on the work of Chekhov. Please enjoy!

- Gabrielle Oddenino, Editor-in-Chief

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An Analysis of North American Russian Jewry Elisabeth Levin

Russian Jewish immigrants in North America face significant challenges in attempting to balance integration into the larger North American Jewish community while maintaining their ethnic distinctiveness. Often unique from other Jewish sub-groups in the region despite the fact that these populations share a religion and similar culture, the specifically Russian experience of Russian Jews distinguishes them from the Jewish community at large. This experience can be understood on a cultural, religious, political, and educational level, all connecting to broader cultural and social, structural barriers that Russian Jews face.

Russian Jewish immigration to North America occurred in two major waves, with 30% immi-grating before 1990, and 70% following 1990 and the collapse of the Soviet Union . After immigrating, the majority of Russian Jewish immigrants settled in metropolitan areas, specifi-cally New York, Philadelphia, and Portland, all of which still have very strong Russian Jewish communities . New York, in particular, is a stronghold of the community, home to more Russian Jews than anywhere in the world outside Russia .

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In Canada, about 70% of the larger Soviet Jewish community now reside in the Greater Toronto area, with the rest forming enclaves in other major Canadian cities . Estimates on the Russian Jewish population in the United states vary from 750,000 to fewer than 500,000 . In Canada, the number is approximately 60,000 .

While large communities of Russian Jews exist across North America, these communities are often separate from the larger local Jewish community. Jews from the former Soviet Union, like many other immigrant Jewish ethnic groups, juggle a multi-faceted identity, consisting of Russian, Jewish, and American cultures . Russian Jewish ethnic identity is based on factors unique from American Jews, including “pride in Jewish & Russian history, culture, & tradi-tion,” as well as shared “narratives of discrimination & persecution in the former Soviet Union” . One 2011 study suggested that between these groups, Judaism may be the key factor linking together their somewhat opposing identities. While Russian Jews consider all parts of their identity equally important, for many American Jews, “Jewish identity remains salient.” .

The Russian Jewish emphasis on maintaining all parts of their identity, rather than adopting a wholly Jewish identity, may explain why this group presents such distinct characteristics that often oppose the popular trends of American Jewry.

In comparison to other Jewish groups in North America, Russian Jews have low levels of religiosity. A 2004 study by the American Jewish Committee found that a mere 6% of the Russian-speaking Jewish population considers religion “very important,” and only 35% consider it “somewhat important” . In stark contrast, a 2013 study from the Pew Research Center found that 26% of American Jews considered religion “very important” in their lives, and 29% considered it “somewhat important” .

Furthermore, Russian Jewish synagogue affiliation is significantly lower than the standard for American Jews . This difference in religiosity prevents Russian Jews from integrating fully, as the synagogue is usually a hub of the Jewish community in an area.

One factor that may contribute to the low levels of religiosity among Russian Jews is the fact that many of them struggle to differentiate between different denominations, such as Reform, Conservative, and Orthodox, which defines what synagogue one should attend . While 28% of Russian Jews identify with one of the three major denominations, the figure is

double “among their non-Orthodox non-Russian counterparts” . Instead, many Russian Jews are of “detached affiliation,” where they may not regularly attend synagogue or belong to a specific denomination, but will occasionally participate in events . A study of Toronto Russian Jewry found that the group “did not show a strong interest in the Jewish traditions and prac-tices valued by the existing community, but they did maintain a strong, positive identity with certain Slavic and secular characteristics in Soviet society” . Therefore, it is much more likely that Russian Jews will assimilate into the secular community, as they did in the Former Soviet Union, than into the greater Jewish community.

The strong difference regarding levels of observation between these groups can be explained by communist policies in the Former Soviet Union that limited religious practice, causing Jews to “not attend synagogues (most of which were shuttered by the regime), … not learn about Judaism, and [practice] few, if any religious rituals in their home” . The legacy of hostile Soviet policies towards religion has become a cultural barrier for Russian Jews, limiting their participation in organized religious activities. This in turn can explain Russian Jews’ low levels of religious observance, which may prevent them from bonding with other Jewish groups

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from a spiritual and communal perspective.

This barrier often contributes to other social dif-ferences between Russian Jews and the larger North American Jewish population.

the wider Jewish community. Again, the uniquely Russian experience of Russian Jews creates a cultural difference between them and larger Jewish communities.

Russian Jews are politically distinct from other Jews, as they tend to be right-leaning, especially in comparison to other North American Jews. In fact, one of the reasons cited for low involvement in Jewish organizations and peer groups is the disagreement between political views of the Russian sub-group and the general Jewish population . One of the theories be-hind this difference in political orientation stems from the Soviet background, with its “big governments and businessstifling programs,” which Russian Jews then associate with more Liberal parties in North America . The specifically Soviet experience of Russian Jews informs their political attitudes in a way that does not exist in the larger Jewish community, and also influences the Russian Jewish worldview. Evgeny Finkel, a political science professor at George Washington University, explained this as the idea that Russian Jews “worked hard and succeeded, back there in the USSR and especially here in the US. [In their minds], if others don't succeed it is because they don't want to, not because of structural problems” .

Politics in particular often serves as a unifying identity within an ethnic group, particularly in the North American Jewish case which so heavily favours the left side of the political spectrum. Political scientist Leonie Huddy describes political cohesion within a group as “more than the combined beliefs and actions of similar individuals,” involving “collective factors such as con-formity, group defense, and shared norms” . In the Russian Jewish case, this divergence in political opinions further undermines their ability to conform to and share the norms of the larger Jewish community, highlighting their positions as outsiders. Despite contrasts in religi-osity, the Russian Jewish population in North America seems to still embody one core Jewish value – education. One 2006 study found that virtually all Russian Jews who graduated high school continued onto college . In fact, Russian-speaking immigrants were ranked as the mosteducated immigrant group in the United States as of 2000 . On average, male Russian Jews have over 14 years of education, exceeding both foreign-born and native-born men in educational attainment .

The differing political views of the Russian Jewish population in America poses a blockage to assimilation into

While Russian Jews may have similar attitudes towards education as the larger Jewish community, differences in income level reveal a further divide between the groups. In the Greater New York region, Russian-speaking Jewish households have lower incomes on average than the broader Jewish population in the region, and “are almost twice as likely as other Jewish households to report annual household incomes of less than $50,000, and four times less likely to report household incomes of at least $150,000” . Some explanation for this trend may lie in how long Russian Jews have lived in America; with the majority of the population immigrating after 1990, they have had little time to catch up economically with other Jewish groups in the country. This economic discrepancy could also be an explanatory factor in Russian Jews’ limited involvement in popular community activities such as trips to Israel, over-night summer camps, and synagogue enrolment, all of which come with significant costs attached .

For many Jewish children, these activities form the basis of their involvement in the Jewish community.

Income barriers impacting participation in the greater Jewish community is therefore another barrier to Russian Jews living in North America, preventing them from fully taking part in Jewish community life.

Russian speakers make up a significant portion of the Jewish population in North America, yet almost 60% of Russian-American Jews do not consider themselves part of the American Jewish community . Consequently, the next great challenge for North American Jews will be how to effectively engage this group in everyday Jewish life and traditions, as this may be the key to truly incorporating such a large subgroup into the larger Jewish community in North America. The Russian Jewish experience suggests a broader idea that significant structural and cultural distinctions can lead to a more challenging integration into a larger community. Such a principle can be applied to any ethnic group, as many have already faced such issues in regard to complete assimilation in the Western world, and elsewhere.

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Works Cited - American Jewish Committee. “Election 2000: Russian Jews as Voters in New York City.” https://www.bjpa.org/search-results/publication/294 (accessed February 20, 2020).

- “A Portrait of Jewish Americans | Pew Research Center.” Accessed February 20, 2020. https://www.pewforum.org/2013/10/01/jewish-american-beliefs-attitudes-culture-survey/.

- Berger, Paul. “How Many Russian Speakers Are in U.S.?” The Forward. Accessed February 20, 2020. https://forward.com/news/146812/how-many-russian-speakers-are-in-us/.

- Berke, Ned. “NYC Has Largest Russian-Jewish Population In The World, But How Many Are There?” BKLYNER (blog), November 28, 2011. https://bklyner.com/nyc-has-largest-russianjewish-population-in-the-world-but-how-many-are-there-sheepshead-bay/.

-Berman Jewish DataBank. “Jewish Community Study of New York: 2011 Comprehensive Report.” Accessed February 20, 2020. https://www.jewishdatabank.org/databank/searchresults/study/597.

- Chiswick, Barry R. “Soviet Jews in the United States: Language and Labor Market Adjustments Revisited,” in Jews on Three Continents: Migration and Resettlement, edited by Noah LewinEpstein, Yaacov Ro’I and Paul Ritterbands, 233-260. London: Frank Cass Publishers, 1997.

- Eisenberg, Ellen. "Transplanted to the Rose City: The Creation of East European Jewish Community in Portland, Oregon." Journal of American Ethnic History 19, no. 3 (Spring, 2000): 82-97. https://proxy.library.mcgill.ca/loginurl=https://search.proquest.com/docview/216444935? accountid=12339.

- Gorbis, Boris. 2014. Barriers to the integration of Russian-speaking Jews in the United States.

Journal of Jewish Communal Service. 89(1): 112-124.

- Huddy, Leonie. “Group Identity and Political Cohesion.” In Oxford Handbook of Political Psychology., 511–58. New York, NY, US: Oxford University Press, 2003.

- Khazan, Olga. “Why Russian Americans Love Donald Trump.” The Atlantic, April 12, 2016. https://www.theatlantic.com/politics/archive/2016/04/bernie-sanders-trump-russians/477045/.

- Kliger, Sam. “Russian-Jewish Americans and American Jewry: Encounter, Identity, and Integration.” Sociological Papers 12 (January 1, 2007): 24.

- Knopp, Abby. 2014. Why Jews of Russian-speaking backgrounds matter to our communal future. Journal of Jewish Communal Service. 89(1): 105-111.

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- Liahovitiski, Dimitri. “A Study of Russian Jews and Their Attitudes Towards Overnight Jewish Summer Camp.” Foundation for Jewish Camp. Accessed February 20, 2020. https://www.jewishdatabank.org/databank/search-results/study/597.

- Morawska, Ewa. “Exploring Diversity in Immigrant Assimilation and Transnationalism: Poles and Russian Jews in Philadelphia.” International Migration Review 38, no. 4 (December 2004): 1372–1412. doi:10.1111/j.1747-7379.2004.tb00241.x.

- Remennick, Larissa. “Russian Jews in the Global City of Toronto: A Pilot Study of Identity and Social Integration.” Espace populations sociétés. Space populations societies, no. 2006/1 (April 1, 2006): 61–81. https://doi.org/10.4000/eps.1235.

- Rosner, Jennifer L., Wendi L. Gardner, and Ying-yi Hong. “The Dynamic Nature of Being Jewish: Identity Centrality and the Acculturation of Russian Jews in the United States.” Journal of Cross-Cultural Psychology, July 10, 2011.

- Ruby, Walter & Sam Kliger. “Russian Jews in New York.” In Encyclopedia Judaica. vol 15.

Jerusalem, Israel, 2006.

- Sarna, Jonathan. “‘America’s Russian-Speaking Jews Come of Age,’ Toward a Comprehensive Policy Planning for Russian-Speaking Jews in North America (Jerusalem: Jewish People Policy Institute, 2013), 1-27.” Barbara and Jack Kay Center for Communal Life, n.d., 27.

- Shternshis, Anna. “Why Russian Jews Are They Way They Are in Canada.” The Canadian Jewish News, March 24, 2017. https://www.cjnews.com/news/canada/why-russian-jewsare-the-way-they-are+&cd=1&hl=en&ct=clnk&gl=ca.

- Shvarts, Alexander. “Soviet Jews in Toronto: Ethhnic Self-Identity and Issues of Integration.”

Studies in Ethnicity and Nationalism 3, no. 1 (2003): 38–55.

- Sokol, Sam. “US Russian Jews Don’t Feel Connected to Community - The Jerusalem Post.” The Jerusalem Post, March 20, 2013. https://www.jpost.com/Jewish-World/Jewish-News/US-RussianJews-dont-feel-connected-to-community-307132.

- Zeltzer-Zubida, Aviva. “Affinities and Affiliations: The Many Ways of Being a Russian Jewish American.” In Becoming New Yorkers: The Children of Immigrants Come of Age, 339– 60. Russell Sage, 2004.

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Caught in an Extended Intermission

by EmilyVaillancourt As the curtains closed on the Soviet Union, a world of possibilities was opened up for the theatre. Finally free from decades of repression, the theatre found itself in a period of uncertainty.

It had long served as a source of enlightenment in Russia, yet following the Bolshevik revolution, the social and political power of the theatre became a threat to the stability of the Soviet regime that, in turn, reduced it to an "ideological straitjacket". However, the eventual collapse of the USSR meant the uprooting of all restrictions imposed on the theatre, allowing for the emergence of new dramatic techniques that provided audiences the opportunity to critically engage with plays once again. By the end of the 1990s, this enthusiasm for the unlimited influential power of the theatre had tapered off. The theatre had sought to evolve into a ‘school for democracy’ stimulating critical awareness, but were prevented from doing so due to economic crises, internal conflicts and a lack of accessibility during the post-Soviet era.

Theatre in pre-Soviet Russia was looked to as a source of enlightenment and inspiration that cemented national culture and linguistic heritage. This changed in the 1930s as the Communist

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Party took control of the arts, and theatre became wholly integrated into the political system. As a result, the theatre’s primary role became supporting state policy. Inspired by the techniques of Russian theatre practitioner Konstantin Stanislavski, the ‘socialist realism’ style of theatre was adopted in keeping with features such as rationalism, didacticism, clarity and simplicity. Stanislavski’s method acting was considered the only style compatible with state-sanctioned theatre, as it did not involve breaking the so-called fourth wall, nor did it employ interactive dialogue that might potentially encourage self-expression .

The impact of socialist realist theatre was felt in all spheres: the typology of heroes within the plays, set design, and the choreography of major scenes.

Audiences were restricted to the events taking place onstage, and were left with very little to engage with after the curtains closed. By aiming to produce simplistic pieces with clear, non-threatening political messages that left little room for creative interpretation, the Soviets effectively turned the theatre into a form of propaganda.

After the abolishment of the strict censorship of the Soviet period, the theatre scene in Russia experienced a process of renewal where a number of technical and creative innovations would ultimately "[leave] their mark on history". Theatre companies were now free to test out dramatic theories that had previously been discouraged. A significant shift took place from Stanislavskian method acting to the Epic Theatre practices of German practitioner and playwright, Bertolt Brech. This new form of interactive theatre allowed for multiple interpretations and dissenting opinions to coexist. In contrast to Stanislavski, Brecht believed that theatre should not aim to reproduce the modern world, but rather to present it as something unnatural that the audience creates as it interprets what is being presented onstage. While the Stanislavskian method projected fatalistic sentiments, the Brechtian method contrastingly celebrated free will. Further, spectators were not merely confined to their seats in Epic Theatre. Instead, audiences became the artists, actively participating in performances. In 1986, Shatrov’s show, A Dictatorship of Conscience featured sections of improvisations where actors would share their own opinions on current events, and invited the audience to do the same. Through plays allowing the audience to ‘take on

a role’, spectators might have felt more comfortable to speak as openly in everyday life about political affairs as they did in the theatre. Such was the case when Boris Yeltsin, Secretary of the Moscow Party Committee, attended A Dictatorship of Conscience and the cast and audience attempted to get him onstage, directing pointed questions at him. Such blatant expressions of political opinion were a refreshing change from the one-sided theatre of the Soviet period.

Interactive productions became a means of emancipation for the masses and shaped a school for democracy by encouraging people to speak and think freely. The use of more interactive dramatic techniques throughout the 1990s allowed for theatre to fulfill its important social role.

Two plays that serve as excellent exemplars of the rhetoric of theatre in the 1990s are Bald/Brunet by Daniil Gink and Nijinsky by Alexi Burykin. In an introduction to his translation of these plays, John Freedman argues how both plays “pinpoint the external values which Russian culture has always valued in the past, they are contemplative, philosophical, incisive and even reverent”. These enticing notes of familiarity to a pre-Soviet collective consciousness easily drew audiences into these undeniably political pieces. Nijinsky features the

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great ballet dancer and choreographer Vaslav Nijinsky. He is split into two characters: Nijinsky, the intuitive half, and the Actor, the more practical, logical half. The play opens with a resounding “I’m free! I’m free!” as Nijinsky tumbles onto the stage, head over heels. Referring to freedom from the voices that haunt him as a schizophrenic, this statement can be paralleled to the newfound freedom of the theatre. Similar to Nijinsky's failure to free himself from the demons in his mind, Russian theatre continued to be haunted by its Soviet past. Towards the end of the play, the Actor is questioning Nijinsky, attempting to piece together his own identity. The Actor asks: Actor: What thought has pursued you all life long?

Nijinsky: You mean, like an idée fixe?

Actor: (Startled) Yeah, sort of.

Nijinsky: A circle. Not a square, but a circle. Like an eye. The theater must be like that, you know?

This Brechtian acknowledgment of the theatre’s ‘eye’ on the political and social realities of the country could, depending on the staging choices, be directed towards the audience, challenging them to reconsider the purpose of theatre. The play also utilizes a poetic structure that imitates everyday speech, but reshapes and skews its normalcy to create a more dense and suggestive picture of the world. In doing so, the play introduces

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the possibility interpretations.

for

multiple

The battles that take place between Ninjinski’s separate halves conjure parallels of the schisms created in Russia’s political system as a result of the collapse of the Soviet Union. While the political undertones of these plays would have been censored during the Soviet period, the proliferation of political references in the 1990s created a radical opportunity to stimulate independent thought. In Bald/Brunet, there are many blatant references to the Soviet period. The Bald Man, who often speaks through his own poems, presents a poem he calls ‘Dissident Lyricism’: If shit didn’t stink And tasted like sugar, No one would dare compare Shit and the U.S.S.R.

These blatant political comments are drawn into the real world through consistent reminders that the audience is witnessing a play. The first act concludes by Brunet exclaiming how “Obviously, this is a dream” and that it is now time to “Turn out the lights”.

This acknowledgement of a reality external from the play is a classic example of Brechtian technique, and the breaking of the fourth-wall. These reminders would encourage the audience to reflect on pieces long after the curtain call.

While the theatrical revolution of the early 1990’s employed very explicit experimental methods, the theatre began to regress to its Soviet past by the end of the decade. The tradition of representing tragic lessons from the communist era onstage began to fade, giving way to the neo-traditionalist twist of the Putin era. Freed from the responsibility of their history, Russians developed a social numbness as elements of the Soviet period were reintroduced.

Self-censorship practices, coupled with the splitting of theatre companies, and the inaccessibility of theatre prevented the theatre from being able to challenge this social numbness.

Almost immediately after the dissolution of the Soviet Union, the first independent production companies and private theatres began their search for private funding, with federal and municipal theatres quickly following suit. The Russian economy was in shambles, and there was no clear plan for implementing privatization. Throughout the 1990s, Gorbachev wavered between supporting radical reforms and expressing his opposition to private property. This uncertainty carried on throughout the decade, and as a result theatres could no longer rely on the state for funding.

While decreasing reliance on the state for monetary support was an effective way of increasing the autonomy of the theatre, drastic inflation hurt many theatres financially in the early 1990s, and they were forced to once again rely on state subsidies. But by the mid1990s, state spending on culture was again on the rise.

This funding, however, came with strings attached.

Approximately £6 million of the theatre’s annual income was derived from ticket sales alone, and £5 million from government subsidies.

With almost half of the theatre’s annual income coming from the government, theatre could not be as experimental as it had been in the early 1990s, lacking large enough audiences to be selfsustaining.

State-owned/autonomous theatres were the most common type of statefunded theatre that emerged out of the late 1990s, a type that still runs today.

While the name appears to be an oxymoron, these theatres receive funding via a government procurement contract rather than direct subsidies or grants. Within these contracts, the Ministry of Culture and the municipal Department of Culture sets strict standards on how many productions the company must mount in a season and a minimum number of ticket sales.

If these goals are not met, funding may be reallocated for the coming year.

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Such restrictions discourage companies from mounting new productions, as it is safer to continue mounting repertoire pieces that are known to draw in audiences. Current theatre company owner, Kirill Krok, concedes that, while his company is free to put on their plays of choice, the Minister of Culture who they rely on for subsidies remains, albeit indirectly, in charge. Finding alternatives to state funding has posed a significant challenge to Russain theatre. State theatres are commercially unprofitable, and even well-known repertory theatres running a significant number of performances in a season cannot manage to cover expenses. Given the cost of large productions and their low returns, outside investors are hesitant to contribute.

Private theatres may also apply for project financing from the government to mount certain productions, or they might receive non-financial support in the form of government-provided venues or preferential loans. The resulting dependence theatre companies have on the government forces them to self-censor in order to avoid threats by the government to cut support or demand more detailed budget reports as a means to control independent company repertories.

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The censorship of the Soviet period had constrained actors within strict parameters. The Moscow Art Theatre company had the onerous task of carrying out governmental policy on its stage to set an example for others. It was difficult for actors to stay motivated under such conditions. Boris Livanov, a member of the Moscow Art Theatre from 1924 to 1972, was described as barely starting rehearsals before needing a break to get an alcoholic ‘dose’ from a nearby cafe. The theatre community also faced a massive emigration problem during the Soviet period. From 1919-1929, there was a steady seepage of talent to the West, and even after the closure of the borders, fugitives from Stalin’s terror flooded out of the country.

These actors and playwrights had significant influence abroad, but were sealed off from the theatrical developments within the USSR. Further alienation of theatrical artists occurred with the creation of the New Drama Festival in 2002 in which festival organizers attempted to impose themselves as the arbitrators of what should be considered acceptable in contemporary drama. Rather than embracing and celebrating new forms of expression, the New Drama Festival pitted artists against one another by determining which pieces were innovative enough to be shown at their festival.

The organization was committed to a relatively narrow agenda of promoting dark, gritty realism rather than embracing all dramatists. This conflict left theatres even more vulnerable to the external factors that weakened their influence.

Following the collapse of the Soviet Union, major theatre companies were faced with two questions: were they prepared to use their newfound freedom to create a genuinely free theatre capable of combining supreme artistic standards with the ethics of long-term creative collaboration, and would they implement the cutthroat commercial practices of natural selection that are synonymous with the free market?

There were many different approaches to how these questions should be answered, and these disagreements led to the split of several theatre companies. The succession of split-ups, controversies, revolts and disagreements contributed to the loss of social relevance of theatre.

Had theatre companies been able to produce politically-focused plays without the impediment of selfcensorship and financial constraints, it is still unlikely that they would be able to appeal to a diverse audience. In surveys cited by applied economics researcher Oxana Bondarenko and theatre critic Emilia Dementsova, 47%Â

of respondents said they rarely visit theatres, and a shocking 29% of respondents have never been to the theatre in their lifetime. With so few people regularly attending performances, it is not surprising that theatres are unable to sustain themselves financially. Among the potential explanations for these dismal attendance statistics is the lack of regional theatres that limits accessibility for many potential audience members. Bondarenko and Dementsova suggest that there are only 3.2 theatres for every one million people in Russia.

After the collapse of the Soviet Union, the early 1990s served as a period of creative potential for theatre. However, what seemed to hold immeasurable promise as a political tool, was quickly revealed to be hampered by economic and accessibility concerns, as well as immense internal conflict. As a result, the Russian theatre scene remains in an extended intermission, with all its untapped potential waiting in the wings.

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Works Cited - Appel, Hilary. New Capitalist Order : Privatization and Ideology in Russia and Eastern Europe.

Pittsburgh: University of Pittsburgh Press, 2004.

- Beumers, Birgit, and Lipovetsky, Mark. Performing Violence : Literary and Theatrical Experiments of New Russian Drama. Bristol: Intellect Books Ltd, 2009. Accessed April 11, 2019.

ProQuest Ebook Central.

- Bondarenko, Oxana and Emiliia Dementsova. “Russian Theatres - Searching for Balance”.

Online Theatre Magazine by The Union of European Theatres. Web. September 2017. Accessed: February 2019. https://conflict-zones.reviews/russian-theatres-searching-balance/ - Freedman, John. "Contemporary Russian Drama: The Journey from Stagnation to a Golden Age." Theatre Journal 62, no. 3 (2010): 389-420. https://muse.jhu.edu/ - Freedman, John. edit. Two Plays from the New Russia. Amsterdam: Harwood Academic Publishers. 1996.

- Freedman, John. “A Critic’s Back Pages: 20 Years of Moscow Theatre”. The Moscow Times. Web. November 2011. Accessed: January 2019.

- Gallagher, Kathleen and Barry Freeman, edit. In Defence of Theatre: Aesthetic Practices and Social Interventions. Toronto: University of Toronto Press. 2016.

- Groskop, Viv. “How the Russian Theatre is Speaking Truth into Power”. The Financial Times.

Web. February 2018. Accessed: January 2019.

- Prokhorova, Tatyana, and Vera Shamina. "School for Democracy: Interactive Theater in Soviet and Post-Soviet Russia." Comparative Drama 48, no. 1/2 (2014): 59-73.

- Senelick, Laurence. “Recovering Repressed Memories: Writing Russian Theatre History”.

Writing and Rewriting National Theatre Histories. Iowa City: University of Iowa Press, 2004.

- Smeliansky, Anatoly. The Russian Theatre After Stalin. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

1999.

- van de Water, Manon. Moscow Theatres for Young People: A Cultural History of Ideological Coercion and Artistic Innovation. New York: Palgrave Macmillan. 2006.

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The Liminal Space -- UnderstandingTime & Change in Chekhov's "The Cherry Orchard"

by Hannah Cheslock

In his last play The Cherry Orchard, written in 1903, Chekhov presents his reader with a noble family during a pivotal moment of transition. The estate of the Ranevsky family, led by the matriarch, Mrs. Ranevskya, can no longer be upheld by the family and needs to be sold to pay their debts.

There is a beloved cherry orchard on the Ranevsky’s estate that evokes nostalgia and sentimentality for the prosperous and joyous times of the past. Lopakhin, a merchant whose father was a serf for the family, returns to the estate and tries to help the family find a suitable buyer. Lopakhin is an embodiment of the changing times, both in his embracement of the trends of a fast paced, industrial future, and in his constant focus on time running out.

The Ranevsky family desperately wants to keep the orchard, while Lopakhin wants to help the family transition out of their idealized memories and into the reality of the impending future. In contrasting Lopakhin with the Ranevsky family, Chekhov creates a piece of theatre that exists in and deals with liminal space, and in doing so reflects the social tensions regarding changing times in Russia.

Time is understood drastically differently by the Ranevsky family and Lopakhin in The Cherry Orchard.

Lopakhin functions as the ticking clock of the play. He mentions being late, early, and right on time in a variety of contexts, and in the stage directions he is constantly checking his watch. In the first act of the play, Lopakhin’s focus on time shows itself when he reminds the Ranevsky family of the orchards’s upcoming auction: “[With a glance at his watch.] I’m just leaving and there isn’t time to say much. Anyway, I’ll be brief. As you know, the cherry orchard’s being sold to pay your debts and the auction’s on the twenty-second of August” . Here, time completely controls a conversation where Lopahkin is bringing up delicate subject matter with the family.

Lopakhin’s focus on time is intrinsically connected to his mercantile status – Lopakhin sees time as money, and hates to be wasting time not working as he fears missing out on profitable opportunities. Lopahkin directly states in the final act of the play: “I’m spending the winter in Kharkov – I’ve been kicking my heels round here quite long enough and I’m

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fed up with doing nothing. I can’t stand not working – look, I don’t know what to do with my arms” . Lopakhin is full of plans and action, and is detached from the past. Coming from a family of freed serfs, Lopakhin has no particular nostalgia for the way things were, and is perfectly content with being focused only on the future. His major purpose in the play is to indicate both the inevitability of time passing and the need for the Ranevsky family to accept the fact that the times are changing.

The Ranevsky family is almost the complete opposite of Lopakhin, as they understand time passing not as an opportunity for change, but as a forced abandonment of their customs and lifestyle. Mainly Mrs. Ranevsky, the matriarch, holds this concern, as she has the most sentimental attachment to the estate and the orchard; her family owned and operated the estate for generations. Mrs. Ranevsky refuses to acknowledge time in her conversations with Lopakhin, either by ignoring the time pressure she is under to make her decision regarding the orchard, or by changing the subject altogether. This can be seen the following conversation between these two characters and Gayev in the second act of the play: LOPAKHIN: You must make your minds up once and for all, time’s running out. And anyway it’s a perfectly simple matter.

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Are you prepared to lease your land for summer cottages or aren’t you? You can answer in one word – yes or no. Just one single word.

MRS. RANEVSKY: Who’s smoking disgusting cigars around here? [Sits down.]

GAYEV: How handy it is now they’ve rebuilt the railway. [Sits down.] We’ve been in town for lunch. Pot the red in the middle.

I must go indoors now and have a game.

MRS. RANEVSKY: There’s no hurry.

LOPAKHIN: One single word.

[Imploringly.] Do give me an answer.

GAYEV: [Yawning.] What’s that?

This conversation shows the tension between the changing times. Lopakhin is aware that time is running out and a decision needs to be made regarding the estate, but Mrs. Ranevsky and Gayev completely ignore Lopakhin’s sense of urgency and avoid mentioning the estate altogether.

Despite Lopakhin’s efforts, he cannot communicate to the Ranevsky family the unavoidable decision that needs to be made.

As Robert Louis Jackson writes: “Lopakhin’s constant reminders, his prodding words about the impending sale of the estate, “decide,” “think it over,” contribute to an urgent sense of passing time and impending misfortune. It is people, of course, and not time that stand still, act or remain inert” . Chekhov illustrates through the contrast of Lopakhin and the Ranevsky family a social divide proceeding from different understandings of change and time; Lopakhin, a merchant who has found his fortune through work and capitalizing on time, understands the inevitability of change and the opportunity it brings, while the Ranevsky family, an upper class family who has lived comfortably for generations, understands the changing times as a forced abandonment of their preferred lifestyle. The cherry orchard acts as the ultimate symbol of the contrasting themes of change and time in this play, as embodied by Lopakhin and the Ranevsky family.

The cherry orchard is a part of the estate that holds particular sentimental value, especially for Mrs. Ranevsky. The orchard reminds her of her childhood and of simpler, more idyllic days: [looking through the window at the orchard.] Oh, my childhood, my innocent childhood! This is the nursery where I slept and I

used to look out at the orchard from here. When I woke up every morning happiness awoke with me, and the orchard was just the same in those days. Nothing’s changed .

An essential detail that Chekhov plants in the play is the childhood memories that Mrs. Ranevsky associates with the orchard. These memories are brought to her once she enters her childhood nursery, and transport her to an orchard marked by pastoral serenity that, while comforting, is a time lost in the past.

The fondness and sentimentality held for the orchard are not for the orchard in its current state, but for the world and lifestyle the orchard once represented. The nature of the orchard in the play is liminal. It is a space that holds memories, but is currently in a state of transition, and its future is unknown.

Lopakhin understands this and desperately tries to get the Ranevsky family to acknowledge this before time runs out and someone else decides the fate of the orchard. Mrs. Ranevsky believes her identity is bound to the memory of the orchard, as she explains in the third act of the play: “You see, I was born here, my father and mother lived here, my grandfather too. I love this house.

Without the cherry orchard, life has no meaning for me and if it really must be sold then you’d better sell me with it” .

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It is for this reason that Mrs. Ranevsky cannot part with the orchard; she cannot look forward into the future and recognize the changing times, as her identity and entire life’s meaning is attached to a memory. Mrs. Ranevsky only exists comfortably in the past, and she neglects both the present and the future. Stephen L. Baehr explains what makes the end of the play so heartbreaking for Mrs. Ranevsky and her family: “the upper classes are depicted as being evicted from their uchronia and forced into the world of time” . The Ranevsky family is representative of many members of the Russian upper classes who, when confronted with the industrial revolution and the rapidly changing world around them, clung to the fond memories of past prosperity rather than adapted to a new way of life. P. Warner further discusses the disillusionment of the Ranevsky family: “There is a strong desire in the play to return to the past but the aristocrats, and perhaps Firs too, throw a glamour over it. This sharpens our sense of the unsatisfactory present, but it is only an illusion. [...] To Madame Ranevsky, the orchard is a symbol of the grace of the past” . In this play, a choice is made by those still enamoured by an idealized past to reject advancements forward and to try and live in a world where time allows them sanctuary in their beloved orchard. To their misfortune,

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they can no longer live in the comforting memories of the past or in the liminal space of the orchard, but in the reality of a world that observes time and moves alongside it.

Chekhov uses contrasting understandings of time and the liminal space of the cherry orchard to highlight different social receptions of change.

Lopakhin embodies the social class of people who are detached from the past and are ready to embrace the opportunity held by the changing times. The Ranevsky family embodies the struggle of the upper classes to accept that times are changing, as they have always enjoyed and benefited from the way things were. The cherry orchard is a liminal space and only someone like Lopahkin who can recognize the inevitability of time and change can determine its fate. The orchard functions as a reminder of the possible effects of being bound to the past in a rapidly transforming world, as well as the opportunities that can coincide with acknowledging change and choosing to grow alongside it.

Depending on characters’ circumstance and status, they react to change in a variety of different ways; this is what Chekhov highlights in The Cherry Orchard.

Works Cited -Baehr, Stephen L. “The Machine in Chekhov's Garden: Progress and Pastoral in the Cherry Orchard.” The Slavic and East European Journal 43, no. 1, (1999), 99–121.

-Chekhov, Anton. The Cherry Orchard. Translated by Ronald Hingley. Oxford UP, 2008.

-Jackson, Robert Louis. “‘What Time Is It? Where Are We Going?’ Chekhov’s The Cherry Orchard: The Story of a Verb.” Close Encounters: Essays on Russian Literature, (Academic Studies Press, 2013), 130–152.

-Warner, P. “The Axe in Springtime (The Cherry Orchard).” Theoria: A Journal of Social and Political Theory 10 (1958): 41-57. www.jstor.org/stable/41791376.

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The Hysterical Mad Woman: An Analysis of Female Laughter in Fyodor Dostoevs󿵒's "The Idiot"

by Marie-Agnès Claverie

In Fyodor Dostoevsky’s The Idiot, the prevalence of laughter appears most significantly in the presence of two prominent female characters: Nastasya Filippovna and Aglaya Ivanovna Epanchin. Their laughter does not appear as a response to a humorous event or to a comical response, but as a contained rebellious signifier that is acceptable within a public social setting. The lack of comic stimulus showcases how Nastasya Filippovna and Aglaya Ivanovna’s laughter is endowed with a social function: they laugh to expel the constraining patriarchal expectations of Russian society, especially in regards to their marital status. The physical act of laughing allows these women to reclaim their autonomy by enacting a social gesture that is public, yet privately a rejection of these societal mores. Laughter functions as an attempt to subvert expected female behavior in public settings, to debilitate the image of a poised lady, but it also paradoxically strengthens the stereotypical image of a hysterical, mad woman, when, in reality, their laughter signals an implicit awareness of their systematic oppression within the Russian patriarchy.

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In The Idiot, the cultural and social expectations of the sexes appear as an inflexible framework that orients how spaces can be gendered. In General Epanchin’s home, a domestic and distinctly female space that lodges three eligible daughters and a wife, these expectations appear as a concentrated portrayal of how gender relations and expectations function in and out of the household. Matron Lizaveta Prokofyevna experiences “the unquestioning obedience” of her three daughters and rules “a respectful and well-disciplined husband under her thumb at all times”. However, her power functions solely in the space of the home. Her husband, General Epanchin, deals with the personal social affairs of his daughters outside the home. He functions on the basis of his own “adopted system,” which appears progressive by “not rushing his daughters into marriage”. Yet, General Epanchin processes the outside social world through a rational-based system that is “difficult because it [is] also unnatural; . . . the general’s arguments [are] extremely weighty and based on tangible facts”. Ultimately, he “succeeds in winning Lizaveta Prokofyevna over to his system”, but this forced

acclimatization works awkwardly. The concept of marriage negates notions of the natural and the genuine, like love, hence making it “unnatural”. Using this ‘system’ as a proxy for marriage enacts a sense of detachment, logic, and duty.

By mechanically subscribing to this tacit understanding of a ‘system,’ the General functions in accordance with his expectation of what a marriage is: a calculated appraisal of one’s financial income and social standing. Upon this attitude thus stands the fragile framework--one susceptible to subversion--in which the life and future of his three young daughters hinges upon.

Afanasy Ivanovich Totsky’s situation provides another example in which gender delineates space and action.

Guardian to Nastasya Filipovna, Totsky is not interested in overseeing his ward’s education, but he takes advantage of his great financial disposition to groom her “in another, distant province”, a village called Delight, whilst enjoying the pleasures of being a rich bachelor abroad. Totsky does not prioritize setting Nastasya Filipovna up in a successful marriage, like General Epanchin, because he does not see her as his immediate duty. Her future—contingent on his care—ceases to exist on the basis of Totsky’s diminishing interest. At the leisure of his privileged disposition, Totsky’s

bachelor life works to her detriment, as he “soon [forgets] all about [Nastasya Filipovna]”. His neglect comes at the benefit of his ability to be independent and autonomous. Unlike Nastasya Filipovna, who remains stuck within the domestic space, or the Epanchin daughters, whose limited free space exists solely in their own home, Totsky and the General have the privilege of movement and adventure. The General and Totsky’s freedom contrasts against these women’s stationary lives.

Whereas the women’s principal form of movement would occur after marriage (from one domestic space, her own home, to another’s—her husband’s), the two men’s freedom showcase how they benefit from the artificiality of these gendered and cultural codes of behavior.

Stuck within rigid conventions, these men thus become the target of Nastasya Filipovna and Aglaya Ivanovna’s laughter because they realize the fashion in which their own social dynamics manifest in relation to male figures.

The men comply with these unspoken social rules with a certain automatism, or an absentmindedness, that renders their behavior comical. Both General Epanchin and Totsky display automatism by continuing to comply with their belief in the ‘system’ (re: marriage) or focusing solely on their self-centered bachelor life.

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Their perennial passivity is a manifestation of their absentmindedness: rather than questioning the one-sidedness of these life decisions, they accept and perpetuate gender roles and expectations. Henri Bergson argues that elicited laughter derives from observing the “lack of elasticity, through absentmindedness and a kind of obstinacy…[where] the muscles [continue] to perform the same movement when the circumstances of the case called for something else”. The men’s adherence to these social conventions demonstrates a rigidity in their characters, as they do not consider alternative ways of treating women. Secluding women within the home or away from immediate society is a result of their inflexible and mechanical type of thinking, one that Nastasya Filipovna, in particular, detects. The men observe the ceremonious social side to life that “to the social body [are] what clothing is to the individual body: they owe their seriousness to the fact that they are identified…with the serious object with which custom associates them.” By operating within the entrenched social and gendered body of Russian society, these two men participate in the absentmindedness and automatisms set up by societal conventions.

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In order to retaliate and prompt change, Nastasya Filipovna laughs openly. Although her laughter fits within the accepted retinue of social gestures, it signals a rebellion against men’s absentmindedness. She does not intend to quietly submit to Totsky’s expectations of womanhood, which he conceives of as “something timid, uncertain in a boarding-school way.”

Instead, upon her unexpected arrival in St. Petersburg, Totsky meets “an extraordinary and unexpected being [who laughs] and [stings] him with a most poisonous sarcasm”. She tells him: “Now I can simply laugh at you to my heart’s content, because now I, too, finally feel like laughing”. Laughter allows her to reclaim a space that was previously usurped and controlled-her present laughter is simultaneously liberation, and an attempt “to get rid of something”.

This purging of dependency evolves into a cathartic exercise that is fighting—within the acceptable social constraints—against the conventions of inelastic societal expectations. It is a type of laughter that accompanies Nastasya Filipovna in every scene she features in public.

When “[scenes] are becoming extremely ugly,” like at her birthday soirée, Nastasya Filipovna’s laughter becomes a consistent feature. She laughs because she recognizes the “long cherished prejudices confirmed” before her, such as when she witnesses

Rogozhin pleading to increase the amount of money he would pay for her hand in marriage. In such moments, Nastasya Filipovna recognizes that the way men quantify her value perpetuates the way in which the social body manifests around her: the ceremonious norm of marriage is not an exchange of vows, but a transaction of finances.

The women in the novel thus recognize the comedy of marriage because of how it mechanically—absentmindedly— functions within the social fabric of 19th century Russia. Roger Henkle quotes Joseph Moses to highlight how comedy specifically treats love through the lens of “courtship and marriage— love, reflected in the social mirror.

After we have reduced Eros to the proportions of conventional human behavior, we begin to examine the flaws and discrepancies of the conventions”.

Once more, “conventional human behavior” orients women within certain rigid, mechanical systems. Nastasya Filipovna is not the only woman to perceive the absurdity in these conventional tropes of marriage: at the summer cottage with the Epanchin family, Aglaya Ivanovna bursts in “such irrepressible laughter, such funny and mocking laughter” at the suggestion of entering into a marriage with Prince Myshkin. She is cognizant of the importance of her marriage.

Besides societal pressure, within the family, “the sisters [had] even decided among themselves…of making sacrifices on their own part in favor of Aglaya”. As the prettiest of the three, her figure and social standing was meant to attract a man of mythic proportions. The suggestion of marrying Prince Myshkin, who Aglaya Ivanovna repeatedly refers to as an idiot, amuses her because he does not encapsulate the lineage, fortune, or temperament her parents and sisters envisioned in her future fiancé. He stands as an absurd choice to realize a future that has been constructed by the social rhetoric around her. Her laughter relays her self-awareness, which poses a threat to the mechanical expectations, alluding to her latent rebellion against conforming to social norms.

Laughing women incite fear upon men.

The men react to women’s laughter as if it were diabolical, as “the mere recollection of [Nastasya Filipovna’s laugh] sent a chill down Totsky’s spine.” When she persistently laughs at Ganya, whose motivations to marry Nastasya Filipovna are disingenuous, “Ganya’s face indeed [becomes] very distorted: his stupor, his comical, cowardly bewilderment suddenly [leaves] him; but he [turns] terribly pale; his lips [twists] convulsively;

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silently, with a fixed and nasty look, not tearing his eyes away, he [stares] into the face of his visitor, who went on laughing”.

Such are the reactions of men, horrified by female laughter, as it appears as an “expression of madness.” The inability to comprehend from where this laughter originates, or to whom it is targeted, leaves the audience— typically consisting of men—baffled.

They use certain qualifiers, which appear repeatedly in conjunction to similar scenes—“hysterical,” “feverous”—all in an attempt to make sense of this anomalous behavior.

Such allusions to the hysterical and feverous woman further distances them into the text as incomprehensible individuals, encouraging a repression of their identities and autonomies.

Female laughter becomes irrational, a total ‘suffering of the womb’ (as defined by hysterikos, from which the word hysteria derives from). The public does not understand that their laughter is one of recognition and rejection of male-constructed social conventions; instead, they misconstrue female laughter as being the action of a “demoniacal” “madwoman.”

The association of laughter to the demonic appears ubiquitous with the appearances of a laughing Aglaya, a “fantastic being, [who laughs] in her mother’s face, at her sisters, at Prince Shch:…it’s rare that she doesn’t laugh''.

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This “fantastic being” is an epithet that echoes Nastasya Filipovna’s title of a most “extraordinary and unexpected being,” which Totsky assigns to her shortly after meeting her anew. They are no longer women or young girls of society, but defeminized and dehumanized as spirits of incomprehensible momentum.

Their laughter, however, does not seem to enact the change the women wished it would. Nastasya Filipovna and Aglaya Ivanovna were unable to subvert the social gesture of laughing into an act of rebellion; instead, it becomes a distinct marker for the “madwoman,” a testament to the inflexible nature of the patriarchal systems around them. Their laughter is incapable of initiating recognition in others about the rigid patriarchal conventions shaping up their reality and female experience; their laughter, instead, further establishes Nastasya Filipovna and Aglaya Ivanovna as hysterical, mad, women.

Works Cited -Baudelaire, Charles. “On the Essence of Laughter, and, in General, on the Comic in the Plastic Arts.” Baudelaire : Selected Writings of Art and Artists. Translated by P.E. Charvet. Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 1981: 448-57.

-Bergson, Henri. Laughter : An Essay on the Meaning of the Comic. Mineola, Ny: Dover Publications, 2005.

-Dostoevsky, Fyodor. The Idiot. Translated by Richard Pevear and Larissa Volokhonsky. New York: Vintage Books, 2003.

-Girard, Rene. “Perilous Balance: A Comic Hypothesis.” MLN 87, no. 7 (December 1972): 811–22. https://doi.org/10.2307/2907787 -Henkle, Roger B. “The Social Dynamics of Comedy.” The Sewanee Review 90, no. 2 (April 1, 1982): 200, 216.

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Paradox and Interiority in "The Brothers Karamazov" and "The Underground Man"

by Michaela Drouillard

One of the many complexities of Dostoevsky’s works is how paradoxes function within them. They present economies of alternative options, which de-centers how readers are to understand any single feature or event.

In The Brothers Karamazov, the economy of detail offers clues to interpret the murder, as well as offering a larger symbolic discourse. In Notes from the Underground, as Mikhail Bakhtin posits, the “loophole” word both demands a refutation by the other and presents itself as the ultimate word. Lise in The Brothers Karamazov and the Underground Man in Notes from the Underground delight themselves in paradoxes in order to control their interactions. These paradoxes are modeled through different narrative techniques: in Notes from the Underground, it is accomplished through one unreliable narrator, whereas in The Brothers Karamazov it is witnessed through many unreliable narrators. Reading Lise’s behavior through the Underground Man’s decentering mechanisms in moments of intimacy illustrates how their engagement in their paradoxes is counteractive. It is through these alternating options that

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the larger thematic paradoxes of The Brothers Karamazov, such as pleasure versus pain and active versus fleeting love, are built up.

Bakhtin analyses the relationship between the narrator and the Other in Notes from the Underground by studying the semantic distribution of spiteful words, and notes an openness at the end of each paragraph that both addresses and attacks the reader . For instance, in the opening of Part One when the Underground Man calls himself a spiteful civil servant, he concludes the paragraph with: “Oh, how thoroughly I got fed up with them in the end! But doesn’t it seem to you, gentlemen, that I might possibly be apologising to you for something? Asking you to forgive me for something? Yes, I’m sure it does... Well, I assure you I don’t care a damn whether it does seem so to you or not....” .

He undermines any stance that implied listeners may take, and by doing so decenters any consequence of his speech. The Brothers Karamazov’s Lise brings contradictions into play as well.

When Lise threatens to eavesdrop Alyosha, she says “And even though I may want dreadfully to eavesdrop, and I know that I will, all the same I shall not do so, because you consider it ignoble” (italics mine). Lise’s contradiction depends on Alyosha. She both will and will not eavesdrop. If she will, it is an act of spite towards his stance, but out of her characteristically playful desire. If she will not, it is an act of love. This paradox is a microcosm of the larger discourse of active versus fleeting love in the novel, but her ambiguity denies a reconciliation of these forces.

Where in the Underground Man contradictions bring the act of reading is into focus, in the Brothers Karamazov the readers are no longer looped into the confusion. The distance gives greater scope on the network of relationships, and allows readers to observe how Lise is testing them out for her own purposes.

Readers can observe an unreliable narrator from afar.

Mrs. Kokhlakova stands in for the reader in the reception of sidelong speech and action in Brothers Karamazov. While the Underground Man addresses his assumed listeners, Lise’s eavesdropper is another character: her mother. When Alyosha visits Lise for the betrothal, she mentions twice that her mother may be eavesdropping .

Drawing attention to this brackets the conversation that her and Alyosha are having and contextualizes it both within the novel, and the house they are standing in. While she allows Alyosha to have an effect on her (“exclaimed Lise, looking at Alyosha in great astonishment” , “Lise clapped her hands”, “is there not in all this reasoning of ours, or rather yours... no, I prefer ours...” , she does so with a sidelong glance to her mother listening.

For it is her mother, who conveys much of Lise’s character to Alyosha and the readers. Mrs. Khokhlakova tells Alyosha: ...when she was in her early childhood there used to be a pine tree in our garden, and perhaps it’s still there, so there’s no reason to talk about it in the past tense. Pine trees are not like human beings, they go for a long time without altering, Aleksey Fyodorovich. “Mamma,” she said, “I remember that pine tree [sosna] as if I’d just awoken from a dream [kak so sna]” only she put it somewhat differently, because there’s a confusion there, pine tree is a stupid word, and the point is that she said apropos of that something so original that I really would not trust myself to relate it to you.

And anyway, I’ve forgotten it all.

Well, goodbye, I’m suffering from

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bad nervous shock, and I shall probably go insane. .

The wordplay of Lise’s sosna and kak so sna makes Mrs. Kokhlakova unable to trust herself to relay the message, as she cannot relay the whole moment by these contingent parts. Not only is there a play on words, but the pine tree contributes to the larger motif of seeds, trees and growth in the text. Mrs. Kokhlokova adds to the thematic implications of the word by remarking: “Pine trees are not like human beings, they go for a long time without altering” . Thus, readers are witness to the experience of positioning yourself against a loophole word, and attempting to imbue it with a larger meaning. Readers are therefore witness to their own experience of reading Brothers Karamazov.

Bakhtin draws on reader response and suggests that the Underground Man implicates the reader in the process of character building by illustrating a cycle: the Underground man tries to assert his independence from the others’ views, but is dependent on the presence of the other to do so . As demonstrated in his complaints about civil servitude, this occurs on a level of language and rhetoric in Part One. When his views are operationalized into interactions with characters (as opposed to readers) in Part Two, the first person narration reveals that his

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attempts to dominate are dependent on, and can easily be undermined by, others’ reactions. The Underground Man commands his conversation with Liza by reminding her of the outline of her character. After realizing that Liza knows about the case of the woman in the coffin, an anecdote he shared and added his own embellishments to, he tells her that she will eventually lose her looks, and follows through the steps she will descend in the “lower establishments” until her death . He negates any interiority that could differentiate her from the template of “slut” . The fact that her name is Liza confirms this morbid reality on an intertextual level -- Karamzin’s Poor Liza marshalled this name into its tragic connotations in Russian literary history. The narrator does this consciously (“I must find the right tone... I shan’t get far by being sentimental with her, I’m afraid.”” , but he depends on her reaction as a motivation of control: “Oh, so she was listening!” .

Closing herself off to absolute impressions, along with her inclination towards ambiguous statements, makes Lise vulnerable to Ivan’s intellectualism that eventually drives her to absurdity. Where the Underground Man projects character onto Liza as a method of control, Lise projects character on herself by referring to herself as a fool on several

occasions . To Alyosha’s “I don’t know how to put this, but those in whom such questions arise are themselves capable of suffering” , she redirects the conversation to the superficial: “Listen, Alyosha, what clothes will you wear when you come out of the monastery, what sort of outfit will it be?” . Lise is enthusiastic about his monologues, and her letter reveals the part of her that wants to indulge in this way of thinking, but she represses it.

Regarding Ivan’s intellectualism, Marina Kostalevsky says: “Within the novel’s development, the physical pain that in Ivan’s theodicy functions as the paradigm of human suffering becomes a concrete indicator of his own suffering: more and more often he complains of a headache, as if pain transforms itself from a subject of a discourse into an objective condition.

The figurative pain of thought becomes bodily pain.” . Ivan’s intellectualism sets up a model for Lise to adopt. Lise’s progression from talking about eating pineapple compôte as she watches a crucified child suffer to slamming her finger in the door shows that she has adopted Ivan’s habits . The pain of thinking which she expresses in ambiguous speech, sidelong glances to her mother, and self-slander is redirected into a blackened finger . The pleasure of painful thinking is made physical. The Underground Man gives a similar explanation:

Besides, my feeling of bitterness, too, is subject to the process of disintegration as a result of these damned laws of consciousness. One look and the object disappears into thin air, your reasons evaporate, there is no guilty man, the injury is no longer an injury but just fate, something in the nature of toothache for which no one can be blamed, and consequently there is only one solution left, namely, knocking your head against the wall as hard as you can.

In other words, the answer to Ivan’s “Euclidian mind” that Lise adopts is absurd pain, or, according to the Underground Man, “knocking your head against the wall as hard as you can”.

The Underground Man’s methods of control through language are magnified once the narrative is transferred from a stream of consciousness to a setting with other characters, while Lise’s ambiguous words and behaviours are brought to light through the reactions of other characters as they are absorbed into polyphony, as illustrated through Mrs. Kokhlakova and motivated by Ivan.

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Lise denies herself an interiority, which enables her to mimic Ivan’s masochistic intellectualism and delight in pain, and the Underground Man denies Liza’s interiority in order to operationalize his own. Both Lise and the Underground Man refute the world they inhabit as a reaction to their impressions of it, which culminates in uninterpretable absurd behavior and power in intimacy.

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Works Cited -Bakhtin, Mikhail. “The Hero’s Monologic Discourse and Narrational Discourse in Dostoevsky’s Short Novels.” Problems of Dostoevsky’s Poetics. Transl. and ed. Caryl -Emerson. Theory and History of Literature 8. Minneapolis: U of Minnesota Press, 1985, pp.227-237.

-Dostoevsky, Fyodor. “Notes from the Underground.” The Best Short Stories of Fyodor Dostoevsky. Trans. David Magarshak. Random House: New York, 2001, pp.

95-213.

-Dostoevsky, Fyodor. “The Brothers Karamazov.” Trans. David McDuff. Penguin Books: London, 1993.

-Kostalevsky, Marina, and Robert Louis Jackson. “Sensual Mind: The Pain and Pleasure of Thinking.” A New Word on The Brothers Karamazov, 2004, pp. 200–209.

Northwestern University Press.

-Mikhail Bakhtin, from “Discourse in Dostoevsky,” in Problems of Dostoevsky’s Poetics, pp. 227-237

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Pnin The Conqueror:Re-Examining Conceptions of Authorial Control in "Pnin"

by Nicholas Howel

Nabokov’s penchant for authorial domination is especially notable in Pnin for its overtness. In most of Nabokov’s works, such as The Luzhin Defense, Lolita, and Invitation to a Beheading, the extent of his control over his characters is limited to the traditional author-character relationship. In these works Nabokov is not inserting himself directly into the text; rather, he is a God-like authorfigure, controlling his characters like puppets. In Pnin, Nabokov makes himself a part of the narrative through his avatar Vladimir Vladimirovich. The parallels include sharing a first name and patronymic, a career in academia, an interest in lepidoptery, as well as both being Russain émigrés. The staging of this Nabokov-like figure makes authorial presence less God-like; Vladimir Vladimirovich is prevented from manipulating Pnin because he is one of Pnin’s peers. As a result, Pnin himself is more independent and confident than Luzhin, Lolita, and Cincinnatus; by the end of the novel he is able to transcend his position of subordination to the narrator.

Pnin’s passive status is, on the surface, comparable with Luzhin, Lolita, and

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Cincinnatus. Like these other characters, Pnin is physically weak. He is bald like a newborn and lacks eyebrows; in chapter 2, he has his teeth removed to make way for dentures. His infantile hairlessness and lack of teeth, similar to that of a baby, imply infirmity. The sophomoric effect of Pnin’s dentures can also be seen in his first interaction with his ex-wife, Liza.

She congratulates him on his “splendid new teeth” which parallels the tradition of congratulating young children on their first adult teeth. Pnin’s struggle to use language makes him look younger and less competent than his American colleagues.

He regularly mispronounces words and names, turning ‘whiskey and soda’ to “viscous and sawdust.” All of these characteristics seem to imply Pnin is immature and naïve, a trait he shares with other Nabokov characters.

All of Luzhin, Lolita, Cincinnatus and Pnin share a childish characterization, though they are not all childish in the same ways. Luzhin and Lolita have a similar child-like temperament, whereas Cincinnatus and Pnin only look like children. Lolita is an actual child; she looks and acts with the simplicity of one. Her story is narrated and therefore controlled by Humbert Humbert, who takes on authorial pretenses in defending his version of story to the audience who he calls: “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,”.

Luzhin is first dominated by Valentinov, who extracts as much chess prestige as he can out of him; and then by his wife, who drags Luzhin as far from chess as possible. Luzhin never has the opportunity to make his own decisions; they are made for him by this string of guardians. Because he was deprived of autonomy throughout his life, Luzhin is simple-minded when it comes to things other than chess, and makes decisions with the willfulness and lack of forethought of a child. He frequently loses personal items, he has slow and stammering speech, he is easily distracted by toys and games, and he has a total lack of knowledge concerning sex. Although there are undoubtedly differences between Lolita and Luzhin, their naïveté makes them easily controlled by domineering figures within the novel, and by their respective narrators.

In contrast, Pnin and Cincinnatus act like adults, despite looking like children. Cincinnatus is “indeed very small for a full grown man.” But he is an erudite thinker, reads extensively, and is talented at chess. Luzhin and Lolita’s childish personalities open them up to domination by individuals, while Cincinnatus and Pnin are dominated by the social order they exist in. Indeed, when they are removed from the collective pressure of a whole society, both experience personal success and fulfillment. For Cincinnatus this means leaving behind his old reality to find “beings akin to him.”. For Pnin this process is simpler: by removing himself from American society and spending time with Russians, Pnin finds friendship with people that are actually his peers.

Cincinnatus and Pnin's outwardly childlike appearance belies their developed faculties. Their experience with domination therefore contrasts with Luzhin and Lolita’s more personal one. Cincinnatus has little agency for most of Invitation to a Beheading, but by the end he successfully escapes subordination, unlike Luzhin and Lolita, who both die attempting to escape outside control.

What sets Pnin apart even from Cincinnatus is that his escape from subordination is both successful, and on his own terms. Cincinnatus is forced into transcendence through suffering

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and rejection by society.

Luzhin, though he takes fate into his own hands by jumping out the window, falls to his death. Lolita’s escape is staged by Claire Quilty and it leads to her premature death in Alaska. Pnin takes fate into his own hands by refusing to work for Vladimir Vladimirovich.

Pnin’s letter to Dr. Hagan at the end of Chapter 6 is a powerful symbol of him claiming his own identity and selfworth; by correcting his own grammar Pnin is showing he has learned the rules that have held him in exile, and he is making them work for him.

Similarly, Pnin learning to drive is another example of him mastering the rules of American society. He uses this skill to better his own life by escaping from VV. Pnin rejects the narrator, and refuses any authorial domination. In the final line of Pnin we see Jack Cockerell begin to incorrectly tell a story about Pnin, however the story is left incomplete, and the reader knows it is incorrect. Pnin has escaped the narrators of his life, leaving the reader with knowledge of himself on his terms.

Pnin is also set apart from other Nabokovian protagonists by his determination to control his life and the positive relationships he forms.

Pnin’s victorious fight against authorial control to define his own narrative, and free himself from his

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second class status as an exile, is not only present in the end of the work.

Even though his idiosyncrasies put him in a disadvantaged position, Pnin challenges his subordination with regular success. That these successes are ignored by the narrator in favor of relating his petty failures is an example of the narrator’s will to dominate Pnin. Chapter 1 provides an example of this editorializing. The chapter focuses on Pnin’s struggles in traveling to Cremona, his getting on the wrong train, and his panic attack in a park in Whitchurch. But in fact Pnin thinks on his feet and resolves his traveling issues successfully. The personal vendetta of the narrator towards Pnin is most obvious at the end of Chapter 1; the narrator states he hates happy endings, that him and people like him “feel cheated” by them.

The narrator specifically wishes that Pnin would arrive and “discover...that his lecture was not this Friday but the next;” however, the narrator does not have the ability to exert his cruel desires. Pnin arrives in time for the dessert course of a dinner preceding the lecture he is scheduled to give.

Pnin also separates himself by having friends and allies; his worth is recognized by many people around him. Victor Wind chooses to associate himself with Pnin over his own family.

Liza Wind’s attempts to dominate Pnin to advantage Victor:

temporarily living with Pnin to make the crossing to America with him, and extracting pocket money for Victor from him are rendered moot by Victor’s earnest appreciation for Pnin.

Pnin takes great pride in an ornate punch bowl Victor gifts him. That this punch bowl is sturdy enough to withstand Pnin dropping a glass into it is symbolic of the new sturdiness of his emotional state. This reading is illuminated by the mirroring of the punchbowl and Pnin’s emotions. Pnin’s inner turmoil reaches a peak when he drops a glass into the bowl and “a film of tears” dims his eyes. When he realizes the bowl is not broken Pnin is able to calm himself and prepare for his imminent firing.

Pnin’s relationships make him more confident, and give him more agency to effect change against the narrator.

Because of their childish characterizations, Pnin, Cincinnatus, Luzhin, and Lolita have obvious similarities. But they all differ in their relationship to authorial control. Pnin especially stands out for rejecting authorial domination; he is successful in pushing back against Nabokov’s avatar VV and escapes from the novel on his own terms, as there is no other way to read his driving off into the sunset, away from a chasing VV. To read Pnin as a dominated victim, without agency to change his position,

would be to discredit him, and to blindly accept VV’s point of view. In Chapter 7 Pnin addresses a crowd of listeners in a Paris cafe and denies VV’s account of events, despite VV claims of an unusually lucid memory. Lolita, Luzhin, and Cincinnatus are never given agency to move or speak against the fate that is written for them. Pnin is aware of the flow of power around him, and of his lesser status, and is proactive in advancing his position. VV describes him as “perhaps too wary, to persistently on the lookout for diabolical pitfalls, too painfully alert lest his erratic surroundings (unpredictable America) inveigle him into some bit of preposterous oversight”. Pnin does not accept that exile to America must ruin him. Even when he is at his lowest, sobbing in the cupboard, “I haf nofing left” Pnin rebounds, and rises to the occasion; he celebrates himself, his friends, and his bi-cultural status. He makes friends with the people around him, and brings them together in his home. He makes himself comfortable in the American society in Waindell, even more so than with his Russian compatriots at the Pines. While at The Pines, Pnin suffers feelings of deep melancholy. Comparatively Pnin is outgoing, personable and jolly during his housewarming party.

The transition from feeling melancholic even among his Russian friends, to

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joviality even among Americans signifies this growth. And in the end, when fate pushes VV back to Pnin, Pnin takes a stand, and removes himself from the narrative. Pnin defies fate, and via fate defies authorial control; Pnin’s actions declare he will not be subordinated any longer.

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Works Cited -Nabokov, Vladimir. Invitation to a Beheading. New York: Vintage International, 1989.

-Nabokov, Vladimir. Lolita. New York: Vintage International, 1997.

-Nabokov, Vladimir. The Luzhin Defense. New York: Vintage International, 1990.

-Nabokov, Vladimir. Pnin. New York: Vintage International, 1989.

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"War and Peace"...and War and Peace... and War and Peace: Repetition in Tolstoy's Longest Work

by Ethan Mendell

The non-fiction essays embedded in the latter half of Leo Tolstoy’s War and Peace champion controversial ideas about free will, fate, history, and genius.

One tactic Tolstoy employs regularly in these essays to convince his readers of his views is repetition: he continuously returns to the same metaphors, events, and historical figures to state – and restate, and restate – his arguments.

But though repetition in the nonfiction of War and Peace may be more overt, the device is by no means absent from the fiction. Such cycles serve the book’s narrative just as much as they do its essays, often to similar ends.

Indeed, repetitions in the fiction of War and Peace not only illustrate the influence of perspective, enrich the work’s characters, and support Tolstoy’s views on free will, but also make the book easier to navigate.

Notably, Tolstoy repeats common scenes but often writes each iteration from a new perspective. By doing so, he explores multiple viewpoints of one root event—thus allowing for a comprehensive exploration of the world he seeks to recreate. Firstly, consider two of Nikolai’s experiences facing the enemy in battle: in the Battle

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of Schöngraben, he meets the French and, panicking, runs for the bushes “with the feeling of a hare escaping from hounds.” By contrast, while facing a Frenchman at Ostrovna seven years later, Nikolai leads the charge and strikes an officer with his saber before taking him prisoner. Though the frameworks of the two events are identical – a Russian and a Frenchman meeting in battle – the hare and hound have been switched; we now see the same event from the viewpoint of the predator. Curiously, Nikolai is equally disturbed by both experiences. After recognizing the humanity of the officer whom he struck, he experiences an “unpleasant feeling which wrung his heart.” Tolstoy illustrates through these paired scenes that both the victor and victim of a conflict can be equally affected by the horrors of their encounter. Similarly, consider Nikolai’s trip to Tilsit to petition for Denisov’s pardon: just as his experience at Ostrovna repeats his experience at Schöngraben from a new point of view, so too does his experience at Ostrovna repeat his experience at Tilsit. Whereas in Tilsit Nikolai watches another soldier receive the Legion of Honour, in Ostrovna he himself receives a

decoration. Interestingly, though, both experiences disillusion Nikolai. By using repetition to illustrate that those who receive rewards can be just as disenthralled by the experience as those who do not, Tolstoy effectively denounces both military decorations and the ideals upon which they are based.

Tolstoy also repeats some of Prince Andrei’s scenes from Pierre’s viewpoint, offering by virtue of their differences a radically changed perspective. For instance, both Andrei and Pierre survey battlefields before historic clashes—namely, the Battle of Schöngraben and the Battle of Borodino. In the same way Prince Andrei’s observations are influenced by his analytical character and military knowledge, Pierre’s observations are influenced by his military naiveté. For example, as Andrei scans the battlefield of Schöngraben, the narrator notes: “the French line was wider than ours, and it was obvious that the French could easily encircle us from both sides.” Conversely, Pierre sees the Battle of Borodino as a smoky panorama “carved from some precious yellow-green stone” under “a piercing light of a pink and golden hue”—a sight so beautiful he freezes in awe. This alternate viewpoint allows readers to see an aestheticized image of battle, one worth recognizing as an element of

war.

To add, Pierre’s revelation in captivity eerily repeats Andrei’s deathbed experience of universal love. Both characters process the same intense feelings of unity and fraternity, but to drastically different results: whereas Pierre’s universal love binds him to life, Prince Andrei’s universal love binds him to death. After Pierre’s transformation, he “felt a new, never yet experienced feeling of the joy and strength of life”; by contrast, Prince Andrei finds that “the more imbued he was with this principle of love, the more he renounced life.” While their opposing reactions to near-identical emotions definitely speak to differences in their health, they also exemplify how perspective immensely affects experience. In this sense, Tolstoy’s repetitions also contribute to War and Peace’s multi-voicedness. By showing characters’ differing responses to similar feelings, and thus chronicling more than one possible lived experience, he better captures the breadth of human behaviour.

War and Peace’s families are also rife with cyclical repetitions. Many characters parallel their relatives as the book progresses, providing the reader with a better and more realistic understanding of the families they are following. Consider Epilogue I, with the

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next generation of Rostovs and Bolkonskys running around Bald Hills just as Volume I’s young Rostovs did in Moscow. Though this moment is perhaps the most striking example of familial repetition, it is not without precedent: Nikolai’s trouble with money repeats his father’s, Petya’s zest for bravery repeats Nikolai’s, Natasha’s final matronliness repeats her mother’s, and Andrei’s coldness towards his son repeats his father’s.

Similarly, Marya “[recognizes] in herself with horror the quality of her father’s irritability” while giving young Nikolai his lessons at Bald Hills.

Through these cycles, Tolstoy fills in the gaps of each character’s life story: by illustrating how older characters matured using their relatives as models for phases of their lives outside the narrative, he enables a sweeping understanding of their progression as individuals. Take the case of Marya’s lessons to Nikolai—the reader can see through her frustrated eyes how the old prince became the volatile teacher she experienced in her youth, allowing for a more empathetic and comprehensive understanding of both characters. Moreover, this relationship works in the reverse: because War and Peace’s characters regularly repeat the traits of their relatives, readers can use information gleaned about older characters to better understand their

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descendants.

In Pierre’s first conversation with Prince Andrei after Natasha and Anatole’s affair, Tolstoy notes that Andrei grins and laughs “coldly, spitefully, unpleasantly, like his father.” Here, Andrei clearly uses frigidity as a tactic to cloak his vulnerability—a strategy learned straight from the old prince. Without knowledge of his father’s behaviour, it would be more difficult for readers to see the cracks in Prince Andrei’s cold façade.

One could concede that common family traits may be less a matter of cycles and repetitions and more a result of Tolstoy ensuring his families are consistent, idiosyncratic, or realistic; however, War and Peace’s character cycles span beyond family trees, suggesting an intentioned use of repetition. For instance, Nikolai replaces Denisov in the Pavlogradsky regiment and treats the young officer Ilyin exactly as Denisov treated him—in other words, as he rises in authority, he embodies the behaviour of his old superiors and views his inferiors as reincarnations of himself. Importantly, these cycles give characters such as Nikolai new and interesting means for introspection and empathy. Seeing Ilyin’s expression when entering battle, Nikolai “knew from his own experience that tormenting state of awaiting fear and death in which the ensign found

himself, and knew that nothing but time would help him.” Moreover, after the attack, Nikolai’s first concern is to remember whether Ilyin is safe— perhaps because his own introduction to battle was so disastrous.

Characters aside, Tolstoy’s repetition of settings, descriptions, and motifs adds punctuation to the dauntingly large book, making it more navigable. Anna Pavolvna’s salon, for example, does more than just open the work—it also paces it. Through the frame of Pavlovna’s many soirees, readers can follow both society drama and political discourse in St. Petersburg during the Napoleonic wars in a digestible fashion.

Due to the repetitive content – an esteemed guest voices a salient idea, some romantic plot gets hatched, the guests discuss some ‘great man’ of the time, the Kuragins act two-faced – each successive return to her salon is easier to follow. As a result, later chapters of the book feel increasingly familiar and more readable, even as the novel charts the challenging new territories of philosophical essays and total war.

Similarly, characters often survey battlefields or parties at the start of noteworthy events, from Prince Andrei at Schöngraben to the Countess at the ball. Beyond just setting the scene, these comprehensive ‘lays of the land’ prepare readers by virtue of their

repetition—each survey signals to them that an upcoming event will be significant and gives them nearly identical tools each time to navigate it.

The same is true for War and Peace’s repeated motifs—they provide a stylistic or emotional common ground for readers to return to whenever they are invoked. To illustrate, consider the motif of characters looking at the sky during times of strife. These repetitive transitions from the personal to the universal, though different in some respects, provide a shared framework with which to understand the character’s emotional journey: Nikolai’s experience at the Danube contextualizes Prince Andrei’s experience at Austerlitz just as Prince Andrei’s experience at Austerlitz contextualizes Pierre’s experience with the comet.

Interestingly, these repetitions not only act as punctuation for the book but also as refrains, lending the text a curious feeling of musicality. With repeated settings and stylistic elements cycling continually for 1215 pages, War and Peace sometimes feels like an infinite canon.

These cycling refrains provide the work with a sense of timelessness that contrasts its linear chronicle of history —as a result, the book feels uniquely both removed from and bound to its period.

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War and Peace’s repetitions also serve Tolstoy’s philosophical views. Many of the book’s characters are unable to break free from repetitive behaviours, strengthening Tolstoy’s arguments against free will. This is especially true for Pierre and Prince Andrei, who cycle through phases of passion and disenchantment throughout the work.

For Pierre, his passions are usually for forces that offer direction in life, from marriage, to the Masons, to the army, and to love; conversely, Andrei’s passions are oriented towards personal heroes and fulfilling forces, such as Napoleon, war itself, Speransky, and love. Humorously, both characters are convinced they have reached their existential panacea every time they find a new obsession; similarly, both return to the same disillusionment when the obsession fails them. Shifts between the two states can be as dramatic as they are immediate: for example, Andrei swears off Speransky after a single dinner party, believing it ridiculous “that he could have expected anything from Speransky and from all his activity connected with Speransky, and that he could have ascribed importance to what Speransky was doing.” Though Prince Andrei and Pierre both believe they are maturing at each junction of passion or disenchantment, in reality their lives cycle through an unchanging see-saw of revelations and regressions. These

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cycling repetitions illustrate that individuals are largely fated to repeat the same behaviours; put differently, it means one’s character and habits are immutable. This contributes to Tolstoy’s views on the struggle between freedom and necessity: he argues that a near-infinite number of forces control our movements—is it not reasonable to consider habits one of those movements? If so, Prince Andrei and Pierre’s inability to overcome their cyclical behaviours exemplifies Tolstoy’s philosophy. If neither man has the free will to truly change, surely some larger (and perhaps genetic) forces are at play. Even Pierre, who arguably did change after his time in captivity, begins slipping back into those same patterns of binding – this time, to Decembrism – at the close of Epilogue I. Nikolai similarly exemplifies this constancy of behaviour, albeit to a lesser extent. When first faced with major crisis at Schöngraben, he reacts with self centered disbelief, thinking, “Can it be they’re running to me? Can it be? And why? To kill me? Me, whom everybody loves so?” Though Nikolai returns to Moscow believing he has grown past the fearful behaviors of his youth, his encounter gambling with Dolokhov proves otherwise. As he racks up unfathomable debts, he returns to the exact same disbelief, thinking, “Can

he really wish for my ruin? ... Did I kill anyone, insult or wish evil to anyone?

Why, then, such a terrible misfortune?

And when did it start?” Just as Pierre and Prince Andrei cannot overcome their repetitive behaviours of passion and disillusionment no matter how much they have supposedly grown, Nikolai cannot overcome his repetitive behaviour of self-involved disbelief no matter how many battles he has seen.

Consequently, his immutability also supports Tolstoy’s argument against free will.

In essence, the repetitions in War and Peace champion Tolstoy’s philosophies, structure the book, enrich the work’s characters, and illustrate the power of perspective. But what makes Tolstoy’s repetitions so interesting is that they bleed into his other works, lending them a comforting sense of unity. To an extent, Pierre’s transcendence in captivity is Vasily’s transcendence in Master and Man, Helene is to Pierre as the wife is to Pozdnyshev in The Kreutzer Sonata, the nationalism of Sevastopol in December is the nationalism that unifies the expressions of Nikolai’s regiment, and Andrei’s depersonalized corpse is the woman’s corpse in Three Deaths is the corpse of Ivan Ilyich. War and Peace may be more a mesh than a novel, yes, but this mesh is not limited to the work’s front and back covers; rather,

the book is just one square of a larger tapestry of Tolstoy’s works. Just as the repetitions within War and Peace make its content so much richer, so too do repetitions between Tolstoy’s many texts: they too give his ideas both emotional common ground and the stylistic currency with which to deliver them. They too lend realism and depth to his characters, from short stories to sweeping novels. They too brace his readers for important scenes. They too turn his writing into a series of rounds and refrains, converting his oeuvre into a polyphonic symphony much like Petya’s (though unfortunately, Tolstoy would likely condemn that same symphony in What Is Art?). The larger mesh of Tolstoy’s works, bolstered by its repetitive content, has a brief appearance in itself: it’s the globe of Pierre’s dream—namely, a shifting mass of near-identical droplets, each vying for more space to reflect God and life with the greatest measure.

Tolstoy’s repetitions and cycles made my experience reading his work that much more fulfilling—through them, I could return over and over to the same root scenes, emotions, and motifs and gain something new each time. Just like Pierre, who, watching the comet of 1812, felt the star “answered fully to what was in his softened and encouraged soul, now blossoming into new life,” I felt Tolstoy’s writing

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answered me with his own peculiar brand of love—a love bursting at the seams of the fabric of life. It’s no wonder he returned to that feeling again, and again, and again, and again...

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Works Cited -Tolstoy, Leo. War and Peace. Translated by Richard Pevear and Larissa Volokhonsky. New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 2008.

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"Schizophrenia, as Expected": Institutional Psychiatry in Soviet Literature

by Michael Frolek-Turner

Through depictions of psychiatric institutions in literature, Soviet authors portray anxieties about the position of dissidents in psychiatry and society, which evolved over time as changes in politics and medicine revolutionized and politicized the understanding of insanity. The most significant elements of this change are the increased use of pharmaceuticals, both as therapeutic tools and a means of control, and shifts in psychiatric theory following the Russian Revolution and development of Stalinism. By examining three works-Ilya Ilf and Evgeny Petrov’s The Golden Calf (1931), Mikhail Bulgakov’s The Master and Margarita (1928-1940, pub.

1967), and Venedikt Erofeev’s Walpurgis Night, or the Steps of the Commander (1985)-- which span the rise and fall of the Soviet Union, representing radically different periods in Soviet history, this paper examines the anxieties about false confinement, an issue which plagued both psychiatrists and dissidents, and ultimately questions the validity of psychiatric diagnoses.

Within The Golden Calf, this essay is primarily concerned with the

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character of the accountant, Berlaga, an employee in “the Hercules” where he encounters the novel’s hero, the ‘Grand Strategist,’ Ostap Bender.

Berlaga, who holds information that Bender wants, is unreachable for part of the novel because of his confinement in an asylum, explained in the chapter entitled ‘Jahrbuch für Psychoanalytik.’ Fearful of being purged due to his former high status, Berlaga has himself committed to an asylum, where he meets three patients–Mikhail Alexandrovich, Duvanov and Starokhovsky– who, like Berlaga, use the asylum to hide from Soviet life. However, the ruses of all four are discovered by the psychiatrist and they are ejected from the asylum.

The Master and Margarita more generally follows the exploits of the Devil and his retinue in the Soviet Moscow of the 1920s and 1930s, a city which refuses to believe in God. The novel features several characters who are, at one point or another, confined to a clinic run by one Doctor Stravinsky. Though most of the committals are a direct result of Satanic meddling, most notably in the case of Ivan Bezdomny, the eponymous

Master commits himself to the asylum after spending a period of time in the gulag for his dissident writing.

In Walpurgis Night, Erofeev’s final work and the intended second play in an unfinished trilogy, the main character Gurevich, a Jewish poet whose biography reflects Erofeev’s own, is committed to the asylum as a result of his alcoholism. Unwilling to submit to the abuses perpetrated by the asylum’s staff, Gurevich uses his former love, Natalie, who works as a nurse, to steal methyl alcohol from the hospital’s supply cupboard and leads the other patients in the ward in a celebration of Walpurgis Night. As the night progresses, the patients die from methyl alcohol poisoning until only Gurevich remains; discovered with the rest of the patients, he is beaten by one of the hospital orderlies as he, too, succumbs to methyl alcohol poisoning.

These three works represent distinct periods of Soviet history; The Golden Calf represents the early Stalinist period, when many of the literary and psychiatric positions of the previous era had yet to be completely abandoned, The Master and Margarita hovers ambiguously in the 1920s and 1930s, by which time Stalinism had sharply asserted itself, and finally Walpurgis Night sits at the very end of the Soviet period.

Before proceeding, it is worth making a brief note about terminology. The institution now referred to as the “psychiatric hospital” has evolved over the years, and is highly subject to cultural differences-- there is no clear word to be used when discussing psychiatric hospitals in the Soviet Union. Many scholars use the more Western asylum, though some prefer psychiatric hospital.

Generally speaking, the the institutions were formally referred to as clinics, a word choice which The Master and Margarita reflects; The Golden Calf chooses the generic term hospital; Walpurgis Night uses a variety of derogatory terms. Due to the ambiguity of the terms clinic and hospital, though correct to the time and place, this paper has chosen to eschew them in favour of asylum, which, though more Western, provides a greater specificity to the institution’s purpose.

The Golden Calf, set at the beginning of the Stalinist period, hints at the extensive system of political psychiatry that evolved under Stalin and later appears in The Master and Margarita and Walpurgis Night. One of the most period-specific indicators is the discussion of psychoanalytic texts between patients Mikhail Alexandrovich and Starokhovsky:

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“You haven’t read Bleuler?” asked Julius Caesar [Mikhail Alexandrovich] with surprise. “But then what did you use to prepare?”

“He probably subscribed to the German magazine Jahrbuch für Psychoanalytik und Psychopathologie.”

Although psychoanalysis remained an important part of the Western psychiatric repertoire well into the 1960s, in the Soviet Union, it had become associated with Trotsky, its only proponent among the Soviet leadership-- Trotsky’s precipitous fall from grace in the mid- 1920s therefore consigned psychoanalysis to an equally doomed fate. Freud’s focus on the individual was also considered to be incompatible with the central role of the collective in Soviet ideology. By 1927, many of the luminaries of the Russian Psychoanalytic Society– among them the psychoanalyst Sabina Spielrein and neurologist Alexander Luria–had quietly withdrawn from the society in the hope of avoiding political and professional censure; by January of 1928, the society disbanded completely. The preference of the men in the asylum for psychoanalytic texts therefore sets them in opposition to the orthodoxy and suggests that they may even be politically dissident.

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The second period-specific aspect is the treatment itself: largely hands-off, this era would be criticized in the next as one of “therapeutic nihilism.” There is little evidence of any sort of therapy taking place within the hospital in The Golden Calf. Instead, in accord with this ‘therapeutic nihilism,’ treatment seems to focus on confinement and palliative care, with some emphasis placed on the patients’ social interactions with each other; as Berlaga observes, patients “in lightblue robes sat on couches, lay in beds, or strolled around a large, well-lit ward.” This focus on social interaction as part of the therapeutic process can be traced back to moral therapy, the primary theory governing institutional psychiatry during the nineteenth century. Based on the premise that mental illness was the result of bad mental patterns, the “cure” involved activities that reinforced traditional gender and class roles through labour–agriculture or carpentry for men, laundry or sewing for women–, religion, and recreation. Impractical and ineffective, this method was abandoned in most asylums in the West beginning in the 1900s.

The failure of this model is reflected in Berlaga’s observation that “the madmen hardly ever spoke to one another.” Nevertheless, many of the therapeutic techniques of moral

treatment were translated by Soviet psychiatrists into “labour therapy,” which was defined in a 1946 psychiatric textbook as …[Making] it possible for the patient to retain and strengthen his faculties and to not lose connection with the external world…The work should have some purpose, the patient should feel the usefulness of his labour, only then is it possible to employ that which is ‘healthy’ in him and to surprise that which is ill.

As with all elements of postrevolutionary life, psychiatry was reshaped in accordance with the writings of Marx and Lenin on consciousness and existence. Specifically, Marx’s argument that “it is not the consciousness of men that determines their existence, but, on the contrary, their social existence that determines their consciousness,” formed an important part of Soviet psychological thought.

Central to the Soviet understanding of insanity was the dichotomy of “spontaneity” and “consciousness.” “Consciousness” was defined within the Soviet context by Katerina Clark as “actions or political activities that are controlled, disciplined, and guided by politically aware bodies;” spontaneity as “actions that are not guided by complete political awareness and are either

sporadic, uncoordinated, even anarchic.” The ultimate goal of the Soviet project was the triumph of “consciousness” over “spontaneity,” and insanity was understood as part of this “spontaneity.”

Following the abandonment of psychoanalysis in the mid-1920s, a more biologically-focused theory of psychiatry began to develop in the Soviet Union, partly a result of Stalin’s “revolution from above,” which required psychiatrists to move away from social conditions as their interference might result in disturbances in industrial progress.

Instead, psychiatrists were encouraged to re-focus on the biological causes of major mental illnesses. This led to the 1936 adoption of the model proposed by German psychiatrist Emil Kraepelin, who argued that diseases should be classified based on patterns of symptoms over time, rather than merely the collection of symptoms at any given time.

Part of this new biological psychiatry involved acceptance of the new somatic, or ‘shock,’ therapies, which made no distinction between mental and physical illness, and were held up both in the Soviet Union and abroad as symbols of a modern, scientific psychiatry in contrast to the previous era. New medications and styles of

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treatment, including insulin coma therapy and metrazol therapy, were tested in the mid-1930’s; however, after the German invasion of the Soviet Union in 1941, both of these therapies were halted in order to divert necessary resources and medical personnel to the war effort. The lobotomy, one of the few somatic therapies to be used regularly in the Soviet Union for the treatment of psychiatric disorders caused by traumatic brain injuries, was only practiced from 1944 to 1950, when it was made illegal.

This move towards a more biological understanding of psychiatry is reflected in The Master and Margarita in two ways. Firstly, the clinic in The Master and Margarita demonstrates a move away from the moral treatmentinfluenced therapies present in The Golden Calf-- instead of socialization therapy, the patients are deliberately separated from each other, and the only reason that Ivan even knows of the existence of the Master and other patients at the clinic is because the Master sneaks into his room at night.

Secondly, the Master and Margarita features the use of medications.

Though most of the injections Ivan receives are sedatives, rather than antipsychotic medications, their presence highlights the reorientation towards biological psychiatry.

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Walpurgis Night is the only of the three texts to mention specific medications-glucose, piracetam, sulfazine, and aminazine--as part of treatment.

Aminazine was one of the earliest antipsychotic medications, and displaced the somatic shock treatments of the 1930s and 1940s. The administration of aminazine in Act III is perhaps the most notable in the play, where Tamarochka’s injection of patients at the hospital is in the background of Gurevich’s encounter with Natalie. Tamarochka’s cruelty with the patients, which consists largely of hurling abuse at them and mocking their response to the medication–“Just why are you hollering like a stuck pig? The person in front of you –I just stuck him– and he couldn’t give a rat’s ass”– contrasts dramatically with Natalie’s interactions with Gurevich, where she attempts to be empathetic, administering a glucose injection in order to help ease the symptoms of his withdrawal. Glucose and piracetam were administered as part treatments for alcoholism, intended to condition the patients to associate alcohol with becoming violently ill, while sulfazine, the drug most frequently mentioned, caused extreme physical pain, elevated body temperature, and was used to punish patients for breaking rules.

The use of sulfazine as a ‘corrector of behaviour’ is highlighted in Walpurgis

Night when, after Borenka gives Gurevich a shot of sulfazine as punishment for refusing to stand up, he tells Gurevich “If you don’t take a turn for the better from the sulfazine tonight, I want you to come see me at supper.”

In the Soviet Union, there was considerable fear of false confinement in an asylum for those who expressed any kind of political dissent. According to Vladimir Bukovsky and Semyon Gluzman, in their 1974 work A Manual on Psychiatry for Dissenters means of ‘re-educating’ him; it hinders the campaign for open legal proceedings and for the release of such people, since even the most impartial man will, if he is not personally acquainted with a patient of this sort, always feel a twinge of uncertainty about his mental health; it deprives its victims of what few rights he would enjoy as a prisoner, and it provides and opportunity to discredit the ideas and actions of dissenters…

In this way, Soviet psychiatrists argued that they could use extremely early symptoms, such as “unsociability,” “stubbornness and inflexibility of convictions,” and “suspiciousness” as symptomatic of future mental illness.

These symptoms were often drawn as

far back as early childhood; among the answers to questions posed by a psychiatrist which Bukovsky and Gluzman provide include “your mother’s pregnancy and your birth were normal,” “you learned to sit up, walk, and talk at the proper times” and “in your childhood you showed an interest in your peers and derived pleasure from contact with them.” The question of false imprisonment therefore becomes tied to whether or not one accepts this model of disease progression and –implicitly– the scientific authority of Soviet psychiatry.

At the same time that the dissidents began to express anxieties about false imprisonment, Soviet psychiatrists were becoming increasingly concerned about two issues, which they termed ‘simulation’ and ‘dissimulation.’

Simulation was defined as the performance of mental illness by healthy people in order to avoid government service or criminal responsibility, while Dissimulation occured when patients who had been diagnosed with a mental illness presented themselves as sane in order to be released from hospital.

Depictions of dissimulations in literature are in many ways problematic, as one questions whether

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a character is indeed mad and is merely dissimulating sanity, or if they are sane and falsely imprisoned.

Patients capable of dissimulating successfully enough to fool their psychiatrists were considered to be afflicted with ‘sluggish’ disease progressions; this built-in scepticism towards any patients who appeared sane made it extremely difficult for patients, once committed to the asylum, to prove that they were healthy. Through the presentation of dissimulation, the reader must question the character’s sanity and the objectivity of the Soviet psychiatric profession.

Though Ivan Bezdomny in The Master and Margarita never fully dissimulates, he exemplifies many of the problems associated with depictions of dissimulation. In many ways, Ivan’s problems stem from his lack of the sort of knowledge displayed by Starokhovsky of The Golden Calf, who tells the hapless Berlaga “Your case history already says that you’re the Viceroy. A madman cannot change his mania like socks.” In his first meeting with Doctor Stravinsky, Ivan establishes himself as highly excitable, with “[s]peech and motor excitation [and] delirious episodes,” and loudly protests his sanity, saying “… I, a healthy man, was seized and dragged

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by force to a madhouse!” As Bukovsky and Gluzman point out in A Manual on Psychiatry for Dissenters–essentially a manual for effective dissimulation–, remaining calm and not having ‘excessively sharp’ reactions to real or perceived injustices is vital in order not to attract the interest of the psychiatrist.

In part because of the case history he establishes for himself, Ivan’s attempts to consciously dissimulate later in the novel are much less successful than they might have otherwise been Ivan began to consider his situation, He had three choices, The first choice was especially tempting: he could lunge at the lamps and the intricate gadgets and smash them all to hell, and thus protect their housing of him for no reason. But the Ivan of today was dramatically different from the Ivan of yesterday, and thus this first choice seemed dubious to him: it might even strengthen their conviction that he was a raving lunatic. And so, Ivan rejected this first choice and considered the second: give an immediate account of the consultant and Pontius Pilate.

However, yesterday’s experience had shown that people either didn’t not believe this story or

they distorted its meaning. And so Ivan decided against the second choice and opted for the third: seek refuge in proud silence.

Combined with his refusal to follow Bukovsky and Gluzman’s suggestion to accept the necessity of “act[ing] immorally towards persons and organisation which profess the morality of savages,” Ivan’s attempts at convincing Stravinsky that he is sane are unsuccessful.

The Golden Calf’s Berlaga can be seen as a textbook example of simulation by attempting to escape a purge through admittance into an asylum: “[Berlaga] was hoping to wait out the dangerous period at this medical institution and return to the Hercules after the storm was over.”

At the asylum in Chernomorsk, Berlaga meets a number of fellow simulators who dispense advice about simulating madness before they are discovered by the doctor and ‘purged’ from the asylum.

The use of the term ‘purged’ to describe Berlaga’s eviction from the asylum explicitly links the psychiatric and the political, implicitly suggesting the former is contaminated by the latter. That the asylum is an extension of the political space is reinforced by

he comment of one of Berlaga’s coworkers, who tells him “since you were already purged from the madhouse, surely you’ll be purged from the Hercules as well,”. This treats the Hercules and the asylum not as two separate spheres of business, or politics, and health, but rather as one continuous space.

In many ways, Berlaga and his fellow simulators represent both a sort of ultimate fear of Soviet psychiatrists of simulators, as well as an ideal triumph.

Simulators were believed to pose significant threat to the psychiatric profession in part because of their increased literacy with psychiatric terms: in a 1983 pamphlet on the problem of simulators, the psychiatrist V.E. Pelipas noted that one of the major problems posed by simulators to the psychiatric profession was that These days lawbreakers under psychiatric examination often manipulate psychiatric terms and concepts with considerable ease; they show an understanding of reactive conditions and schizophrenia, delusional ideas and hallucinations.

The group of simulators Berlaga meets are shown to be highly conversant in psychiatric literature, reflecting anxieties that simulators will become versed in psychiatric parlance,

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allowing them to blend among the real insane.

“Take me, for example,” said Mikhail Alexandrovich, “a subtle act. A dog man. Schizophrenia complicated by bipolar disorder on top of that, Berlaga, depersonalisation. Do you think it was easy to pull off? I studied the literature. Did you read Autistic Thinking by Professor Bleuler?”

The preference of the simulators for psychoanalytic texts brands them as being overly cosmopolitan, as well as ideologically disengaged from the changing trends in Soviet psychiatry.

The simulators’ reliance on psychoanalysis for their simulations affirms the value of Soviet psychiatric practice and asserts the ability of Soviet psychiatrists to uncover simulations informed by the best of western psychological thought.

Professor Titanushkin, the doctor at the clinic, was able to tell at a glance that they were simulators and sent them on their way; “neither Bleuler’s book, nor de-personalization complicated by bipolar disorder, nor Jahrbuch für Psychoanalytik und Psychopathologie were of any help.”

Though Berlaga, Mikhail Alexandrovich, and Duvanov all simply desire to be hospitalised in order to avoid being punished for crimes they

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they have committed, presenting themselves as more or less politically apathetic, the fourth simulator, Starokhovsky, chooses to be hospitalised for ideological reasons. A political dissident rather than merely a criminal, who uses the freedom provided by the confines of the asylum and the trappings of madness to criticise the Soviet system, Starokhovsky chooses to simulate a delusion that he is Julius Caesar because he finds life within the Soviet Union intolerable: “In Soviet Russia, the only place where a normal person can live is an insane asylum.”

Starokhovsky’s position as an implicit dissident makes the decision to release him into society somewhat problematic, as his articulation of obviously anti-Soviet ideas–most notably when he declares to an orderly “Long live the Constitutional Assembly! Everyone to the Forum! Et tu, Brute, sold out to the party apparatchiks!”– presents an obvious picture of the sort of “undesirable behaviour” the Soviet Union most hoped to suppress through psychiatry.

On the surface, the release of Berlaga and the other simulators can be read as a triumph of modern, ideologically pure Soviet psychiatry over the psychoanalytic psychiatry the simulators subscribe to. However,

Starokhovsky’s release can be read more deeply as a failure of Soviet psychiatry as, in its concern over the problem of simulation, Starokhovsky, a man entirely willing to make antiSoviet statements in public to perpetuate the simulation of his madness, is able to appear harmless to the authorities by couching his political beliefs within the terms of his simulation.

In Walpurgis Night, Gurevich’s position is much less clear than any of the patients mentioned above: his confinement can be understood as part of a simulation, in the style of that perpetrated by The Golden Calf’s Starokhovsky, in which Gurevich makes the choice to withdraw himself from the Soviet Union, which he identifies as “our Native Land and disaster;” alternatively, Gurevich’s confinement can be understood as a false imprisonment, motivated by his Jewish intellectual status.

In support of the idea that Gurevich is merely simulating insanity in order to remove himself from society is his discussion at the beginning of the play, with the Doctor and several of the nurses. As Walpurgis Night was written after the publication of A Manual on Psychiatry for Dissidents, a work Erofeev would have almost certainly

been aware of, it is possible to compare the responses suggested by Bukovsky and Gluzman with those provided by Gurevich: not only does Gurevich make little effort to keep himself out of the asylum, he deliberately goes against many of the suggestions made in order to ensure his confinement.

This observation is borne out by Rebecca Reich, who argues that “Gurevich […] takes psychiatric discourse as a readymade script for dramatizing insanity, starkly inverting the theatrical script for sanity that Bukovskii and Gluzman proposed.”

Most notably, Bukovsky and Gluzman emphasize the importance of projecting an image of normalcy in the patient’s interactions with the medical staff, something which Gurevich seems to flout entirely, especially in regards to his familial relationships, where he discusses his relationship with his father through allusions to Byron’s poem “After Swimming the Hellespont.” Also in support of Gurevich’s madness-as-simulation are the several nods Erofeev and his hero give to the most famous of literary simulators, Hamlet. Most obviously, this takes the form of Gurevich’s lapses into what the medical staff refer to as “Shakespearean iambs,” while the play itself is subtitled ‘A Tragicomedy in Five Acts,’ mimicking the structure of

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Hamlet. Parallels could certainly also be drawn between the relationship between Hamlet and Ophelia, and Gurevich and Natalie, most relevantly in terms of how both men manipulate the women they were formerly attached to, simulating madness in order to drive their plots forward.

The most compelling Hamlet parallel is pointed out by Rebecca Reich, who notes the correspondences between the last scenes of the two plays where most of the characters have drunk poison and died, the main character having failed to warn those around him of the danger: “You realize I noticed immediately that what we were guzzling was slightly off.[…] But if you noticed immediately, why didn’t you say something?” Erofeev makes these parallels explicit by referring in the stage directions to the medical staff who come into the ward at the last moment of the play as “Fortinbrases,” referencing the Crown Prince of Norway, who appears at the end of Hamlet to clean up the bodies and assume control of Denmark. However, unlike in Hamlet, where Fortinbras treats the dead Hamlet honourably and suggests a hopeful future for the kingdom, the nurses and orderlies who come in to remove the dead, aside from Natalie, treat the dead with carelessness and disdain, while Borenka, who had tormented the

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patients throughout the play, brutally beats the barely alive Gurevich, presumably to death, as the curtains close. Implicitly, Erofeev rejects the hope for the future which Hamlet suggests.

However, several points also support the idea of Gurevich’s of false imprisonment. Firstly, Gurevich is both Jewish and a member of the intelligentsia, two groups oppressed in the Soviet Union. Gurevich’s Jewish identity is particularly significant, considering that, in every other respect, he can be read as a self-insert for the author, Venedikt Erofeev. It is this Jewishness which initially establishes Gurevich as an outsider, as in his initial interview, the doctor focuses on this, saying “Make a note there. Loves his papa the Jew more than his Russian mama.”

Secondly, the doctor himself almost jokingly references false imprisonment when talking to Gurevich, saying Recently we’ve begun hospitalising even those who, to the casual eye, don’t exhibit a single symptom of psychological disturbance. But we must not forget about these patients’ capacity for involuntary or intentional dissimulation.

The doctor diagnoses on the expectation that people are only feigning health, ultimately making the value of any definition of insanity ultimately meaningless-- instead, all that matters is the doctor’s assumption of dissimulation, used to support preexisting diagnoses and reinforce the political nature of psychiatry by pathologising dissidents.

However, both of these arguments must necessarily be read skeptically; it is also entirely possible that Gurevich, who manipulates the woman he loves to steal alcohol and ends the play dying from methyl alcohol poisoning, is simply an alcoholic.

Though in each of the three works the level of control over the physical freedoms of the patients is different, within the asylum, a closed community where most of the people are confined involuntarily, there is necessarily a loss of freedom of movement. However, due to the limitations placed on an individual’s ability to move freely, these books question the value of physical freedom within a country where it is so limited.

The Master in The Master and Margarita sees the confines of the hospital as preferable to life in Soviet

society and seems unwilling to leave; this may be due to the limits imposed on his novel, as well as his relationship with the married Margarita. However, he is also disillusioned with the present lack of freedoms, saying I wanted to travel around the globe. Well, it turned out that wasn’t meant to be. I can see only an insignificant little piece of it. I don’t think it’s the best piece of it either, but, as I said, it’s not so bad.

Implicitly, the Master seems to argue that the only acceptable alternative to absolute freedom is the kind of complete confinement.

However, unlike Gurevich in Walpurgis Night, the Master committed himself voluntarily to the asylum. In part, perhaps, this can be seen as a decision to flee the covert surveillance of the Stalinist era, which someone like the Master would surely be subject to, in exchange for overt surveillance of the asylum. However, the Master has more freedom than that which is prescribed to him by the asylum: he steals the keys of the nurse “which allows [him] to go out on the balcony [...] and thus visit a neighbour on occasion,” suggesting that, though the Master presents himself as not needing the outside world, he requires more freedom than that which is provided to him.

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Unlike in The Master and Margarita, which implicitly asks the Master to choose between confinement and socalled freedom, The Golden Calf offers most of the simulators a more practical selection.

Berlaga, Mikhail Alexandrovich, and Duvanov, as criminals, choose committal to an asylum over imprisonment; however, Starokhovsky chooses confinement for ideological reasons, as mentioned above; I cannot live with the Bolsheviks, no sir! I’d rather live here, among the common lunatics. At least they aren’t building socialism. Plus, here they feed you, while out there, in bedlam, you need to work.

The link between psychiatry and dissent forms a central part of the Soviet narratives set in asylums. The exact nature of this link changes over time, as both the medical theory and the ideology underpinning it shift, and the ambiguity created by this link implicitly questions the validity of the patients in the asylum, while the presence of political dissent suggests the possibility of false imprisonment and argue against psychiatric validity.

However, the frequent attempts at simulation and dissimulation, as well as the obvious problems of many of the characters (most notably Gurevich’s drinking), suggest that the diagnoses

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are not entirely worthless or politically motivated. Freedom is instead provided within the asylum, which, unlike the oppressive state that it serves, is willing to allow the patients intellectual freedom to express their opinions, so long as it is done in the context of their insanity. Though all three texts seem to position the asylum as a haven from the misery of day-today life under Soviet rule, it is not a sustainable haven; at the end, Berlaga, the Master, and Gurevich must leave the asylum.

Works Cited -Brintlinger, Angela. “The Hero in the Madhouse: The Post-Soviet Novel Confronts the Soviet Past.” Slavic Review, Vol. 63, No. 1 (Spring 2004): pp. 43-65.

-Bukovsky, Vladimir and Semyon Gluzman. “A Manual on Psychiatry for Dissenters” Russia’s Political Hospitals: The Abuse of Psychiatry in the Soviet Union. Edited by Sidney Bloch and Peter Reddaway. London: Victor Gollancz, 1977. pp. 419-440.

-Bulgakov, Mikhail. The Master and Margarita. Translated by Diana Burgin and Katherine Tiernan O’Connor. New York: Vintage, 1995.

-Clark, Katerina. The Soviet Novel: History as Ritual. Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1981 de Sherbinin, Julie W. “‘Haunting the Centre’: Russia’s Madwomen and Zinaida Gippius’s ‘Madwoman’.” The Slavic and East European Journal, Vol. 46, No. 4 (Winter 2000): pp. 727-742.

-Erofeev, Venedikt. Walpurgis Night or the Steps of the Commander: A Tragicomedy in Five Acts. Translated by Marian Schwartz. Introduction by Marian Schwartz. New Haven: Yale University Press, 2014.

-Garshin, Vsevolod. A Red Flower. Translator not mentioned. Philadelphia: Brown Brothers, 1911.

-Grob, Gerald N. Mental Illness and American Society, 1875-1940. Princeton, New Jersey: Princeton University Press, 1983.

-Ilf, Ilya and Evgeny Petrov. The Golden Calf. Translated by Konstantin Gurevich and Helen Anderson. Rochester, New York: Open Letter/University of Rochester Press, 2009.

-Kravchenko, Elena. The Prose of Sasha Sokolov: Reflections on/of the Real.

London: Modern Humanities Research Association, 2013.

-McGovern, Constance M. Masters of Madness: Social Origins of the American Psychiatric Profession. Hanover, New Hampshire: Published for University of Vermont by University Press of New England, 1985.

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-Reich, Rebecca. State of Madness: Psychiatry, Literature, and Dissent After Stalin.

Dekalb: Northern Illinois University Press, 2018.

-Reilly, Cate I. “Diagnosis and Revelation in Vsevolod Garshin's ‘The Red Flower’ and Anton Chekhov's ‘An Attack of Nerves.’” Literature and Medicine, Vol. 31, No. 2 (Fall 2013): 277-302.

-“Report of the U.S. Delegation to Assess Recent Changes in Soviet Psychiatry.”

Schizophrenia Bulletin, Vol. 15, No. 4 (1989): 1-79.

-Rice, James L. Freud’s Russia: National Identity in the Evolution of Psychoanalysis.

London: Routledge, 1993.

-Sukhanova, Ekaterina. “St Petersburg and Mental Health: A Literary Viewpoint.”

International Journal of Mental Health, Vol. 28, No. 4 (Winter 1999-2000): pp. 8590.

-Turgenev, Ivan. “Hamlet and Don Quixote,” The Essential Turgenev. Edited by Elizabeth Cheresh Allen. Evanston, Illinois: Northwestern University Press, 1994.

-Zajicek, Benjamin. “Banning the Soviet Lobotomy: Psychiatry, Ethics, and Professional Politics during Stalinism.” Bulletin of the History of Medicine, Vol. 91, No. 1 (Spring 2017): pp. 33-61.

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Time to Leave

by Angello Alcázar The man and woman had remained seated on the bench in front of the ticket office. From there they could glimpse the expressions of anguish that were drawn on the faces of newcomers. I have already explained to you what has happened. For now, there is nothing to do but wait... Please, show a bit of mercy… The company representatives must have been telling them something like that. From time to time, the noise of the locomotives, the bells and the metallic passage of the wagons along the rails came to them...

It seemed that these sounds wanted to remind them that sooner or later they would depart, that the wait would not be as long as they thought. And yet, some of the closer travelers threw accusatory glances at them, as if the delay in their travels was their fault.

“You were next to him, weren’t you?” she asked him, breaking the silence that, in her opinion, had lasted way too long.

He nodded.

The cops had asked the usual questions. How old do you think he was? Did you notice if there was anyone with him? Was there anything that caught your attention? Something

out of place? Would you say that he had planned it or that the idea came to him at the moment? He had declared.

She had not. For some mysterious reason the police had discarded her testimony. But he could remember perfectly seeing her on the platform: a lady in her fifties, slender, wearing bifocals, leather gloves and a high-top hat, who seemed to have come out of a Seurat painting whose name he had forgotten. “What a quirky woman,” his mother would have said.

“And how do you feel?”

Nobody had asked him that question for such a long time. He hesitated for a moment (it looked as if he was afraid to say something stupid), until he finally replied: “I don’t know... Strange... I guess I haven’t been able to take in everything that has happened yet ... And you?”

“Me neither. I suppose we should cry, don’t you think? But you know, no matter how hard I try, I can’t. It is as if...” She stopped to look at the window that overlooked the street. The rain was pouring and the trees swayed with the wind. “No… I don’t know.”

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The edge of the platform is covered in blood. Underneath, the rails have also been dyed red, and, a bit further, with some effort, one can see the body of that miserable man who could not think of a better day to die crushed by a train. There are the legs and the arms, shattered; the face, disfigured; the shirt, the jacket, the trousers, frayed by the iron. The crowds have started to congregate at the entrance of the station. For God’s sake, someone tell the ambulance there’s nothing left to do!

“But you didn’t see his hair,” she said.

“His hair?”

“Yes. Didn’t you see how beautifully it shone in the dark? He must have taken good care of it.”

Indeed, now that he came to think of it, he had noticed the man had white hair; but the last thing he could think of looking at when he approached the train was his hair (let alone how wellkept it was). She had a very peculiar way of looking at things, this woman.

She was of the sort who cared about the little details. She was, beyond doubt, what one could call a weird, difficult-to-decipher kind of person.

But apart from intriguing him, the fact that she was such an oddity fascinated him… After all, he also felt that way, now that he had seen what he had seen.

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At first, they kept talking about the man. What was his name? Where did he come from? Did he have a wife, a husband, children, grandchildren?

What would have pushed him to do such a horrible thing? However, as the conversation progressed, a sensation of exaltation that until now was unknown to him started to take control of his soul… It was as if witnessing that death had suddenly instilled in him a desire to live, to cling to the here and now, not to leave. They talked with such intensity that they lost all notion of time and space. They talked about life, how beautiful and tragic it could be at the same time, and about the handful of men and women who decide to put an end to it. How could all of these people at the station go on with their lives, as if nothing had happened? Didn’t they realize how lucky they were to be alive? The two of them listened to each other, exchanged glances, and paid attention to the vibrations, the sighs and the heartbeats that emanated from their bodies. And in the black, liquid eyes of that woman he could see the reflection of a formidable future for him, a future in which nothing could ever go wrong.

He did not know why, but he suddenly felt that they should never move apart from each other, that his new life would not be worth it if that strange woman was not part of it…

“Blimey,” she said, looking at her watch. “It seems that now it is time to leave.”

He offered to carry her luggage.

She said no, it was fine, they surely would have a chance to continue their conversation. He said of course, they would, and he stayed on the bench, watching her getting lost in the mass of people, still thinking about the marvelous gift that life was… until, out of nowhere, a voice announced that his train was also about to leave.

Only then did he realize that he had not asked her what her destination was. Not even her name.

Commentary/Analysis In the story “Time to Leave,” it is possible to identify many distinctive features of Chekhov’s poetics that are imprinted both on its content and form. The story revolves around a casual encounter between a young man and a woman in her fifties who have both witnessed the suicide of an unknown white-haired man who is crushed by a train. The setting is an unspecified train station and the time period is contemporary. The narrative opens in media res, in the aftermath of the suicide, and presents the reader with a conversation between the two protagonists, as well as a couple of

flashbacks that give further insight into the tragic event. The choice of characters aligns with Chekhov’s preference for marginalized figures who are on the fringes of society . Both the boy and the lady are characterized as outcasts. Notably, her description is indicative of an eccentric, almost anachronistic figure: “it seemed that she had come out of a Seurat painting whose name he had forgotten . What a quirky woman, his mother would have said.” And yet, it is precisely by virtue of her bizarre attributes that he can identify with her: “After all, he also felt that way [like an oddity], now that he had seen what he had seen.” Neither the man nor the lady can be described as ‘flat’ characters, and the subject matter of the story lends itself to underscore the epic reality that hides beyond “the banal surface of life”

The most salient themes explored include mortality, survival and what Donald Rayfield calls “conservation”— that is, the idea that “human suffering is a wastage of resources” . The suicide of the man serves as a catalyst for the character’s dialogue on life and death (as vague as it may be), the man’s ensuing fixation on survival, and the references to human suffering (in this case, the pain one man inflicts upon himself). Another theme that is central to the narrative—and that is seldom

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absent in Chekhov’s works of fiction is that of (mis)communication.

Throughout the story, the characters struggle to convey what it is they feel to each other. The repetition of the phrase “I don’t know” is indicative of their perplexity. The inability to express strong feelings is particularly observable when the man tries to tell the lady how much he wants her, but the words get stuck in his throat.

Nonetheless, the bonding that develops between the protagonists attests to the fundamental idea that “the commitment of one human being to another is one way in which the Chekhovian character can break out of his isolation and get round the uselessness of words for communication” (emphasis added).

While they might not succeed in fully communicating what they feel to each other, the shared experience of witnessing a man’s suicide gives rise to a unique connection between them that transcends the boundaries of the verbal.

Furthermore, as occurs in the vast majority of Chekhovian stories, details are key (and definitely not incidental).

For instance, the sounds made by the trains in the opening paragraph are evocative of a sense of motion, and thus serve as a reminder that eventually we will all have to leave,

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whether we like it or not. Further on, there is an example of alliteration that emphasizes the repetitive and overused quality of the preceding questions: “as the conversation progressed, a sensation of exaltation that until now was unknown to him started to take control of his soul” (my italics). Moreover, it is particularly significant that the paragraph in which the narrator describes the suicide is written either in the present tense or the present perfect (unlike the rest of the story, which is told from a retrospective perspective). The fact that the reader is told that “the edge of the platform is covered in blood”, that “one can see the body” and that “the crowds have started to congregate” endows the scene with a freshness and a vividness that is reminiscent of stories such as “Vanka” (1886).

The inherent ambiguity of the story correlates with the hero’s need to make sense of the world in which he lives . In this sense, it is possible to identify the influence of Hemingway’s “theory of the iceberg” insofar as a considerable part of the contextual information is hidden from the reader. The ambiguous nature of the story goes hand in hand with the unity of impression and the laconicism that characterize Chekhovian stories (and constitute two major conventions of the genre).

The fact that all of the characters are nameless underscores the idea that, given the right circumstances, they could be anyone: we could all be in a train station, witness a suicide, and then meet a stranger who could change our life, or at least our perception of it.

The motif of seeing/not seeing, which is recurrent in the plot, also contributes to the atmosphere of secrecy that permeates the story.

Indeed, there are no messages, teachings nor attempts “to exhaust an issue which could lead to a dogmatically conclusive result” . The fact that multiple questions are formulated throughout the text accentuates the lack of answers that pervades the narrative, and thus highlights the complexity of the human condition. Similarly, the ending accords with Chudakov’s contention that “destinies are not finalized” in Chekhov’s stories. There is no sense of resolution—the reader does not know what he will do next, whether he will meet again with the lady—, and it seems that, after all, the protagonist’s life has not changed as much as the narrator has suggested.

Having witnessed a suicide in a train station myself, which later became the inspiration for this story, I believed representing it as an insignificant, uneventful occurrence would have had a negative impact not only on the verisimilitude of the story, but also on the overall “feeling” (not message) I wanted to communicate with it: namely, the consciousness that life is transitory; that, in the end, we will all have to leave, sometimes when we least expect it. And yet, I still believe readers should always adhere to the famous quote by D.H. Lawrence: “Never trust the teller, trust the tale” .

Perhaps a point of divergence with Chekhov’s stories is the portrayal of the suicide. According to Chudakov’s reading on Chekhov’s poetics, “decisive episodes are presented as insignificant” .

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Works Cited -Chudakov, A.P. Chekhov’s Poetics. Translated by Edwina Jannie Cruise and Donald Dragt. Ann Arbor, Michigan: Ardis, 1983.

-“Randomness: Chekhov’s Incidental Detail.” In Chekhov’s Selected Stories, edited

by Cathy Popkin, 550-562. New York: W.W. Norton & Company, Inc., 2014.

-Jackson, Robert Louis. “Part and Whole: The Ethics of Connection.” In Chekhov’s Selected Stories, edited by Cathy Popkin, 562-565. New York: W.W. Norton & Company, Inc., 2014.

-Kataev, Vladimir. “Questions without Answers: Making Sense of the World.” In Chekhov’s Selected Stories, edited by Cathy Popkin, 565-576. New York: W.W. Norton & Company, Inc., 2014.

-Lawrence, D.H. Studies in Classic American Literature. New York: Thomas Seltzer, 1923. eBook. Project Gutenberg, 2019. Accessed December 8, 2019. http://www.gutenberg.org/files/60547/60547-h/60547h.htm#I_THE_SPIRIT_OF_PLACE -Rayfield, Donald. Understanding Chekhov. A Critical Study of Chekhov’s Prose and Drama. Madison, Wisconsin: The University of Wisconsin Press, 1999.

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Hunger

by Abbie Arnold At a quarter to eight, Kennedy rolled across her bed and lifted her eyes to the sun stretching across her covers.

After a series of attempts to sit up, all resulting in flops or groans, she finally shoved her feet out of the covers.

Her second class left her hazy, the lecturer’s voice droning out as hunger finally breached her focus. Back in her apartment, two apples remained on her fridge shelf. As she pulled one out, the other rolled onto the floor, knocking her counter stool as it went.

After washing them both, and placing one back in the fridge, she sliced an uneven piece of bread and spread it with peanut butter. She shuffled through a music playlist, skipping song after song. Peanut butter clung to her throat as she swallowed a bite of bread, but the apples helped wash it down.

Each bite filled her just enough to be neither completely full nor completely hungry.

As she carried on with her work the peanut butter remained churning in her stomach; she felt it shifting and sifting through her. It clung to everything she had hidden away— all she had to do, all the hours she had to remain awake, the ache of waking in t

he morning, those people and that bruise she kept hitting on her chair.

By the time she was leaving the grocery store the moon had already begun its upward climb. Midwinter blue spread across the sky, quiet in anticipation of snow.

Approaching a stoplight, she paused for a moment with her face to the wind.

She stood, waiting for the cold to break through her bundled layers; scarf upon sweater upon shirt upon undershirt— it was too much. Boots stomping against the gravel echoed around her.

Car after car hastened through the light, mindlessly spraying snow that had melted to slush.

Finally the light switched, she stretched her legs into a lunge around a mound of snow. As she hopped forward a headphone fell out. Without adjusting it, she hurried forward to pass a clump of school kids. At the next light she turned right, opting for a longer, less populated route. Here, she could listen for the crunch of her heels into the compacted snow.

On this route, she walked through neighborhoods with gardens frosted from the last snow. Fences displayed

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bikes encased by ice for the winter.

Barren trees called her attention upward, away from her heavy feet and aching stomach. Her hands, though stiff from the temperature, were not yet unbearable in the cold. Kennedy turned her head into the wind and stayed; she let her body be encircled, let her mind be chilled by the night. In that moment, she could walk to the nearest main bus station, pull out the two twenties she kept in her wallet, and take one of three buses. In less than an hour she could be headed in any opposite direction from Montreal: Toronto, New York, or anywhere north.

She touched her fingers to her cheeks, finally feeling the sharpness of the cold. Checking her phone for the time, she saw a message.

She sent her eyes to the sky one last time and breathed in, her chest expanding against her jacket, then turned toward home on shaking legs.

By the time she arrived, the scents coming from her door promised a fulfilling meal. A few friends already sat around their couch with plates; Kennedy walked to the kitchen and took in the scene. Her vision blurred as she scanned the counter deliberating on what to take. A hand pulled her toward a warm hug.

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“You made it! Take as much as you’d like. There’s biscuits about to come out too.”

“I can’t believe you made all this. The smell is about to make me faint, it’s so good.”

“Take a plate, I’m going to get some too.”

She paused over the counter, reaching first for the salad, then wavering to the pasta and back. It seemed there was so much to take in; salad, meat, pasta, biscuits. Laughter thundered from the other room, she stood frozen again for a moment. Their voices echoed in the kitchen, pounding the room with bursts of laughter, each one loud but inviting. She scooped a decent serving of each item, then sat alongside friends. Their voices sprang all around her; Kennedy found herself surrendering to the sounds of life.

Most days were a disorienting spin of thinking, sensing, wondering; but tonight there was something else.

Kennedy just let herself be. She let herself laugh, and when she remembered about the next day and those that would follow, she would close her eyes a moment and wait for the laughter to come again.

Analysis Through his short stories Chekhov developed a new approach to storytelling. Contemporary readers were concerned not only by the purposeless events, but also by the lack of authorial stance on social issues. His laconic writing style brought out the utility of external details that link to a character’s internal world. With a focus on the individual and an openness to complexity, Chekhov’s stories refrain from generalizing morals to a broad public. Furthermore, his method produces endings that accept the cyclical nature of time and humanity, in that there is no final resolution. In my short story, I tried to incorporate a few key Chekhovian aspects such as the type of event, detail, and ending.

One way this story follows in the tradition of Chekhov is through the type of event that occurs. Popkin examines four “strategies of eventfulness” used by Chekhov in her chapter “The Myth of Eventlessness .” I framed my story around the first strategy she lists, “maximizing the minimum.” “Hunger” primarily follows the strategy due to the general subject matter, the routine of hunger and eating. However, it more narrowly concentrates on the strategy by following the tension that surrounds eating for the character. Obviously,

everyone experiences hunger and everyone has a drive to eat throughout the day. This story presents a more individual experience of when hunger is not such a pure instinct, when states of anxiety or other mental issues inhibit what is supposed to come naturally. In this way of maximizing what is for most people a rather minimal choice, the story presents a perspective that is meaningful due to the specific character’s experience.

Another way “Hunger” follows the Chekhovian short story is through the type of detail. Chudakov explores the “incidental” details readers notice throughout Chekhov’s stories . Rather than only using details to develop characters or plot, Chekhov deviates from tradition and contributes details that focus on both the essential and the incidental. Alone, the details may seem random, but collectively Chekhov’s new type of details serve to “create a composite impression of a randomly selected, integral world,” . This collection of details then further serves the individual perspectives portrayed

by Chekhov. While the details are not directly relevant to the story’s broader themes, they are purposeful in their correlation to the specific character.

This type of detail impacted the elements I chose to incorporate. For example, while it was relevant to the

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story that Kennedy only took an apple and piece of bread as a way to partially fill her stomach, it was not necessary to know she washed the apple that fell before putting it away. However, the action of the apple falling and being replaced in the fridge emphasizes the fact that she consciously limited what she put in her body to one apple. It is insight into her state of mind; cleaning is typically a method of organizing a physical state, making it more acceptable. Despite a lack of control and active presence in her daily life, she takes time to clean both apples as a semblance of order and control.

In addition, I organized the story in general around the routine nature of eating. For instance, first thing in the morning, people typically have breakfast, yet the story skips from Kennedy waking up frustrated to halfway through the day when she can no longer disregard her feelings of hunger. Then, she goes grocery shopping and is invited to dinner. I tried to further emphasize the cyclical nature of the issue and the haziness she felt through other elements cycling past, creating a blur around her: cars tossing snow, and a bundle of kids she passes. The winter environment itself involves ongoing snowfall, whether fresh and clean, melting and a nuisance, or packed down and icy.

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As far as the ending is concerned, I aimed to leave it open, per Chekhovian tradition. Chudakov writes that the unifying factor of Chekhov’s events is that they change nothing . While for one night Kennedy allows herself to live outside her thoughts, to be full and appreciate her friends, in the morning or even later that night she will fall back into a cycle of distress, as hunger and any thoughts she harbours will inevitably return. This does not counteract the value of the one night for her. Chekhov’s contribution to the short story genre extends beyond any list of elements. He established a landscape of writing in which pain is legitimate, yet temporary and joy is fleeting, yet necessary. Chekhov’s balance between brevity and sincerity, realism and emotion, drew me to each of his stories the same way I hope to engage readers of my own work.

Through his unique approach, he has inspired many readers and writers alike.

Works Cited -Bitsilli, Peter M. “Chekhov’s Laconicism: Nothing Superfluous.” In Anton Chekhov’s Selected Stories, edited by Cathy Popkin. W. W. Norton & Company, 2014.

-Chudakov, Alexander. “Randomness: Chekhov’s Incidental Detail.” In Anton Chekhov’s Selected Stories, edited by Cathy Popkin. W. W. Norton & Company, 2014.

-Popkin, Cathy. “The Myth of Eventlessness.” In The Pragmatics of Insignificance. Stanford UP, 1993.

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Editor's Compendium

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The Domostroi: Medieval Russian Society and the Power of the Tsar

by Sarah Sturken “If a man does not himself follow the recommendations in this document...he will be destroyed now and forever.” (1) In 1833, the Minister of Public Education S.S. Uvarov consolidated the principles of Tsar Nicholas I’s regime into ‘Official Nationality’ under “the joint spirit of Orthodoxy, Autocracy, and Nationality.” (2) The tenets of Orthodoxy and Nationality had been thoroughly engrained into Russia for centuries; Uvarov describes autocracy as “[constituting] the chief condition of the political existence of Russia... Russia lives and is preserved by the spirit of...autocracy.” (3) The history of Russia is largely one of autocratic rule by the tsars, Soviet officials, and, some might say, Vladimir Putin in the present day. What caused this legacy of autocracy? Different facets of Russian society were instrumental in the relationship between the ruler and the people. The Domostroi, a sixteenthcentury collection of household rules, instructions, and advice, was a fundamental text in religious, domestic, and social matters in Russian society from its conception to the time of Peter

I the Great, though it remained influential until the fall of the Russian Empire in 1917. Examination of the Domostroi can explain the social conditions that strengthened Russian autocracy through the hegemony of the Russian Orthodox Church, the patriarchal institution of the family, and societal stratification.

The Domostroi (Russian: Домострой, or “house order”) can be traced back to the late Middle Ages; established estimates date its conception anywhere from 1475 to 1575, and it most likely appeared in the 1550’s (5). Its publication references a larger European trend of ‘manuals of 4 conduct’ produced between the fourteenth and seventeenth centuries—notable examples include Le Ménagier de Paris, written by an elderly Parisian merchant for his young wife, and Baldassare Castiglione’s The Courtier—though the Domostroi surpasses them in both breadth and length. Though it is commonly referenced as a single, set collection of codes of conduct, several editions of the manuscript were published in different lengths with slight variation, including seasonal

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recipes and epistles demonstrating the implementation of the principles enclosed, from the sixteenth to the eighteenth centuries. Forty-three copies of the manuscripts, which predate the popular establishment of printing presses in Russia, survive to this day (6).

Most scholars agree that Sil’vestr, a Novogorodian priest who traveled to Moscow in the 1540’s and later became an archpriest at the Cathedral of the Intercession (St. Basil’s Cathedral) during the reign of Tsar Ivan IV the Terrible, was the likely architect of the Domostroi, having conceived of or compiled the text himself. The included epistles, written “from a Father to a Son,” contain the names of Sil’vestr and his son Anfim and largely reprise the organization of the manuscript itself (7). Although multiple editions of the Domostroi exist, the main text is, for the most part, analogous. The basic content of the manuscript is divided into sixty-three chapters, ranging from a paragraph each to ten or more pages in length, and five general topics: religious (Russian Orthodox) practices, familial organization, domestic relations and practical household management, and the relationship between the people and the Tsar.

The period surrounding the publication

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of the Domostroi was marked by prosperity and stability as Muscovy expanded and consolidated its government, established its rule over other Russian principalities, and began to the process of reintegration into European politics. Having recently thrown off the Mongol Khans after a successful alliance headed by the grand duke of Moscow in 1480, Medieval Russia was still recovering from the effects of two centuries of Mongol rule.

Most notably, Russian economic and political development had suffered from heavy taxation, frequent punitive expeditions, and the withering of early democratic attempts of government under the “Tatar Yoke.” (8) As a result, the urban growth, development of merchant guilds, and the “rising middle class” prevalent in Western Europe was lost in Medieval Russia (9).

Similarly, after the severance of contact with the West, cultural and religious development akin to the rest of Europe was stymied; unlike the Roman Catholic Renaissance or Reformation, the Russian Orthodox Church never underwent any major reform and thus many of the religious rites described in the Domostroi retain a strict form by then diminishing in popularity in the West.

The government of Medieval Russia, particularly in Muscovy, was also

heavily influenced by the Mongol dominance. While the grand princes of Moscow had previously drawn from Byzantine-style rule, “a republican absolute monarchy” where a multitude of officials played a role in governance, the authoritarianism of the Mongol Khanates instilled a severity that would later become routine in Russian autocracy, especially under such leaders as Ivan IV the Terrible, Peter I the Great, and even into Soviet times under Joseph Stalin (10).

Furthermore, the Mongol invasion also resulted in national strength and unity as the utmost priority of Medieval Russia, as divisions amongst the principalities had left them open to foreign conquest. Emphasis was placed on a shared religion, Russian Orthodoxy, and shared allegiance to the grand prince, and later the tsar, of Moscow. Similar to the Byzantine model of the emperor as both a spiritual and temporal ruler, the Muscovite tsar was both leader of Russia and the head of the Russian Orthodox Church. Due to the intersection of faith and authority, Russian Orthodoxy remained an essential component of the Russian Empire until its fall in 1917 to the Bolsheviks (11). As such, the heavy emphasis placed on Orthodox

prayer, rites, and rituals in the Domostroi is both representative of the Christian focus on internal faith and cooperation with the official state religion.

Orthodoxy is established early on as a primary focal point of the Domostroi.

The Medieval Russian “must believe in the Holy Trinity, the Immaculate Mother of God, Christ’s cross, and the heavenly powers and must make obeisance to holy relics and all other holy objects.

(12)” Religious instruction is one of the core tenets of the text—nearly every chapter contains multiple Bible verses, and most of the information about how to conduct one’s life is itself of Biblical origin. Proverbs, Titus, and Ecclesiasticus are three of the most common books of Biblical reference, particularly in matters regarding marriage and the rearing of children.

The importance of religion in Medieval Russia is heavily imposed on the reader—of the first thirteen chapters, twelve are dedicated to proper religious conduct; the remaining chapter is on honoring the “Tsars and Princes.”

“Every Christian,” the first chapter begins, “must know how to live according to God inthe Orthodox Christian faith.” (13) The emphasis

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on Orthodox Christianity is an important feature of historical Muscovy, as religious belief became associated with both national unity and obedience towards the tsar.

Kievan Rus’, considered to be the cultural center of early Medieval Russia, was famously Christianized in 988 CE by legendary prince Vladimir I, whose conversion was recorded in the Primary Chronicle. One of the first— and very few—accounts of the development of the Russian state from antiquity through the eleventh century, the Primary Chronicle is traditionally ascribed to the Kievan monk and Russian Orthodox Saint Nestor the Chronicler. Early and modern scholars agree on the importance of Vladimir’s choice of Byzantine Orthodoxy over the “Bulgars of Mohammedan faith, German as emissaries of the Pope, [and] the Jewish Khazars,” as religion would also heavily influence the orientation and cultural development of the nation (14).

“For medieval Russians,” Robin Milner-Gulland writes in his book The Russians, “their conversion to Christianity was the central event of their state’s history.” (15) Along with the institution of an official religion, the conversion of Rus’ to Orthodox Christianity brought literacy with the introduction of Old Slavonic, changes in the language, customary law, art,

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architecture, music, and politics.

Along with required professions of faith, the Domostroi contains practical instructions regarding religious matters.

“You should always visit God’s churches faithfully,” chapter instructs, “bringing an offering, a candle...and alms;”detailed advice on how to conduct oneself inside the church follows, including exact advice on how to stand, “pray firmly,” and the “Proper Way to Make the Sign of the Cross and Obeisance."(16) Some of the information given, including giving to the poor and obeisance to the elderly and religious, is relatively standard Christian theological practice and not specific to the text.

The religious instructions given also inform on Orthodox practices of the time: “water is blessed on January 6 and August 1, always with the life-giving cross...singing the troparion.” (17) The differences in standards for those of differing social strata is also reflected in the severity of religious requirements.

While those of the upper classes are expected to “pray the vespers every day,” if their servants “go [make confession] more often than once a year, they will receive a [great] reward from God.” (18) Closely linked with Orthodoxy, the institution of the family and domestic

concerns are one of the central subjectsof instruction. Following the opening chapters, the Domostroi shifts to “a treatise on domestic management, how to instruct your wife and children and [slaves]...and how to keep order in the household.” (19) With subjects ranging from “How to Teach Children and Save Them With Fear” to “How to Maintain Domestic Order,” both religious and practical matters are included in the text. “I, sinful N., bless, teach, admonish, and instruct my son N., his wife, their children, and domestic [slaves] to live according to every Christian law and in all pure conscience and justice,” begins the opening epistle, “A Father’s Instruction to his Son.” (20) It was the parent’s responsibility to instruct their children in the ways of proper conduct, both spiritual and secular, and “teach them to fear God, instruct them in wisdom and all forms of piety. According to the child’s abilities and age, and to the time available, the mother should teach her daughter female crafts and the father should teach his sons whatever trade they can learn.” (21) Filial piety and deference to one’s parents are highly celebrated in the Domostroi, and these virtues are inextricably linked with religion. If the reader obeys the Lord’s commandments and bears his father’s yoke, “[he] will

cleanse [his] sins, be beloved of God, andglorified among men.”

(22) Disobedient or disorderly children, “those who anger their fathers and insult their mothers...are worse than pagans.” (23) For these same disobedient children, the father is advised to “teach them by imposing limits on them, using terror.” (24) “You should discipline children and servants the same way,” the text continues, perhaps a comment on the level of ownership the head of the household held over both (25). The power of the father over the rest of the household is immense, representative of the intensely patriarchal society of Medieval Russia, supplanted by the Russian Orthodox Church and, in an extended fashion, foundational to the rule of the tsar.

Although many domestic matters concern women in some fashion, they are notably not directly addressed for the majority of the text. The stylized, somewhat misogynistic descriptions given of women are from the perspective of a definitively male author and directed at a male reader—even in Chapter 20, “In Praise of Women,” the highest ‘praise’ accorded is “a capable, long-suffering, and silent ‘wife is her husband’s crown.’” (26) A “good woman,” the text continues, “makes her husband more honorable...she will be

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blessed by having kept God’s commandment.” (27) The wife also held an important, if subordinate role in the household. Along with instructing his children and servants, it was the husband’s task to instruct his wife how to best accomplish her duties and manage the home: “Because of her husband’s instruction, her dread of him, and her own good understanding, all her enterprises will be successful; her household will have plenty of everything.” (28) Similar to the relationship between the head of the household and children and servants, so too was the wife beneath his authority. Muscovite women were kept in a strictly separate world from men, even after marriage. Several of the passages in the Domostroi point to concerns relating to this policy of seclusion, including the possibility of defiance of feminine virtue.

Women and girls “shame and spoil themselves by speaking with [a] man who is not one of their own;” even among slaves, a woman was dishonored if she spoke to a man from outside of the household (29).

“Whatever her husbands orders,” the text states, “she must accept with love; she must fulfill his every command.” (30)

high class and wealth. In the chapter “How to Maintain Domestic Order,” instructions regarding “jewel-encrusted silk, your necklace, your wife’s jewel box” and the request for “appropriate tools in the household for carpentry, tailoring, iron mongering, and bookmaking” suggests a large and established household, the target audience of the text being of either the landed gentry or a wealthy merchant (31). The limited literacy of the era also points to a wealthy reader; of the remaining copies of the manuscript, most are signed, and the owners ranged from boyar Prince Romodanovskii, a famous general, to various parish priests (32). The social structure of Medieval Russia by the publication of the Domostroi had already began the significant stratification that would lead to official establishment of serfdom in 1649 (33).

The boyars, or noble families in service to the state, gentry, chancery officials, merchants, and clerics made up the upper echelons of medieval society, while artisans, peasants, and slaves were the lowest social groups.

At the top of the social pyramid was the grand prince, and later the tsar, of Moscow.

The tsar occupied the seminal role in The descriptions of both the material Medieval Russian society. A descendant objects and the members of the home in of Riurik, the semilegendary conqueror, the Domostroi point to one of relatively and Alexander Nevsky, historical

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defender of Rus’ against the LivonianOrder, the tsar ruled alone over Medieval Russia, advised by boyar counselors. His power was absolute and acknowledged by Muscovite society, and features often in the Domostroi.

Exhortations to to "honor the tsar, his princes, his boyars” appear within the first page of the text; prayers for and deference to the tsar feature often (34).

“Fear the tsar and serve him faithfully,” the text instructs, and “tell him the truth, deferentially, as though you spoke to God Himself.” (35) Religious piety and secular honor to the tsar are firmly interwoven, as Russian Orthodoxy was both private faith and central to the state.

The Domostroi calls upon every Christian to pray “for the health of the tsar, the tsaritsa, their children and their brothers, for the boyars and the Christian army,” while “[the priests] will pray for the tsar and grand prince N., autocrat of all the Russias.” (36) While this edition deliberately leaves the name of the tsar blank, in one manuscript the tsar is listed as Ivan Vasil’evich, referencing Ivan IV the Terrible, ruler from 1533 to 1584 and instrumental in establishing the tsarist absolutism and despotism that would characterize the Russian political system through the Soviet Era (37).

the sixteenth century, it remained impactful past the Petrine reforms to the core of the nineteenth century philosophical Slavophile/Westernizer debate to the fall of the tsar in 1917.

Even today, when conservatives look back to a vision of Old Russia, where faith and family reigned supreme, it is the time of the Domostroi and Ivan IV the Terrible they remember, domostroinaia Rus’.

The impact of the Domostroi goes far beyond its time. Though likely written in

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Notes

9 Ibid., 306.

10 Kaldellis, Anthony, The Byzantine 1 The Domostroi: Rules for Russian Republic: People and Power in New Rome, Households in the Time of Ivan the Terrible, (Boston, MA: Harvard UP, 2015), xii trans. Carolyn Johnston Pouncy, (New York: 11 Milner-Guland, Robin, The Russians: The Cornell UP, 1995), 145.

People of Europe, 2nd edition, (Wiley: 2000), 2 Uvarov, S.S., “Orthodoxy, Autocracy, 80.

Nationality” (1833), 192-93 in Life and Thought in Old Russia, ed. Marthe Blinoff. 12 The Domostroi: Rules for Russian (Clearfield, PA: Pennsylvania State UP, Households in the Time of Ivan the Terrible, 62.

1961.)

13 The Domostroi: Rules for Russian Households in the Time of Ivan the Terrible, 4 The Domostroi: Rules for Russian 66.

Households in the Time of Ivan the Terrible, 14 The Russian Primary Chronicle, trans.

4.

Samuel Cross and Olgerd SherbowitzWetzor. Cambridge, MA: Crimson Printing 14 5 Ibid., 43.

Company, 1953, 97.

3 Ibid.

6 Pouncy, Carolyn Johnston, “The Origins Milner-Guland, The Russians: The of the Domostroi: A Study in Manuscript 15 History,” 357-373 in The Russian Review, People of Europe, 83.

Vol. 46, No. 4. (Wiley: 1987), 361.

16 The Domostroi: Rules for Russian 7 The Domostroi: Rules for Russian Households in the Time of Ivan the Terrible, Households in the Time of Ivan the Terrible, 74, 89.

12.

17 Ibid., 79.

8 Esler, Anthony, “Russia and the Golden Horde,” 305-306 in The Human Venture, 18 Ibid., 111.

(Upper Saddle River, NJ: 2000), 305.

19 Ibid., 64.

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20 Ibid., 65. Other 17th century manuscripts kept the names of Sil’vestr and Anfim in the text.

21 The Domostroi: Rules for Russian Households in the Time of Ivan the Terrible, 93.

34 Ibid, 62.

35 The Domostroi: Rules for Russian Households in the Time of Ivan the Terrible, 71.

36 Ibid., 75.

37 Ibid., 6.

22 Ibid., 99.

23 Ibid.

24 Ibid., 105.

25 Ibid., 143.

26 The Domostroi: Rules for Russian Households in the Time of Ivan the Terrible, 103.

27 Ibid.

28 Ibid, 126.

29 Ibid, 108.

30 Ibid., 124.

31 The Domostroi: Rules for Russian Households in the Time of Ivan the Terrible, 129.

32 Ibid., 45.

33 Ibid., 15.

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Works Cited -Esler, Anthony, “Russia and the Golden Horde,” 305-306 in The Human Venture, (Upper Saddle River, NJ: 2000).

-Kaldellis, Anthony, The Byzantine Republic: People and Power in New Rome, (Boston, MA: Harvard UP, 2015).

-Milner-Guland, Robin, The Russians: The People of Europe, 2nd edition, (Wiley: 2000).

-Pouncy, Carolyn Johnston, “The Origins of the Domostroi: A Study in Manuscript History,” 357-373 in The Russian Review, Vol. 46, No. 4. (Wiley: 1987).

-The Domostroi: Rules for Russian Households in the Time of Ivan the Terrible, trans. Carolyn Johnston Pouncy, (New York: Cornell UP, 1995).

-The Russian Primary Chronicle, trans. Samuel Cross and Olgerd SherbowitzWetzor. Cambridge, MA: Crimson Printing Company, 1953.

-Uvarov, S.S. “Orthodoxy, Autocracy, Nationality” (1833), 192-93 in Life and Thought in Old Russia, ed. Marthe Blinoff. Clearfield, PA: Pennsylvania State UP, 1961.

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Fatalism in Denis Diderot’s Jacques le Fataliste et son maître and Tolstoy’s War and Peace

by Mathilde Vallières In Tostoy’s War and Peace, the narrator raises the question of whether or not thinkers and ideas are the cause of historical events. The main example he uses is the French Revolution of 17891794: “Is the ferment among the people of the west at the end of the last century […] explained by the activity of Louis XIV, XV, XVI, their mistresses and ministers, by the lives of Napoleon, Rousseau, Diderot, Beaumarchais and others?”(1) He would later comment on Diderot’s writings in his diaries and letters in the 1890s. Tolstoy and Diderot disagree on many subjects: Tolstoy is profoundly Christian, and Diderot is perhaps the most radical atheist of the French Enlightenment.

However, War and Peace and Diderot’s Jacques le Fataliste et son maître, a novel written around 1771 but never published during the writer’s lifetime, share many similarities.

Both texts radically depart from the traditional codes of the novel. They both feature an overly present narrator directly addressing the reader, unpredictable plots and an open ending. Both texts feature a fatalist as one of the main characters and deal with questions of fate, determinism and

faith. However, if both War and Peace and Jacques le Fataliste et son maître’s narrators disagree with fatalist views, it is for opposite reasons: in Diderot’s text, Jacques’ Christian fatalism is attacked, whereas in Tolstoy’s text, Platon Karataev’s Christian fatalism is preferred to Pierre’s atheist one.

Both Diderot’s Jacques le Fataliste et son maître and Tolstoy’s War and Peace feature a fatalist character. Indeed, Diderot’s Jacques spends the book arguing that everything is decided in advance and that any event that happens to him or anyone else is a “line of the great scroll or of what is written up above” (2). This “great scroll” comes back again and again in the novel. It justifies Jacques sleeping with his benefactor’s wife (3), Jacques falling into a hole and injuring himself (4), his friend’s colleague’s death (5) and his quarrelling with his master (6) among other examples. In all these cases, Jacques deflects responsibility: he is not to blame for any of these actions, because they were predetermined. Similarly, Pierre thinks that all the events of his life have “necessarily to be so” (7). He uses this

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logic when he does not know how to act on his father’s deathbed (8), but also when he is pushed into marrying Hélène (9), and during his duel with Dolokhov which he thinks is “going on by itself, independently of men’s will” (10) right after he refused to talk it over with his opponent.

In both novels, various characters criticize this fatalist stance. Andrei’s personality is opposed to Pierre’s in many ways: he is a man of actions, and is critical of his friend’s childish passivity. In Jacques le Fataliste, Jacques’ master does not believe in the “great scroll” and keeps asking sarcastic questions forcing Jacques to take responsibility for his actions: “I am dreaming of one thing: it is whether your benefactor was a deceived husband because it was written so up above; or if it was written above because you would sleep with your benefactor’s wife?” (11) The two narrators are also critical of the fatalist stance of Pierre and Jacques’ fatalist attitudes. Both novels feature an overly present narrator directly addressing his readers. In War and Peace, the story is interrupted by essays on the nature of history and the cause of actions.

Jacques le Fataliste essentially consists of a dialog between Jacques and his master, which is interrupted by various random and unpredictable events. Jacques keeps promising his master that he will tell him

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the story of his love affairs, but the narrator keeps interrupting them, and Jacques’ love affairs are not told for over three hundred pages.

Another conversation, between the unnamed narrator and a character he refers to as the reader, frames the story of Jacques and his master. The reader keeps asking the narrator questions such as where Jacques and his master are, how they met, or when the story of Jacques’ love affairs will be told. The narrator refuses to answer any of these questions, claiming that Jacques and his master met by chance, that their names do not matter, and that nobody ever truly knows where they are going or why (12). Of course, any discourse about the “great scroll” becomes highly ironic. Jacques and his master have no idea, but there actually is a “great scroll” being written about them: the book itself.

The narrator is dismissive of Jacques’s fatalist ideas, claiming he can do what he wants with his story: “You see, reader […] that it would be my prerogative to make you wait one year, two years, three years, for the tale of Jacques’ love affairs, by separating him from his master, by making them each encounter the hazards I wish. What would keep me from marrying the master and turning him into a deceived husband? From taking Jacques to thetropical islands? […] How easy it is to tell tales!” (« Vous voyez, lecteur […] qu’il

ne tiendrait qu’à moi de vous faire attendre un an, deux ans, trois ans, le récit des amours de Jacques, en le séparant de son maître et en leur faisant courir à chacun tous les hasards qu’il me plairait.

Qu’est-ce qui m’empêcherait de marier le maître et de le faire cocu ? D’embarquer Jacques pour les îles ? […] Qu’il est facile de faire des contes ! ») (13) This staging of the writing of the book by the narrator discredits Jacques’ ideas about a predetermined narrative.

His life is controlled by chance and whim. The narrator improvises his baroque story as he goes along and claims the power to do as he pleases. The “great scroll” is not pre-written: the narrator writes it as Jacques and his master speak.

War and Peace’s narrator mostly criticizes Pierre’s fatalist ideas through irony. A good example is when Pierre uses numerology to prove that he is fated to kill Napoleon, since L’russe Besuhof symbolises 666 as does l’empereur Napoléon (14). This scene ridicules Pierre’s fatalist stance. Later, when he stays in Moscow with the plan of killing Napoleon, Pierre thinks: “it is not me but the hand of the Providence that punishes [Napoleon]”(15). His killing of Napoleon appears to him “a necessity and an inevitability”(16). This kind of fatalism is ridiculous to the narrator.

The philosophical essays that form part of War and Peace also contradict Pierre’s views.

For the narrator, what causes history is not the wills or actions of great men, but the wills of the peoples and the power they give over to a person or group (17). Great men and great destinies are either unimportant or inexistent. Pierre’s desire to prove his fate is ridiculed by the book.

Fatalism, faith and God Jacques’s fatalism is not the result of philosophical questioning. Although the other characters are critical of his ideas, Jacques himself never questions them.

Fatalism represents for him a rather abstract system of beliefs. In Pierre’s case, on the contrary, fatalism seems less a belief than a personality trait. Pierre always thinks about existential questions, which makes him anxious. He overthinks to the point of being unable to act, and is more than happy when people make decisions for him. This is true when Anna Mikhailovna leads him at his father’s death, but also when Vassily Kuragin takes over his life. It is also one of his motivations for joining the freemasons: the freemason virtue of obedience seems to him “happiness itself” because it is “joyful for him to be delivered from arbitrariness and submit his will to a person or persons who [know] the absolute truth”(18). To give away his responsability to an outside force, whatever it is, is Pierre’s dream, since it frees him from his anxiety.

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Considering this, it is surprising that, at the beginning of the book, Pierre does not believe in God, as he confesses to Bazdeev (19). On the contrary, Jacques’ fatalism comes from his belief in a higher being who takes all the decisions and plans everything. Indeed, he prays to the author of the “great scroll”: “You who created the great scroll, whomever you are, and whose finger traced all the writing who is up above, you knew of all times what I needed; thy will be done. Amen.” (20) Both characters believe in fate, and both novels are critical of this belief, but for opposite reasons. Indeed, Diderot is an atheist and a materialist. In Jacques le Fataliste et son maître, Jacques’ master questions the very idea that the “great scroll” has a writer: “THE MASTER: And who wrote of happiness and unhappiness up above? JACQUES: And who made the great scroll where everything is written? A captain, friend of my captain, would have given a small écu to know it; the other would not have given an obol, and me neither; because what use would it be? Would it help me avoid the hole where I am supposed to go break my neck? THE MASTER: I think so. JACQUES: I don’t think so; because there would need to be a false line on the great roll which contains truth, which contains nothing but the truth, and which contains all truth. […]

THE MASTER: There are a lot of things to say about this…” (« LE MAÎTRE. Et qui estce qui a écrit là-haut le bonheur et le

malheur ? JACQUES. Et qui est-ce qui a fait le grand rouleau où tout est écrit ? Un capitaine, ami de mon capitaine, aurait bien donné un petit écu pour le savoir ; lui, n’aurait pas donné une obole, ni moi non plus ; car à quoi cela me servirait-il ? En éviterais-je pour cela le trou où je dois m’aller casser le cou ? LE MAÎTRE. Je crois que oui. JACQUES. Moi, je crois que non ; car il faudrait qu’il y eût une ligne fausse sur le grand rouleau qui contient vérité, qui ne contient que vérité, et qui contient toute vérité. […]LE MAÎTRE.Il y a beaucoup de choses à dire là-dessus… »)(21). The all-knowing, almighty yet unpredictable narrator seems to be a parody of God. His absurd story with its unexplained, abrupt changes and missing information contradicts the idea of divine, organized design. On the other hand, Tolstoy is a Christian. War and Peace shows faith in a positive light, for instance in the person of Princess Marya.

Pierre’s constant questioning and existential doubt is rooted in his faithlessness. He tries to find meaning in feeemasonry, numerology and fate because he does not believe in God.

Jacques and Platon A major change happens in Pierre when the French take him captive. Paradoxically, he feels freeer when his freedom is restrained. He even looks healthier in

think that he is not being punished for this crime by the justice of men, but for some other sin by the justice of God. Platon and the old merchant trust God entirely and accept their fates without questioning or trying to understand God’s design: if He chose to punish them, then they deserved it. This vision of faith has a remarkable impact on Pierre, who later dreams of a globe formed of drops constantly moving and disappearing. The globe represents life, and in itscenter is God, as an old Platon’s story is about a merchant sent to teacher tells him (26). hard labour for a murder he did not commit. He accepts his punishment This acceptance of one’s fate is without complaint. In Siberia, he meets the remarkably similar to Jacques’ ideas in novel.

Jacques accepts man who committed the crime for which he Diderot’s was punished. The criminal is touched by everything the author of the “great his story, and confesses the murder to the scroll” writes for him. He understands authorities. By the time the administrative that fighting this divine figure would procedures are completed, the innocent be useless, and lives his life without man is dead. When he learns that the real trying to force fate. He thinks his life murderer will confess, the innocent man is predetermined, but it does not says: “God will forgive you, and we’re all change the way he acts: he travels with sinful before God, I’m suffering for my own his master, takes part in wars, falls in sins” (24). Platon tells Pierre that when love and gets married. He makes the innocent man died, “God had decisions, but believes that anything already forgiven him”(25). Later, Platon, that happens to him was decided by a who is sick, accepts his own death without higher being. fighting.

In Tolstoy’s work, the same trust in Platon and the old merchant in the story God is seen as a model to follow. share an acceptance of their fate. They Pierre’s fatalist stance in the beginning believe in God, and think that if God sends of the book was cast in a ridiculous them to Siberia or kills them, it must be for light because it lacks the essential a reason. This makes the old merchant qualities of humility and trust in God. captivity: “There was firmness, calm, and a lively readiness in the expression of his eyes, such as had never been there before.” (22). This moment is also a turning point for Pierre because of his meeting with Platon Karataev. Platon tells a story about a merchant, which makes his face shine with “rapturous joy” (23). Pierre does not understand the meaning of the story, but it fills his soul with joy.

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Pierre tried to guess and rush his fate instead of accepting it and trusting God’s will. In War and Peace, it is not possible to understand God’s plan: neither Platon, nor the merchant in his story, tried to justify or explain it. Similarly, Jacques never tries to read the “great scroll”. He does not even want to know the identity of the one who wrote it. He just trusts its existence, and lives a happier life for it.

At the end of the book, Pierre has come to understand this vision of things, at least temporarily. After his sickness, he is amazed at his freedom, which he does not take for granted anymore. He does not seek the meaning of life, and now believes in God. He stops asking himself “why?” because he believes “there is God, that God without whose will not a single hair falls from a man’s head” (27). The feeling of freedom is linked to the knowledge of absolute necessity. Pierre understands that he feels completely free, but that nothing happens without God’s will.

Necessity, Responsibility and History Diderot, being a convinced atheist, is against this position, and his novel questions it.

Jacques justifies all his actions, even the morally questionable ones, such as sleeping with his friend’s wife, by saying it was

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written and had to be so. By doing so, Diderot notes a problem raised by the fatalist doctrine: if everything is decided for us, how are we held accountable for our actions?

In the second epilogue to War and Peace, Tolstoy’s narrator raises this question but never answers it. He deems sin “a question for theology”, legal responsibility “a question for jurisprudence” and moral responsibility “ a question for ethics” (28). His conclusion, that we must “renounce a nonexistent freedom and recognize we do not feel” (29) comes from the fact that he is only interested in history, but leaves many questions unanswered.

Diderot’s answer to the question would be to develop a completely knew moral system based on the common good and not on religious ideas such as Jacques’ belief in the “great scroll”. On the contrary, Tolstoy’s answer seems to be Platon Karataev’s way, that is to trust God and answer of your moral responsibility before Him. To conclude, War and Peace’s narrator disagrees with Pierre’s atheist fatalism just as Jacques le Fataliste’s narrator disagrees with Jacques’ Christian fatalism. This can be explained by Diderot’s atheism and Tolstoy’s Christian beliefs. However, Platon Karataev’s lesson to Pierrealigns with

Jacques’ views: one must submit to God’s will. Everything that happens is inevitable, since God is almighty, but that does not keep one from experiencing free will as long as one accepts the events of one’s life.

This is maybe the central theme from War and Peace, as it is also the conclusion of the second epilogue: “consciousness of freedom [is] unshakable, irrefutable, not subject to experience or argument” (30), but at the same time “men’s actions are subject to general, immutable laws” (31). These laws strengthen religious belief, and do not destroy it.

Notes 1 Tolstoy, Leo, War and Peace (New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 2007), 1191.

2 « une ligne du grand rouleau ou de ce qui est écrit là-haut » Diderot, Denis, Jacques le Fataliste et sonmaître (Paris: Éditions Gallimard, 1973), 107. Translations are mine.

3 Diderot, Jacques le Fataliste, 45.

4 Diderot, Jacques le Fataliste, 50.

5 Diderot, Jacques le Fataliste, 107.

6 Diderot, Jacques le Fataliste, 230.

7 Tolstoy, War and Peace, 81.

8 Tolstoy, War and Peace, 81.

9 Tolstoy, War and Peace, 211.

10 Tolstoy, War and Peace, 315.

11 « Je rêve à une chose: c’est si ton bienfaiteur eût été cocu parce qu’il était écrit là-haut; ou si cela était écrit là-haut parce que tu ferais cocu ton bienfaiteur? » Diderot, Jacques le Fataliste, p. 35.

12 Diderot, Jacques le Fataliste, 39.

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13 « Vous voyez, lecteur […] qu’il ne tiendrait qu’à moi de vous faire attendre un an, deux ans, trois ans, le récit des amours de Jacques, en le séparant de son maître et en leur faisant courir à chacun tous les hasards qu’il me plairait. Qu’estce qui m’empêcherait de marier le maître et de le faire cocu ?D’embarquer Jacques pour les îles ? […] Qu’il est facile de faire des contes ! » Diderot, Jacques le Fataliste, 41.

14 Tolstoy, War and Peace, 665.

15 Tolstoy, War and Peace, 900.

21 « LE MAÎTRE. Et qui est-ce qui a écrit làhaut le bonheur et le malheur ? JACQUES. Et qui est-ce qui a fait le grand rouleau où tout est écrit ? Un capitaine, ami de mon capitaine, aurait bien donné un petit écu pour le savoir ; lui, n’aurait pas donné une obole, ni moi non plus ; car à quoi cela me servirait-il ? En éviterais-je pour cela le trou où je dois m’aller casser le cou ? LE MAÎTRE. Je crois que oui.

JACQUES. Moi, je crois que non ; car il faudrait qu’il y eût une ligne fausse sur le grand rouleau qui contient vérité, qui ne contient que vérité, et qui contient toute vérité. […]LE MAÎTRE.Il y a beaucoup de choses à dire là-dessus… » Diderot, Jacques le Fataliste, 50.

16 Tolstoy, War and Peace, 899.

22 Tolstoy, War and Peace, 1009.

17 Tolstoy, War and Peace, 1191.

23 Tolstoy, War and Peace, 1063.

18 Tolstoy, War and Peace, 358.

24 Tolstoy, War and Peace, 1062.

19 Tolstoy, War and Peace, 350.

25 Tolstoy, War and Peace, 1063.

20 “Toi qui as fait le grand rouleau, quel que tu sois, et dont le doigt a tracé toute 26 Tolstoy, War and Peace, 1065. l’écriture qui est là-haut, tu as su de tous les temps ce qu’il me fallait; que ta 27 Tolstoy, War and Peace, 1104. volonté soit faite. Amen. » Diderot, Jacques le Fataliste, 221.

28 Tolstoy, War and Peace, 1202.

29 Tolstoy, War and Peace, 1215.

30 Tolstoy, War and Peace, 1202.

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31 Tolstoy, War and Peace, 1202.

Works Cited - Diderot, Denis. Jacques le Fataliste et son maĂŽtre. Paris: Gallimard, 1973.

- Tolstoy, Leo. War and Peace. New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 2007.

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Russia’s Crimea: Why Offensive Realism Doesn’t Play in a Democratic Europe

by Anna Marukhnyak

Introduction

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On February 24th, 2014, Russia astounded the international community through its an-nexation of Crimea, a former Ukrainian territory. The annexation came after decades of tension between Russia and Ukraine and reflects a larger narrative of Russian foreign policy being framed in opposition to the West. Russia’s foreign policy actions in Crimea can be understood through the lens of offensive realism, a theory that President Vladimir Putin has supported and cited as a rationale behind his foreign policy decisions.

The international community has condemned Russian actions in Crimea, and apart from the acquisition of Crimea as a de facto Russian territory, Russia’s actions have resulted in all but severing their diplomatic relations to the EU and the West at large. What the Crimean example demonstrates in international relations theory is offensive realism’s lack of application to the modern political context; if power is the defining motivation for state behavior, attempts to assert power un-democratically are no longer viable. While offensive realism realism can explain Russia’s motivations

to annex Crimea, it does not adequately explain Russia’s failure to gain regional and international power through this maneuver. Offensive realist policy decisions are thus hindered in their effectiveness by the growing acceptance of democratic norms that privilege adhesion to international agreements, respecting state sovereignty, and allowing nations to self-determine their political future.

Russian-Ukrainian Background Russia and Ukraine have had a historically strained relationship. Once a subject of the Soviet Union, Ukraine gained independence in 1991 during the dissolution of the Soviet Union.

Included in the terms of Ukrainian independence was the absorption of Crimea as an autonomous oblast, or administrative region, of the country (1). Although officially part of Ukraine, many Russians perceived Crimea as truly belonging to Russia, pointing to the millions of ethnic Russians living in

the territory as an exemplar of their argument (2). The location of Ukraine and Crimea plays a role in this belief; Eastern Ukraine shares a border with Russia, with Crimea being a peninsula located in the south-east of Ukraine.

The relationship between Russia and Ukraine in the modern day can be described as two neighbors growing in opposing directions, leading to the conflict that is playing out in Crimea.

While Ukraine has attempted to assert itself as a democratic, European country, Russia has witnessed a democratic backslide under Putin (3). While Ukraine has aligned itself with the West and NATO, Russia has attacked these groups, viewing them as a threat to national security (4). This fear of the West can explain many of the motivations behind Putin’s foreign policy. Russia’s inability to contain the spread of NATO across Europe led to a policy of exerting pressure on economically dependent Eastern European states to prevent them from joining NATO (5).

The Annexation of Crimea The threat of Russian interference in Crimea has a long historical precedent. In 1996, Russian geo-strategist Sergei Karaganov discussed the possibility of Russia absorbing parts of a disintegrated Ukraine (6). In 2007, Yulia Timoshenko,

the former Prime Minister of Ukraine, warned the public against Russia’s attempts to destabilize the Ukrainian government (7). In 2008, Russian passports were distributed to ethnic Russians in Crimea, leading the Ukrainian Foreign Ministry to protest this action, given that they viewed it as undermining Ukrainian legitimacy in Crimea (8). The decision to eventually annex Crimea came around this time, emerging as a Russian policy response to NATO announcing the possibility of Ukraine joining the organization (9).

Russia found the opportune time to act in February of 2014, when former Ukrainian President Yanukovich fled Ukraine after the Euromaidan, a civilian protest against governmental corruption, deposed him of the presidency. (10) During this time, pro-Russian protestors demanded seccession from Ukraine in Simferopol, a large Crimean city. On February 27th, this demand was met, with masked groups seizing control of government buildings in the city while Russian forces and local militias blocked off connections to Crimea from Ukraine, occupied the Ukrainian Army and Navy, and achieved a nearly total military takeover of the region (11). Soon after, the new pro-Russian Crimean government passed legislation through a referendum

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incorporating Crimea into the Russian Federation (12). While Crimea is now a defacto partof the Russian Federation, the international community generally does not recognize this outcome (13).

In March of 2014, Putin explained his rationale for the annexation of Crimea in geopolitical terms, depicting the invasion of Crimea as a response to a Western threat.

This fit into broader policy undertaken by Putin that preached anti-intellectualism and anti-Westernism, as well as appeals to nationalism (14). Putin argued that, in order for Crimea to not get “lost in the near future,” it needed to be under a “strong and steady sovereignty” which “could only be Russia,” effectively masking the fear of Ukraine becoming part of the EU (15). Instead of defending the invasion as a defensive response to fear, Putin situated the Crimean invasion as an offensive move for Russian power. Putin’s framing of the Crimean invasion reflects offensive realist theories, particularly in its focus on power.

Offensive Realism Offensive realism is a theory of international relations promoted by John Mearsheimer that views power as the primary basis for understanding state behavior. Under offensive realism, state’s actions can be described as offensive plays

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to gain power in an attempt to become a regional hegemon (16). Viewing the world as inherently anarchic and dominated by competitions for power, offensive realism attempts to be an all-encompassing analytical framework for state behavior.

The problem with such an approach, underscored by Alexander J. Motyl in his application of offensive realism to the Crimean conflict, is that as a “Theory of Everything,” there is noroom for exceptions or grey area; offensive realism cannot concede a point without flawing its theoretical premise (17).

By privileging power as the primary motivation for state action, offensive realism presents a bleak image of the international system; there is no trust, cooperation, or mutual benefit in the offensive realist world. States are instead constantly preparing for war and attempting to maximize their power through aggressive measures. Contrary to other subsets of realism, offensive realism promotes aggressive behavior to achieve these ends. One such way to gain power is through war; under offensive realism, conquest can improve a state’s power position by allowing it to gain important territory or completely annex a defeated state (18).

The offensive realist conceptions of power can be applied to Russia’s foreign policy.

Putin’s Offensive Realism

Offensive realism aligns with much of Russia’s foreign policy decisions (19), particularly its combative stance against the expansion of the West. This similarity is not accidental; Putin embraces the offensive realist framework and applies it in his foreign policy decisions.xix In offensive realist terms, Russia’s concern with the West is understandable, as the EU is the primary threat against Russian regional power in Europe. What is offensive realist about Russia’s approach against the West is its continued attempts to gain regional power, rather than simply defending its preexisting power in the former Soviet bloc. Putin’s repeated emphasis on Crimea’s history, cultural position, and ethnic Russian population— all of which combined to form a policy allowing the use of force in defense of Russians abroad, do not create an image of a country on the defense (20). Rather, they place Russian policy as being on the offensive, attempting to gain sway abroad, all of this justified through nationalist perceptions of Russia and its people.

In discussing the West’s actions in Ukraine, Putin said, “If you compress the spring all the way, it will snap back hard.” (21) This argument positions Russia’s defensive actions through an offensive realist conception of international relations.

Russia was the spring, compressed by the threat of an expanding EU and growing Western threat; Russia snapped

back hard, going further than maintaining preexisting power and instead attempting to gain power regionally through the annexation of Crimea. The potential power gain behind Russia’s actions in Crimea reinforces an offensive realist understanding of Russia attempting to veer the balance of power away from the West and towards itself. This is in line with Mearsheimer’s perspective that Russia has been pushed to act against NATO expansion, framing it as an offensive maneuver to counter NATO influence through invading Crimea (22). Looking outside of the Crimean example, Russian foreign policyhas repeatedly engagedin attempts to gain regional power rather than simply defending pre-existing power.

The Russian invasion of Georgia in 2008 is an example of an offensive realist Russian foreign policy. The motivation behind the invasion mirrors that of Crimea, as it was a direct response to discussions of Ukraine and Georgia potentially becoming members of NATO(23).Putin’s military attack on Georgia included both an air invasion main that bombed Georgia’s airport and navy international maneuvers to block Georgia’s access to the Black Sea (24). This military invasion eventually grew to occupy several cities, with tanks nearing the capital of Tbilisi (25). Putin described his actions as a “humanitarian

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supplies to Ukraine twice in the last decade, which posed an economic threat to a Ukraine that depends heavily on Russian gas (30). In Moldova, Russia has blocked Moldovan wine imports as a preemptive threat, in response to rumors of Moldova’s desire to join the EU (31). Even countries that are in the EU have been on the receiving end of Russia’s offensive realist plays. In Estonia, a massive cyberattack that undermined the nation’s cybersecurity was found to have originated in Russia (32).

These actions are understood through the offensive realist lens as attempts by Russia to assert power over weaker states, particularly those that are economically dependent on Russia. By threatening to block gas or key economic imports, Russia asserts its regional power and blocks weaker nations from making any moves to join the EU or NATO and defect from the Russian sphere of influence.

Through its exercising of soft-power, Russia is able to assert power abroad by exploiting dependence on Russian resources. This is a cause for concern for Europe as a whole; 54% percent of current energy needs in the EU are fulfilled by Russia (33). While Russia has not yet exercised its soft power might against the EU, its previous actions in Eastern Europe suggest the possibility of Russia’s offensive stance is also this happening if the EU pushes Russia too demonstrated in its soft-power relations that hard. allow it to gain regional power through manipulating dependent Mearsheimer himself has praised Russia’s states into following its political will. offensive realism and places the blame on the West for the crisis in Crimea. In his essay, For example, Russia has shut off gas

intervention” to assist Russian separatists in certain Georgian territories (26). This mirrors Putin’s claims that the annexation of Crimea was necessary to protect ethnic Russians in the territory, as well as his portrayal of Crimea as a historical part of Russia, rather than Ukraine (27). However, an annexation of Georgia be harder to justify domestically and abroad compared to Crimea, as the invaded Georgian populace did not belong “ethnically or culturally to the Russian diaspora.” (28) Putin’s actions in Georgia had different outcomes to those in Crimea. In Georgia, Russia pulled away once it was confirmed that Georgia had precluded NATO membership (29). Although this can be perceived in defensive realist terms as an assertion of Russian power against a Western threat, Georgia is a sovereign country politically separated from Russia. While it retains a historical and economic connection to Russia, it is difficult to argue that Russian aggression against the possibility of a NATOaligned Georgia is defensive simply because Russia eventually pulled out. It is offensive by inherent nature of Russia militarily intervening in the affairs of another country because of the possibility of them aligning with an opposing power.

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Why the Ukraine Crisis Is the West’s Fault, Mearsheimer redirects the conventional wisdom that Russia is an aggressor aiming to rebuild the Soviet Empire into Western hands; he instead blames NATO enlargement on Russia’s aggression, arguing that the actions in Crimea reflect Russian fear of a NATO naval base being built there (34). He views Russia as being too weak to combat NATO expansion, until finally acting in the 2008 invasion of Georgia (35). His attack against NATO expansion is shared among many realists, who opposed NATO expansion on the grounds that Russia’s declining power, aging population, and one-dimensional economy did not need to be contained in a post-Cold War context, instead giving Russia a reason to cause problems (36). For realists, NATO expansion attempts to fight a problem that does not exist, paradoxically harming its intentions to secure Europe against Russia by triggering Russian aggression. Michael McFaul, former United States Ambassador to Russia, argues that realists over exaggerate the importance of NATO expansion in Russia’s foreign policy decisions. He cites never hearing about the threat of NATO in five years of witnessing discussions between Putin and Obama, and the accepted knowledge that Ukraine in a position to join NATO anytime soon, instead blaming Putin’s framing of Russia struggling against the United States, annexing Crimea to tilt “the balance of power in his favor.” (37)

advocates for Ukraine becoming a neutral buffer state between NATO and Russia, mirroring Austria during the Cold War (38).

His instructions for Ukraine reflect the dim realist world-view that hinges upon power. Arguing that Ukraine cannot exercise self-determination towards democracy because “might makes right” in the context of great power politics, Mearsheimer suggests that even if Ukraine were to reach towards democracy, the West has no reason to accommodate Ukraine because it is not of significant strategic importance (39).

To Mearsheimer, there are two options; devastate Ukraine through the continuation of the West’s policies in the region, or create a “prosperous but neutral Ukraine,” one that does not pose a threat to Russia and allows for the West to mend its relationships with Russia (40).

Mearsheimer presents the latter option with little consideration of what this means for Ukraine. He ignores the possibility of Ukraine having enough political power to self determine and waves away Western aid towards Ukraine. Mearsheimer views Western support in Ukraine as a mistake only because Ukraine has little to offer the West.

His pessimistic conceptions ignore the historic fight for democracy in the country in order to appease Russia—with separation from Russian dependence being another one of Ukraine’s policy objectives. In his In line with this realist thinking, Mearsheimer proposition for a neutral Ukraine,

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Mearsheimer conceives of a powerless Ukraine, once again subject to Russia’s political whims. In arguing that Ukraine and the West must acquiesce to Russia, Mearsheimer falls into the same trap that Russia did when annexing Crimea; he ignores the international community’s support for Ukraine, closing his ears to sing praise to an offensive realism that may not hold weight in the modern day.

Russia’s Offensive Realism on the International Stage Only a day after Russia authorized the use of force in Crimea, the North Atlantic Council expressed “grave concern” regarding Russia’s actions, calling for Russia to adhere to the UN Charter and the OSCE (Organization for Security and Co-operation in Europe) process (41). This marked the beginning of the international response to Russia’s actions, which was predicated on a mutual respect for international norms, organizations, and agreements. A month after the annexation of Crimea, the UN General Assembly adopted a resolution reinforcing Ukraine’s territorial integrity, condemning the annexation of Crimea, invalidating the Crimean referendum, and encouraging the international community to refuse to recognize a Russian Crimea (42).

While the resolution passed with a majority vote, eleven states voted against it,

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including North Sudan, Syria, Zimbabwe, North Korea, Armenia, and Belarus (43). The results show Russia’s diplomatic isolation; it garnered the support of either countries that are supported by Russia and similarly threatened by the West—such is the case with Syria—or countries that strongly depend on Russia, such as Armenia and Belarus. States that did not want to condemn Russia were placed in a difficult position, with the threat of a potentially devastating Russian response if they voted to support Ukraine’s sovereignty; the annexation of Crimea was, after all, a response to the possibility of Ukraine joining the West. These votes in favor of Russian annexation displayed both the power Russia wields over economically dependent countries and more importantly, the overall lack of diplomatic support support for Russia, with only eleven states standing in defense of Putin’s actions.

Alongside international scorn, the West has also placed sanctions on Russia as an economic punishment for continuing the Crimean conflict. Former United States President Barack Obama issued a series of executive orders that included measures to punish Russia’s actions, such as banning travel into the U.S. and freezing the funds of Russians involved with the annexation of Crimea, as well as a halt on trade and technological assistance to Crimea(44).The European Union responded similarly with sanctions, as well as moves to increase NATO’s

role in Eastern Europe (45). Non-European nations have expressed support for these measures, notably Japan, which itself has a disputed territory with Russia (46).

Mearsheimer has critiqued the sanctions, arguing that they will have little effect as they are and imposing harsher sanctions is impossible due to a threat of Russian retaliation. (47) However, sanctions have contributed to significant economic losses in Russia, with the International Monetary Fund (IMF) claiming that the sanctions significantly impacted Russian economic growth and investment (48). The sanctions also serve a purpose outside of economics; the sanctions apply the West’s ideological support for Ukraine into policy, highlighting the real cost of a Russia that stands against the West.

international reputation. The results of the Crimean invasion were the opposite of what was expected under offensive realist understandings of the world. Why? The fault lies in Putin playing with an offensive realist handbook that makes little sense in modern Europe.

Why Offensive Realism Failed in Crimea

Russia disrespected legal precedent and international agreements with its annexation of Crimea. Although Ukraine and Russia have had historically tense relations, they still maintained several long-standing international agreements. For example, the 1994 Budapest Memorandum included an agreement for Ukrainian nuclear disarmament in exchange for recognition of its sovereignty from Russia (50). Both Ukraine and Russia were also The international response to Russia’s members of OSCE and the Council of actions highlights the increasing costs for Europe, with the former organization offensive realist, and arguably imperialist, directly responding to Russian aggression actions in an increasingly globalizing by asking Putin to adhere to the world. Instead of asserting Russian power, organization’s process (51). In 1997, Russia’s international power has plummeted.

Ukraine and Russia signed the Treaty Regionally, Ukraine has become more resolute on Friendship, Cooperation, and in its pro-Western in the face of Russian Partnership; to this day, it has not been actions, stopping any aspirations of renounced (52). This raises the question Ukraine joining the Eurasian Economic of why Russia would bother to sign such Russia’s response to NATO(49 agreements if it had no plans to uphold Union, Internationally, Russia has created a them. In its dealings with Crimea, stronger NATO, a weaker Russian Russia seems to have distanced itself economy, and devastated Russia’s from these

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international agreements and chosen to play by its own rules. By doing this, Russia has positioned itself as being outside of the larger international community, at odds with the growing importance of international structures in interstate relations.

Russia’s annexation of Crimea defied international norms that defined the relations between European states. The most striking example is Russia’s disrespect for the sovereignty of Ukraine; Russia moved to seize Crimea without mention of Ukrainian sovereignty, instead portraying Crimea as already belonging to Russia by riding on nationalist conceptions of Crimea as historically Russian land (53).

In annexing Crimea, Russia did not only violate international law and state sovereignty, but also set a dangerous precedent for the future. Former Canadian Prime Minister Stephen Harper underscored the international ramifications this had, saying, “Putin has provided a rationale for those elsewhere.. to arm themselves to the teeth.” (54) In acting with such disregard for international norms, further aggravated its tense position against the West.

The role of Western support in the Ukrainian-Russian conflict connects Russia’s opposition to the West to why Russia’s invasion of Crimea failed.

Offensive realists believe that the allies

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behind Ukraine, including NATO, are making a grave mistake. Stephen Walt, an international relations scholar aligned with offensive realism, questions American action in Ukraine. He argues that “weak, isolated, corrupt, unpopular, and feckless governments” are often desperate for help, but their position as such “make[s] them of little strategic value to anyone who is unlucky or unwise enough” to ally with them (55). While Ukraine is limited in its strategic benefit to its allies, an allyship between Ukraine and the West allows the West to use connections within NATO, the OSCE, and other bodies to create an international response to Russia. In a direct response to Mearsheimer’s argument that NATO expansion caused Russia to invade Crimea, Stephen Sestanovich argues that a smaller NATO would have meant a much more dangerous conflict, with a far smaller Western influence in Eastern Europe (56). There is strength in numbers, and through allying with Ukraine, the West can demonstrate to Russia that the international sphere is no longer a force Russia can ignore.

Conclusion Instead of maximizing Russia’s regional power, the annexation of Crimean has framed Russia as an anti-democratic affront to the European community, weakening Russian power in the face of diplomatic tension and sanctions. The implication of

such a result is that offensive realism’s modern relevance should be questioned and that attention should instead be paid to understanding the growing role of international organizations and norms in interstate relations. The question that such a result raises is how Russia can maneuver in a Europe that has rejected offensive realism in favor of democratic norms. UkrainianRussian tensions do not appear to be resolving themselves any time soon, especially considering both countries’ entanglement in the ongoing United States impeachment process. How, and if, Russia’s foreign policy evolves out of the Crimean example will provide interesting opportunities for further research. The lingering impression that remains after examining Crimea is that offensive realism has reached its limit in Europe and is no longer viable in a Europe that repudiates offensive realist power-grabs.

Notes 1 (Opladen; Berlin; Toronto: Verlag Barbara Budrich, 2015), 193.

2 Andreas M. Bock, Ingo Henneberg, and Friedrich Plank, “'If You Compress the Spring, It Will Snap Back Hard’: The Ukrainian Crisis and the Balance of Threat Theory," International Journal 70, 1 (2015): 107.

5 Jeffery Gedmin, “Beyond Crimea: What Vladimir Putin Really Wants,” World Affairs 177, 2 (2014): 10.

6 Bebler, “Crimea and the Ukrainian-Russian Conflict,” 194.

7 Ibid.

8 Ibid.

9 Konstanin von Eggret, “All Politics Are Local: Crimea Explained,” World Affairs 177, 3 (2014): 53.

10 Motyl, “The Surrealism of Realism,” 77.

11 Bebler, “Crimea and the Ukrainian-Russian Conflict,” 195.

12 Ibid, 196-7.

13 Ibid, 206.

14 Eggret, “All Politics Are Local,” 53.

15 Bebler, “Crimea and the Ukrainian-Russian Conflict,” 201.

16 John M. Mearsheimer, “Strategies for Survival,” in The Tragedy of Great Power Politics, (New York: Norton, 2001), 138.

17 Motyl, “The Surrealism of Realism,” 76.

18 Mearsheimer, “Strategies for Survival,” 138.

3 Alexander J. Motyl, “The Surrealism of Realism: Misreading the War in Ukraine,” World Affairs 177, 5 (2015): 77.

4 Ibid, 78.

19 Micheal McFaul, Stephen Sestanovich, and John J. Mearsheimer, “Faulty Powers: Who Started the Ukraine Crisis?,” Foreign Affairs 93, 6 (2014): 167-168.

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20 Moytl, "The Surrealism of Realism", 82.

21 Bock, Henneberg, and Plank, “'If You Compress the Spring,’”103.

37 McFaul, Sestanovich, and Mearsheimer, “Faulty Powers,” 169-70.

38 Mearsheimer, “Why the Ukraine Crisis,”87.

39 Ibid, 88.

22 John J. Mearsheimer, “Why the Ukraine Crisis Is the West's Fault: The Liberal Delusions That Provoked Putin,” Foreign Affairs 93, 5 (2014): 77.

23 Ibid, 78-79.

24 Gedmin, "Beyond Crimea", 9.

25-26 Ibid.

27 Andrea Chandler, "Kakaя это дружба/what kind of friendship is this? Russia’s ‘Crimean Syndrome," European Security 27, 2 (2018): 205, 207.

28 Bebler, “Crimea and the Ukrainian-Russian Conflict,” 190.

29 Gordon L. Anderson, “From The Editor: Beyond Realism: Values, Interests, Levels, And Spheres In International Relations Theory,” International Journal on World Peace 31, 2 (2014): 8.

40 Ibid, 89.

41 Chandler, “What Kind of Friendship,” 214.

42 Ibid, 215.

43-44 Ibid.

45 Bock, Henneberg, and Plank, “'If You Compress the Spring,’”102.

46 Oleksii Izhak, "The Threats and Challenges of a Multipolar World: A Ukraine Crisis Case Study," Connections 15, 1 (2016): 43.

47 Mearsheimer, “Why the Ukraine Crisis,” 86.

48 Chandler, “What Kind of Friendship,” 216.

49 McFaul, Sestanovich, and Mearsheimer, “Faulty Powers,” 170-71.

30 Gedmin, “Beyond Crimea,” 10.

50 Aurel Braun, “Tougher Sanctions Now: Putin’s Delusional Quest for Empire,” World Affairs 177, 2 (2014): 36.

31 Ibid, 11.

51 Chandler, “What Kind of Friendship,” 214.

32-33 Ibid 34 Mearsheimer, “Why the Ukraine Crisis,” 77.

35 Ibid, 78.

36 Ibid, 83.

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52 Ibid, 204.

53 Ibid.

54 Braun, “Tougher Sanctions Now,” 36.

55 Stephan M. Walt, “Would You Die for That Country?,” Foreign Policy, March 24, 2014.

56 McFaul, Sestanovich, and Mearsheimer, “Faulty Powers,” 174.

Works Cited - Anderson, Gordon L. "FROM THE EDITOR: BEYOND REALISM: VALUES, INTERESTS, LEVELS, AND SPHERES IN INTERNATIONAL RELATIONS THEORY." International Journal on World Peace 31, no. 2 (2014): 3-9.

- Bebler, Anton. "Crimea and the Ukrainian-Russian Conflict." In “Frozen Conflicts" in Europe, edited by Bebler Anton, 189-208. Opladen; Berlin; Toronto: Verlag Barbara Budrich, 2015.

- Bock, Andreas M, Ingo Henneberg, and Friedrich Plank. ""If You Compress the Spring, It Will Snap Back Hard": The Ukrainian Crisis and the Balance of Threat Theory." International Journal 70, no. 1 (2015): 101-09.

- Braun, Aurel. “Tougher Sanctions Now: Putin's Delusional Quest for Empire." World Affairs 177, no. 2 (2014): 34-42.

- Chandler, Andrea. “Kakaя это дружба/what kind of friendship is this? Russia’s ‘Crimean Syndrome.’” European Security, 27, no. 2 (2018): 201-223.

- Gedmin, Jeffrey. “Beyond Crimea: What Vladimir Putin Really Wants." World Affairs 177, no. 2 (2014): 8-16.

- Izhak, Oleksii. "The Threats and Challenges of a Multipolar World: A Ukraine Crisis Case Study."

Connections 15, no. 1 (2016): 32-44.

- McFaul, Michael, Stephen Sestanovich, and John J. Mearsheimer. "Faulty Powers: Who Started the Ukraine Crisis?" Foreign Affairs 93, no. 6 (2014): 167-78.

- Mearsheimer, John J. “Strategies for Survival.” In The Tragedy of Great Power Politics, 138-167.

New York: Norton, 2001.

-Mearsheimer, John J. "Why the Ukraine Crisis Is the West's Fault: The Liberal Delusions That Provoked Putin." Foreign Affairs 93, no. 5 (2014): 77-89.

- Motyl, Alexander J. "THE SURREALISM OF REALISM: Misreading the War in Ukraine." World Affairs 177, no. 5 (2015): 75-84.

-Von Eggert, Konstantin. “All Politics Are Local: Crimea Explained." World Affairs 177, no. 3 (2014): 50-56.

-Walt, Stephan M. “Would You Die for That Country?” Foreign Policy, March 24, 2014. Accessed Nov. 16, 2019. https://foreignpolicy.com/2014/03/24/would-you-die-for-that-country/.

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Dostoevsky’s Exclusionary Vision of Piety: The Failure of Dogmatic Belief Systems in “The Brothers Karamazov”

by Katharine Morrill Religious, specifically Orthodox Christian, philosophy has been noted by numerous scholars as constituting one of the cornerstones of Dostoevsky’s writing (1). In his novel The Brothers Karamazov (1881), which Karen Stepanian argues “presents the motif of transforming evil into good”, his vision of faith is concentrated in Ivan’s rebellion against God’s world and its response, the elder Zosima’s creed as recorded by Alyosha. (2) Many of the novel’s characters exhibit a fixed pattern of brief rebellion against this system and subsequent revelation; the latter usually manifests itself in the form of an epiphanic moment during which the affected individual returns to faith with strengthened convictions. Ivan Karamazov, however, exhibits rebellion, questions and at first rejects God’s world, and yet ultimately fails to replicate this redemptive pattern. I argue that in examining the intersection of Dostoevsky’s engagement with Kantian moral philosophy and the elder Zosima’s expression of the obligation towards a duty-based love he claims to be universal in nature,

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it becomes apparent that the belief system laid out in the novel is dogmatic in nature. Furthermore, in contrasting Ivan’s trajectory with the epiphanies experienced by other characters, the inability of this system to respond and adapt to questioning and doubt becomes apparent.

In Dostoevsky and Kant: Dialogues on Ethics, Evgenia Cherkasova explores points of convergence and divergence in the philosophies of Kant and Dostoevsky, focusing specifically on “the central questions of human freedom, moral choice, individual responsibility, the absolute and irreducible character of moral obligation, and the possibilities for “radical evil” in human nature and conduct.”(3) Beginning “with a historically grounded assumption that Kant was one of Dostoevsky’s significant philosophical interlocutors,” she proposes the term “deontology of the heart” to denote Dostoevsky’s “ethical perspective”; in this case, “deontology” refers to “a moral theory centered around the idea of unconditional, duty-based commitment”

and “the heart” to Dostoevsky’s idea that relaxed in the least by a person’s said commitment is founded in love. (4) physical and psychological weaknesses or unbearable social conditions”. (8) In the first chapter, “The Deontology of the Heart”, Cherkasova discusses Kant’s In The Brothers Karamazov, this is focus on separating moral law from reflected in a series of “radical personal from cynicism and ethical concerns, which by conversions definition must proceed from alienation to love and forgiveness based reason and empirical on a new appreciation of the fullness of (observationor evidence-based) life”, with the end goal being, as phrased thinking: for Kant, moral philosophy by the elder Zosima, “[torment] by must be “completely cleansed of universal love” –which supposedly everything that may be only incites one to “start praying to the birds, empirical”. (5) To this end, Kant as if in a sort of ecstasy, and entreat employs “pure practical reason, the them to forgive your sin”. (9) The birds alleged impartial arbiter in the moral here are emblematic of the idea of realm” in order to determine his universal love, which Zosima claims criteria for moral responsibility and should be extended to all beings. behaviour. (6) On the other hand, Zosima’s approach to religion and its “[for] Dostoevsky,” writes Cherkasova, practice, which forms the core of the “an ethical decision must be blessed by belief system advanced in the novel as whole, may be considered the heart; otherwise, it is a mere a idea, however ‘sensible,’ deontological in nature due to the intellectually sophisticated, or stress he places on the absolute nature aesthetically enticing it may be.” (7) of his commandment to love and live Common to both is the deontological in such a manner that reflects this element introduced above, which love. Book VI is marked by the enforces “the gap between ‘is’ and consistent juxtaposition of images of ‘ought’”; for both, moral duty is sin and salvation brought about by “transcendent” and cannot be derived pious love; Zosima leaves negligible from empirical reality – i.e. from what room for discussion or objection to his people actually do, or from an brand of spiritual love as the only individual’s specific situation; answer to a world without Christ, in Dostoevsky in particular emphasized which “[the unfaithful] will end by drenching the that “individual responsibility is not

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earth with blood, for blood calls to blood…”. (10)If for Dostoevsky, “empirical realism is destined to surrender to the no less real spiritual experience of active love” and Zosima’s creed of love reflects “the unconditional values for which every human heart must strive,” it follows that this love should be extended universally by those who adhere to this system; in other words, for it to measure up to the criterion of “heedful, active love” laid out

by Zosima, it should be extended to everyone, not only those who already buy into the tenets of this particular strain of faith. (11) Cherkasova focuses on Dostoevsky’s acknowledgment of “the primary role of the heart in moral conduct”; he “expresses skepticism concerning the moral worth of speculative reason, and passionately searches for the harmonious communion of human hearts flourishing in love”.

(12) I wish to refine this definition of love, as an examination of the novel’s text reveals that it denotes a sentiment specific to the guidelines laid out in Book VI: The Russian Monk.

My point of departure from Cherkasova’s work is her claim that “[the] novelist does not demand the completeness and universality of a moral system, but artistically depicts the life of ethical consciousness.” (13) On the contrary, I argue that the

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expression of Dostoevsky’s deontology of the heart in The Brothers Karamazov represents a closed, dogmatic system. The deontological approach Cherkasova identifies in Dostoevsky’s writing, in The Brothers Karamazov in particular, necessitates of Dostoevsky’s characters an adherence to the strict moral obligations to submit to “[torment] by universal love”. (14) Furthermore, the persistent use by Zosima of the term “universal” itself, as well as his claim that “[a] loving humility is a terrible power, the most powerful of all,” indicate that this system of belief is in fact presented as a comprehensive, allembracing, perhaps even obligatory, solution to the grim and violent alternative of “gluttony, fornication, ostentation, boasting, and envious rivalry” resulting from a loveless (and therefore godless) life.

(15) Madhuri P. Yadlapati’s Against Dogmatism: Dwelling in Faith and Doubt defines a dogmatic system as a “[portrayal] of faith that [seems] threatened by any significant account of doubt or skepticism,” furthermore arguing that “[faith] is often restricted to…belief statements or creeds” in such systems. (16) This definition is of particular use to a discussion of the paradigm of faith laid out in The Brothers Karamazov, as the “significant account of doubt” presented by Ivan Karamazov will serve as the focal point of my

argument for the failure of this system to embody a truly universal love. (17) Although, as Cherkasova discusses, Dostoevsky’s vision of moral duty stressed active love, which precludes relegating it to the realm of pure “belief statements of creeds,” the disregard for empirical evidence in favour of highlighting the “transcendent” character of moral law common to the deontological approach indicates that abstract belief and creed form an important part of the religious philosophy forwarded in the novel.

(18) Furthermore, Zosima’s system, as detailed above, may be considered dogmatic due to the fact it operates on the strict condition that one accepts God’s world exactly as it is presented. Those who question it either very quickly come to a version of faith truer and stronger than that which they previously possessed, or are excommunicated from the system entirely upon refusal to abandon their questioning.

Yadlapati states that within dogmatic faith systems, “the strength and merits of faith…lie in an individuals unshakable certitude, while doubt is often depicted as an enemy to faith altogether, or at best an uncomfortable hiccup along the glorious journey to faith—a purifying fire that functions to distill true faith”. 19 Dostoevsky’s deontology of the heart, as expressed by Zosima’s preaching in

The Brothers Karamazov, ostensibly presents a vision of faith in which doubt indeed serves either to definitively excommunicate characters who question the system too much – as will be discussed with regards to Ivan – or as an agent in delivering the faithful from the final shackles of insecurity restricting them from the ideal vision of the world as professed in Book VI. Indeed, in examining different characters’ trajectories from various degrees of rebellion and spiritual anguish towards the comfort and absolute certainty provided by Dostoevsky’s deontology of the heart, a pattern emerges in the novel, against it becomes clear that Ivan, who according to Cherkasova “is lacking…ethical resolution to follow the commandment of love,” neither is accepted into the system of supposedly universal love and responsibility, nor does he receive satisfactory answers to the questions of faith which plague him. (20) Whereas Julia W. Connolly states that the “sequence of events leading up to [Alyosha’s] climactic vision” constitute the establishment of “a pattern against which the subsequent experiences of Dmitrij and Ivan can be measured,” I propose that it is perhaps most productive to isolate Ivan’s experience from that of other characters, as he deviates most radically from the established pattern of discovering and fire that functions to distill true faith”. 19 Dostoevsky’s deontology of the heart, as expressed by Zosima’s preaching in The

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Brothers Karamazov, ostensibly presents a vision of faith in which doubt indeed serves either to definitively excommunicate characters who question the system too much – as will be discussed with regards to Ivan – or as an agent in delivering the faithful from the final shackles of insecurity restricting them from the ideal vision of the world as professed in Book VI. Indeed, in examining different characters’ trajectories from various degrees of rebellion and spiritual anguish towards the comfort and absolute certainty provided

by Dostoevsky’s deontology of the heart, a pattern emerges in the novel, against it becomes clear that Ivan, who according to Cherkasova “is lacking…ethical resolution to follow the commandment of love,” neither is accepted into the system of supposedly universal love and responsibility, nor does he receive satisfactory answers to the questions of faith which plague him. (20) Whereas Julia W. Connolly states that the “sequence of events leading up to [Alyosha’s] climactic vision” constitute the establishment of “a pattern against which the subsequent experiences of Dmitrij and Ivan can be measured,” I propose that it is perhaps most productive to isolate Ivan’s experience from that of other characters, as he deviates most radically from the established pattern of discovering and

accepting the commandment universally. (21)

to

love

Zosima’s chapter, for instance, begins with the story of the elder’s brother, Markel, and his religious transformation, a living backdrop against which he lays out his philosophy of love. Towards the end of his life, Markel renounces his anger at God and his disbelief, no longer “angry” and “[swearing] at God’s church”; he is “utterly changed in spirit,” “rejoicing and all atremble with love”. (22) Having become joyful, everything becomes beautiful to Markel, and he is inducted into the novel’s moral system of active love, stating to his mother that “each of us is guilty in everything, before everyone”.

(23) Although, as Connolly points out, “Zosima…offers no insight into how or why this change occurred, and neither does Dostoevskij,” this transformation is fundamental in laying out the key themes and elements of Zosima’s Book. (24) Mitya’s transformation is similarly structured; his dream of the crying, suffering baby causes “a tenderness such as he has never known before” to appear in his heart; he realizes his “Karamazov unrestraint” must absolutely be directed towards helping others “so that there will be no more tears in anyone from that moment on”. (25) Although he, not unlike his brother Ivan, questions the nature of suffering and asks, “why are [the people in his dream] blackened with such

black misery, why don’t they feed the wee one?”, he fully accepts the idea of dutybased love and responsibility as the universal answer, and is therefore comforted in faith. (26) Later on, he demonstrates the extent of his faith, stating that he, although “not guilty of his father’s blood,” will “go [to be punished] for all [people], because there must be someone who will go for all of them”; the practical punishment dealt to him becomes bearable through the spiritual compensation provided by his endeavour to live according to the tenets of love and mutual responsibility. (27)

out that unlike “some other young man… who has already learned to love not ardently but just lukewarmly,” Alyosha “[believes] piously and unshakeably”. (30) Thus, because Alyosha’s ardent love for God and others already corresponds to a deontological commitment to ‘universal love’, it is easy for him to “accept the innumerable worlds of God…together in his soul” before leaving the monastery. (31) Indeed, his anguish is resolved definitively and he enters into the world with a renewed commitment to his faith: “[he] fell to the earth a weak youth and rose up a fighter, steadfast for the rest of his life.” (32)

The pious Alyosha constitutes perhaps the most striking example of the pattern of rebellion and enlightenment put forth in the novel. Subsequent to the death of the elder Zosima, he experiences “a crisis and upheaval” in his soul; the narrator is, however, careful to mention at once that this upset “shook his mind but also ultimately strengthened it for the whole of his life, and towards a definite purpose”, indicating that this rebellion, too, belongs to those events which lead the affected individual towards a more developed understanding of their place within the system of love and responsibility detailed in Zosima’s book. (28) Although Alyosha is deeply troubled, he maintains: “I believed, I believe, and I want to believe, and I will believe…!”. (29) The narrator points

The conclusion to be drawn from the establishment of this pattern in the text is one already provided to the reader by the elder Zosima: the answer to one’s torments is to “[love] all of God’s creation, both the whole of it and every grain of sand…If you love each thing, you will perceive the mystery of God in things. Once you have perceived it, you will begin tirelessly to perceive more and more of it every day”. (33) Indeed, in each case outlined above, epiphanic revelations centered on one’s duty to love function as key elements in the characters’ spiritual transformations. On the other hand, the epiphanic theme seems to act as a tool for conversion, a ritual whereby Dostoevsky’s characters accept the conditions of his deontology of the

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heart and are rewarded for it. Whereas, for instance, Alyosha’s ability to reconcile his faith with the reality of life outside the monastery demonstrates that the two spheres (faith and everyday life) are far from incompatible, the pattern examined above suggests that this system is in fact lacking in true universality, as it is only accessible to those who already accept the conditions of the system to some degree and enact a rebellion which doesn’t push the limits of the established paradigm of universal love.

Accordingly, Zosima can be considered as preaching to an inaccurately wide and nondescript target audience; the high degree of universal accessibility to his faith, in practice, is restricted to the select few. One needs only to look at the rest of the chapter and its numerous instances of emphasis on the uniquely Russian, specifically Orthodox, character of the salvation he envisions, in order to acquire a further sense of the limitations of his preaching: “I took the Gospel from the table, the Russian translation”; “from these meek ones…will perhaps come once again the salvation of the Russian land”; “The salvation of Russia is from the people. And the Russian monastery has been with the people from time immemorial”; “[the] people will confront the atheist and overcome him, and there will be One Orthodox Russia” [emphasis mine]. (34)

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Ivan, on the other hand, is not granted the progression from rebellion to strengthened faith outlined above.

Although he “[loves] children terribly” and claims that even “sticky little leaves…are dear to [him],” later saying to Alyosha “I love your face…Did you know that I love your face?”, this proves to be insufficient in engendering spiritual redemption due to his persistent empiricism: “[what] is a seraph? Maybe a whole constellation. And maybe that whole constellation is just some chemical molecule”. (35) Furthermore, he ultimately tries to claim responsibility for his father’s death: “[calm] yourselves, I’m not mad, I’m simply a murderer”. (36) He does not, however, experience the same kind of turnaround that Grushenka and Mitya do, and is therefore left on the edge of death at the end of the novel, which I argue is symbolic of his exclusion from Dostoevsky’s moral paradigm.

Whereas Ivan says to Alyosha, “[it’s] not that I don’t accept God…I just most respectfully return him the ticket [to his world]”, Alyosha, in fact, makes almost the same statement during his period of rebellion after Zosima’s death: “I do not rebel against my God, I simply ‘do not accept his world’”.

(37) The latter’s claim is furthermore

accompanied by a “crooked smile”; the motif of acrooked, twisted, or otherwise abnormal smile accompanies Alyosha throughout the novel and denotes instances of his struggle to reconcile the tenets of his faith with the reality of life outside the monastery. (38) This demonstrates that Ivan’s questioning of the faith system per se is notproblematic; rather, it is the scope of said questions, which transcend the realm of material Dostoevsky’s deontological love-based morality is comfortable dealing with, that proves to be most troubling. Much like Smerdyakov, who is positioned as an outcast and neglected even by Alyosha, Ivan is symbolically excluded from novel’s system of reciprocal love and responsibility because he does not accept the fundamental tenets of God’s world; the ostensible ‘answer’ to his questions that is Zosima’s preaching in Book VI fails to account for his continued desire for empirical knowledge to support the ideas imparted to him. Irene Masing-Delic places Smerdyakov firmly outside of the novel’s paradigm of deontological love in her discussion of his status as a figure associated with the Devil. (39) Ivan is positioned similarly; indeed, it is the Devil who comes to him in Book XI, instead of the religious epiphany expected to continue the pattern of rebellion and redemption. Cherkasova states that with regards to Dostoevsky’s works, “[we] must only remember that evil

dwells and flourishes where the heart’s life-giving sources are contaminated, where its essential bonds to the hearts of other human beings are ignored, and where love is forgotten.” (40) This may be so; however, Ivan is conversely left to succumb to despair by a religious system that refuses to accept the introduction of logic into its conception of love and its enactment.

Although Strem claims that Ivan “comes out victorious, won over to a moral life”, denoting his dialogue with the devil and subsequent illness as “the end of the rule of his intellect”, a contrast remains between this supposed epiphany and that which is experienced by other characters. (41) If “Ivan Karamazov, a murderer by intent, will be redeemed because [he renounces his] intellect and will listen to the voice of [his] better nature,” why, then, does Ivan fail to execute the redemptive pattern established in the novel? (42) The most evident answer is that he, given his continued propensity towards questioning the system in place, is not a candidate for redemption, not does he fully renounce his intellect.

Connolly makes note of several features present in other epiphanic scenes in the novel which do not appear in his conversation with the devil: “Ivan… does not undergo any cleansing or purification”; “missing in this revelatory

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episode is any emphasis on light or illumination”; “Ivan…feels only distress and despair”. (43) Through the absence of the markers of true redemption, Connolly concludes, Ivan “remains deeply tormented”. (44) As discussed above, Markel, Mitya, and Alyosha are granted the clarity and peace of mind afforded by the acceptance of the commandment to love and to act out of a duty to love. On the other hand, Ivan, despite his willingness to love and the confession he makes in the courtroom, ends the novel in torture; his trajectory concludes with him lying “in fever and unconscious,” with doctors “unable to give any firm hope” to Katerina Ivanovna and Alyosha as to his chances for survival.

(45) This demonstrates that his failure to fully renounce his search for empirical evidence to corroborate his faith dooms him to remain excluded from the dogmatic paradigm of spiritual love.

Stepanian advances the argument that “[pride] closes man to the Holy Spirit, who grants knowledge of divine love.

Therefore Ivan cannot accept God's world: ‘it's not that I don't want to, I can't accept it’.” (46) In turn, I argue that it is furthermore useful to take into account the evidence explored above, which suggests that the system itself plays a role in closing certain types of “man” to the Holy Spirit. Ivan undeniably grapples with the basic notions

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of selflessness common to many religious paradigms, dogmatic or not: in the chapter “Rebellion,” he complains to Alyosha, for instance, that he “never could understand how it’s possible to love one’s neighbours”.

(47) On the other hand, his entire rejection of God’s world is predicated on the suffering of children and his failure to reconcile with such atrocities.

He furthermore, as previously discussed, is far from a loveless individual – he simply questions the mechanics behind unequivocal Christlike love which is duty-based: “[well], I don’t know [Christ’s love] yet, and I cannot understand it, nor can a numberless multitude of other people along with me.” (48) The failure here lies not with Ivan’s questions; as Yadlapati suggests, faith is most productive when it “responds creatively and responsibly to [humans] living in the everyday world as limited, imaginative, and questioning creatures” (Ivan, one such limited and questioning creature, tries to reconcile with a faith that proves to be wholly unresponsive). (49) Rather, the novel fails to account for Ivan’s questions – the closed system of faith detailed by Zosima and enacted by other characters pushes love and forgiveness as universal answers to every question without targeting the specifics of Ivan’s empirical

concerns. Laurie Langbauer argues that for Ivan, “[the] question of faith doesn't lie in whether or not you believe in God's existence, but how to respond to him” – indeed, in the absence of rigorous dialogue which synthesizes Ivan’s logic and the creed of deontological love, Ivan’s questions can neither be properly asked nor responded to.

(50) Therefore, Dostoevsky’s deontology of the heart cannot be considered the universal system it is often claimed to be; the dogmatic rejection of the reason fundamental to Kantian moral law, and of the desire for empirical knowledge Ivan professes, constitutes an irreconcilable stumbling block for many, who, as Ivan points out, simply are not predisposed towards blindly loving everyone and accepting responsibility for others on purely deontological – i.e. duty- rather than evidence-based – moral grounds. (51) This sentiment is echoed in Malcom V. Jones’ discussion of the Grand Inquisitor, who the former argues advances the idea that “moral choice,” although a “gift which Jesus brought to the world,” is “a burden too heavy for all but a few to bear”. (52) Thereby, Dostoevsky’s supposedly universal morality remains accessible only to the select few who elect to bear this burden, and are further capable of doing so.

Ultimately, Ivan’s trajectory exposes the failure of the system of belief set up in the novel to account for, respond to, and successfully refute evidence which runs contradictory to the

conditions of Dostoevsky’s deontological love-based morality; by extension, this denotes the failure of closed systems to demonstrate receptivity to doubt and questioning. I argue that there can be no such thing as universal responsibility or love if these sentiments and the enactment thereof are predicated on the acceptance of a dogmatic belief system which casts away questions and objections and relegates them to the realm of non-belief. As stated

by Morson in “What is Prosaics?”, “[any] closed system can explain away objections to it. One has to stand outside it, and look at evidence without presuming the system’s correctness, to test it. But testing is what believers in closed systems refuse to do.

They prefer to illustrate”. (53) Indeed, the dogmatic system of The Brothers Karamazov is inflexible and fails to account for – and even to explain – evidence outside the limited scope of material which it already deals with.

Therefore, it only proves to be of use to individuals who already accept its core tenets, or are receptive to accepting them without posing questions that endanger the coherence and cohesiveness of the system. As such, Ivan “firmly rejects any leap of faith and decides to stick with what he can know”; he is furthermore symbolically punished by illness, whereas those who do perform a “leap of faith” are rewarded with strengthened convictions and a clearer outlook on life.

(54) As such, Ivan “firmly

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rejects any leap of faith and decides to stick with what he can know”; he is furthermore symbolically punished by illness, whereas those who do perform a “leap of faith” are rewarded with strengthened convictions and a clearer outlook on life. (54) Towards the beginning of the novel, Ivan advances an argument for the implementation of ecclesiastical courts, to which Zosima contributes: “[if] it were not for Christ’s church, indeed there would be no restraint on the criminal in his evildoing, and no punishment…real punishment…the only frightening and appeasing punishment, which lies in the acknowledgement of one’s own conscience.” (55) It is, accordingly, fitting that Ivan Karamazov’s ‘punishment’ for continuing to object to the notion of a love which is based in moral obligation rather than empirical processes is precisely that which he deemed most terrible of all: spiritual excommunication and exclusion from the league of those whose faith is strengthened by trial. Conversely, one importance conscience is ignored throughout the novel: that of the belief system itself, which persistently refuses to open itself to scrutiny, thereby leaving Ivan on the outside.

Notes 1 See for instance George G. Strem, “The Moral World of Dostoevsky,” The Russian Review 16, no. 3 (July 1957): 15-26.

2 Karen Stepanian, “The Brothers Karamazov: Dostoevskij’s Hosanna,” Studies in East European Thought 59, no. 1/2, Dostoevskij’s Significance for Philosophy and Theology (June 2007): 92, www.jstor.org/stable/40345495.

3 George L. Kline, “Foreword”. In Evgenia Cherkasova, Dostoevsky and Kant: Dialogues on Ethics, (BRILL, 2009).

4 Evgenia Cherkasova, Dostoevsky and Kant: Dialogues on Ethics, 1; 2. I will be using Cherkasova’s term “deontology of the heart” to refer to the system of belief laid out in The Brothers Karamazov. Of particular importance here is thedeparture from Kant Cherkasova notes in Dostoevsky’s focus on love: “[in] short, for Kant, the unconditional is grounded in rationality, for Dostoevsky, in love” (3).

5 Immanuel Kant, Groundwork of the Metaphysics of Morals. As quoted in Cherkasova, Dostoevsky and Kant, 7.

6 Cherkasova, Dostoevsky and Kant, 8.

7 Ibid., 16.

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8 Cherkasova, Dostoevsky and Kant, 7; 8.

9 Ibid., 13-14; Fyodor Dostoevsky, The Brothers Karamazov, trans. Richard Pevear and Larissa Volokhonsky (New York, London, and Toronto: Alfred A. Knopf, 1992), 319-20.

10 Dostoevsky, The Brothers Karamazov, 318.

11 Cherkasova, Dostoevsky and Kant, 20; Dostoevsky, The Brothers Karamazov, 319.

12 Cherkasova, Dostoevsky and Kant, 11.

13 Ibid., 3.

14 Dostoevsky, The Brothers Karamazov, 319.

21 Julia W. Connolly, “Dostoevskij’s Guide to Spiritual Epiphany in The Brothers Karamazov,” Studies in East European Thought 59, no. 1/2, Dostoevskij’s Significance for Philosophy and Theology (June 2007): 39-54, 42. www.jstor.org/stable/40345492.

22 Dostoevsky, The Brothers Karamazov, 288; 289. 23 Ibid., 289.

24 Connolly, “Dostoevskiij’s Guide to Spiritual Epiphany in The Brothers Karamazov,” 41.

15 Ibid., 319; 317.

25 Dostoevsky, The Brothers Karamazov, 508.

16 Madhuri M. Yadlapati. Abstract to Against Dogmatism: Dwelling in Faith and Doubt (Illinois Scholarship Online, 2017) Gary Saul Morson further notes that within dogmatic systems, “people hold their beliefs not because of evidence but because of unconscious drives”. See Morson, “What is Prosaics?” in Empathy, Open Time, and the Novel (Academic Studies Press, 2013), 13. www.jstor.org/stable/j.ctt1zxshvj.7.

26 Ibid., 507.

17 Yadlapati, Abstract.

32 Ibid., 363.

18 Yadlapati, Abstract; Cherkasova, Dostoevsky and Kant, 8.

33 Dostoevsky, The Brothers Karamazov, 319.

27 Dostoevsky, The Brothers Karamazov, 591; 753. 28 Ibid., 329.

29 Ibid., 341.

30 Ibid., 338 31 Ibid., 362.

19 Yadlapati, Abstract.

34 Dostoevsky, The Brothers Karamazov, 309; 313; 314; 315.

20 Cherkasova, Dostoevsky and Kant, 21.

35 Ibid., 238; 230; 652; 651.

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36 Ibid., 686.

37 Ibid., 245; 341.

38 Ibid., 341. Other examples of Alyosha’s smile can be found on pp.243, 337.

50 Laurie Langbauer, “Ethics and Theory: Suffering Children in Dickens, Dostoevsky, and Le Guin,” ELH 75, no.

1 (Spring 2008): 98. www.jstor.org/ stable/30029586.

51 Cherkasova points out that Dostoevsky 39 Irene Masing-Delic, “The “Castrator” himself was “well aware of the difficulty” Rogozhin and the “Castrate” Smerdiakov: of demanding rigid separation between logic and empirical evidence and “the Incarnations of Dostoevsky’s ‘Devilnecessity of moral choice.” She writes: “[if] the heart and empirically-oriented Bearing’ People?” in Exotic Moscow Under reason speak two different languages, the Western Eyes (Academic Studies Press, 2009). danger always exists that they will never be able to communicate” (18). It 40 Cherkasova, Dostoevsky and Kant, 21. is precisely this danger which the system of faith detailed by Zosima – and 41 Strem, “The Moral World of Dostoevsky,” 25. upheld by Alyosha and others – fails to perceive and respond to.

42 Strem, “The Moral World of Dostoevsky,” 19.

43 Connolly, “Dostoevskij’s Guide to Spiritual Epiphany in The Brothers Karamazov,” 51-2.

44 Ibid., 52.

52 Malcom V. Jones. “Introduction.”

In The Brothers Karamazov, XV. 53 Morson, “What is Prosaics?,” in Prosaics and Other Provocations: Empathy, Open Time, and the Novel (Academic

45 Dostoevsky, The Brothers Karmazov, 757.

Studies Press, 2013), 18.

46 Stepanian, “Dostoevskij’s Hosanna,” 91.

54 Cherkasova, Dostoevsky and Kant, 18.

47 Dostoevsky, The Brothers Karamazov, 236 48 Ibid., 237.

49 Yadlapati, Abstract.

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55 Dostoevsky, The Brothers Karamazov, 64.

Works Cited - Cherkasova, Evgenia. Dostoevsky and Kant: Dialogues on Ethics. BRILL, 2009.https:// ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/mcgill/reader.action?docID=556356 - Connolly, Julia W. “Dostoevskij’s Guide to Spiritual Epiphany in The Brothers Karamazov,” Studies in East European Thought 59, no. 1/2, Dostoevskij’s Significance for Philosophy and Theology (June 2007): 39-54. www.jstor.org/stable/40345492 - Dostoevsky, Fyodor. The Brothers Karamazov. Translated by Richard Pevear and Larissa Volokhonsky. New York, London, and Toronto: Alfred A. Knopf. 1992.

- Jones, Malcom V. “Introduction”. In Fyodor Dostoevsky, The Brothers Karamazov. Translated by Richard Pevear and Larissa Volokhonsky. New York, London, and Toronto: Alfred A. Knopf. 1992.

- Kant, Immanuel. Groundwork of the Metaphysics of Morals. In Evgenia Cherkasova, Dostoevsky and Kant: Dialogues on Ethics. BRILL, 2009. https://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/mcgill/ reader.action?docID=556356 - Kline, George L. “Foreword”. In Evgenia Cherkasova, Dostoevsky and Kant: Dialogues on Ethics.

BRILL, 2009. https://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/mcgill/reader.action?docID=556356 - Langbauer, Laurie. “Ethics and Theory: Suffering Children in Dickens, Dostoevsky, and Le Guin,” ELH 75, no. 1 (Spring 2008): 89-108. www.jstor.org/stable/30029586 - Masing-Delic, Irene. “The ‘Castrator’ Rogozhin and the ‘Castrate’ Smerdiakov: Incarnations of Dostoevsky’s ‘Devil-Bearing’ People?” in Exotic Moscow Under Western Eyes. Academic Studies Press, 2009. www.jstor.org/stable/j.ctt21h4wdr.9 -Morson, Gary Saul. “What Is Prosaics?” in Prosaics and Other Provocations: Empathy, Open Time, and the Novel. Academic Studies Press, 2013. https://www.jstor.org/stable/j.ctt1zxshvj.7 - Stepanian, Karen. “The Brothers Karamazov: Dostoevskij’s Hosanna”. Studies in East European Thought 59, no. 1/2, Dostoevskij’s Significance for Philosophy and Theology (June 2007): 87-99. https://www.jstor.org/stable/40345495 - Strem, George G. “The Moral World of Dostoevsky”. The Russian Review 16, no. 3 (July 1957): 15-26. https://www.jstor.org/stable/125940 - Yadlapati, Madhuri M. Against Dogmatism: Dwelling in Faith and Doubt. Illinois Scholarship Online, 2017. http://illinois.universitypressscholarship.com.proxy3.library.mcgill.ca/ view/10.5406/illinois/9780252037948.001.0001/upso-9780252037948-chapter-1

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“Giving Onions” vs. “Something Extraordinary”: The Juxtaposition of Silence and Verbosity Within Dostoevsky

by Gabrielle Oddenino The idea of opposites in conflict runs like a vein through most of Dostoevsky’s works. Conflicting ideas, philosophies, and actions define the narratives of his stories and offer them much of their substance. One of the ways that this tension is displayed is in how Dostoevsky uses silence versus verbosity in his works. With characters that are connected to goodness and saintliness, such as Prince Lev Myshkin, Sofya Marmeladova, and Alyosha Karamazov, who are often silent in their interactions with the rest of the world, and troubled characters such as The Underground Man, Ivan Karamazov, and Raskolnikov, being the perpetrators of long winded, wordy ideologies, the conflict between silence and verbosity can be tied into the wider scope of Dostoevsky’s themes.

While silence in Dostoevsky is connected to a kind of holiness, with good actions taking the place of words, verbosity leads to characters being caught up in their own, tormented worlds, unable to act, often with dire consequences.

In Dostoevsky’s various works christ-ike or holy figures are the ones who stay silent. In The Brothers Karamazov, Alyosha would, in childhood,

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“lapse into reverie and . . . set himself apart” or “go into a corner and read books”, yet in spite of this his schoolmates loved him and recognized an inherent goodness in him (1), making the first impression of Alexei Karamazov we receive one of a quiet, obvious goodness. This is supported through the book, with Alyosha’s continued silent non-judgemental acceptance of people, such as when Dimitri confesses his sins to him in Book III, how he quietly listens to Ivan as he tells him of his rebellion and life philosophy despite his differing opinion, and when Grushenka confides in Alyosha the story of her past. In Book V, during Alyosha’s meeting with Ivan, his responses are all done “softly” or through murmurs. The holy fool figure of “Stinking Lizaveta” furthers the connection between silence and saintliness, as “she could not even speak a word, and only rarely move her tongue” (2) , and due to this escapes any accusations of pride from the townsfolk.

Similarly in Crime and Punishment, Sonya spends much of the book being silent and timid, especially in the first half. Though Elizabeth Blake argues that Sonya’s silence is simply part of a trend in Crime and Punishment of

women being defined by what men say about them (3) , her quiet, attentive nature is far more an aspect of her character than any of the other women in the book. When she first appears in Raskolnikov’s apartment, she enters “timidly” and stutters through her request to Raskolnikov until she “faltered and fell silent” (4), and through the novel she continues to listen and react in such a manner. Even more so in A Gentle Creature, the figure of the young girl, explicitly connected to the main character’s idea of a saintly, redeeming figure, is almost never afforded a chance to speak in his tale, her narratively enforced silence being one of the ways he crafts her into a saviour figure. In The Idiot, Prince Myshkin, though he does speak often, only does so to tell the truth and is not trying to purport any extensive ideology he has thought up, nor is he ever speaking out of pride. He also invites peoples’ trust in his ability to listen and understand, and his character is such that it leads even his “rival” of sorts, Rogozhin, to confide in him (Part II). It is this action of listening and of doing good instead of just talking about how one should act, that makes Myshkin a saintly figure. This is a common thread between Myshkin, Sonya, and of course, Alyosha: they each, instead of focusing on theories and philosophies, instead listen to and care for others, placing value on their actions over their words.

In contrast, instances where characters are verbose, there are usually consequences and troubles just around the corner. During both Dimitri’s interrogation and his trial in The Brothers Karamazov, for example, when Dimitri speaks it consistently makes things worse for him, even though he is telling the truth. After one of his outbursts in the trial, the judge even says to Mitya that he is “‘. . . harming himself in the opinion of his judges’” (5). The Christ figure of Myshkin even falls prey to this, as when he has his outburst born of nervousness at the party (though he was supposed to “spend the evening in silence” (6)), it is the beginning of the ruin of his relations with the Epanchins, which leads to him having a fit and becoming ill. These instances of verbosity are from characters who are trying to be and do good, and who are on some narrative level succeeding, evidenced by Myshkin’s status as a savior figure and Dimitri’s desire to sacrifice himself for the worlds sins (another Christ-like connection). But when verbosity is performed by characters who are entirely consumed by their words and theories, the consequences are even more dire.

In Dostoevsky, ideologies and words are linked, with ideologies and “extreme actions” as Gary Saul Morson writes, being “fundamentally mistaken” (7). Ivan Karamazov, who spends nearly a whole

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book of the novel explaining his world view, is eventually driven mad by it, through the guilt and hopelessness it sparks within him. The Underground Man too, in Notes From the Underground, is one who has been destroyed by an ideology. He spends his days writing and writing his “notes”, which as they grow longer serve to lengthen his distance from real life. When he does venture into the world, such as at the dinner with his old school mates, he keeps interjecting thoughts into the conversation to test his ideology without regard to common courtesy or in any way following the rules for how conversations usually go, at one point before speaking taking a drink from his glass “preparing himself for something extraordinary, though [he] hardly knew [himself] what [he] was going to say” (8) .

This need to speak, to be loud and draw attention, to do “something extraordinary” is in direct opposition to the position the silent, religious characters take of performing little, continuously good actions. Perhaps this aspect of the negatives of verbosity (and thereby ideologies) is best exemplified in the figure of Raskolnikov. The murder that begins the action of the novel is sparked

by Raskolnikov trying to prove his philosophy correct, telling Sonya that he “wanted to become a Napoleon” (9) and be able to kill without being destroyed by it.

As the rest of the novel demonstrates, this does not work and Raskolnikov is in fact

torn apart by the crime he has committed.

Had Raskolnikov been able to form connections with other people, been able to stick with the sporadic good deeds (i.e. real actions) he performs throughout the novel instead of being consumed by a theory made up only of words, the terrible spiritual punishment he suffers would have been prevented.

There exists a link between this obsession on words and theories, and inaction or terrible actions that separate one from the rest of humanity. To return to Ivan Karamazov, though he says to Alyosha in his great rebellion that “If the suffering of children goes to make up the sum of suffering needed to buy truth, then I assert beforehand that the whole of truth is not worth such a price” (10) , we never see him actually doing anything to help a suffering child, unlike Dima who wants to stop the “wee one’s” crying (11) and is willing to sacrifice himself to do so, unlike Alyosha who is the only one to actually help a suffering child (Ilyusha). The actions Ivan does take (his conversations with Smerdyakov, leaving for Mokroye) only end up leading to terrible consequences, in both the murder of Fyodor Pavlovich Karamazov and the ensuing guilt that Ivan feels over the role his words played in the act. Just like how Raskolnikov’s one extraordinary action is both terrible in itself and leads to terrible consequences and is for multiple reasons unsustainable

as a way to live one’s life, both the inaction and the actions Ivan takes as defined by his life philosophy lead to his eventual downfall into madness.

In contrast to the consequences of verbosity, the consequences of the use of silence forces both the audience and the other characters in the stories to focus on the silent one’s actions instead of their words. As is demonstrated above, through their non-judgemental, silent presences when listening to others, Alyosha, Sonya, and Myshkin make the focus what their act of listening is achieving. Just as in The Grand Inquisitor, Jesus “approaches the old man in silence and gently kisses him on his bloodless, ninety-year old lips” (12) , these characters offer silent connection, yet unlike in The Grand Inquisitor, it has real effects on those they “kiss”. Alyosha’s support of Dimitri and belief in his innocence revives him (13), Sonya’s acceptance of Raskolnikov’s guilt and the spiritual guidance she offers him lead to his eventual redemption, and the faith Myshkin has in Nastasya gives her the option for salvation (though she is unable to bring herself to take it). Such good action’s don’t necessitate words or theories to explain themselves, they speak for themselves. When Grushenka and Alyosha offer each other "an onion” after Elder Zosima’s death, there are not words to explain their revitalization but “an

unexpected and strong feeling” (14) as evidenced by the fact that Ratikin has no clue what is going on. The pillow Dimitri finds under his head when he wakes up in the cell (15) does not need any words for the goodness of the action to be felt and deeply appreciated. Even Aglaya sending Myshkin the hedgehog as an apology and explanation, though Kolya begs for her reasoning and is sure it “contained some allegory” (16), Myshkin and Aglaya do not need words to explain this simple sweet act.

As Gary Saul Morson argues “Sometimes an onion surpasses a banquet” (17) , meaning that these little acts of faith and kindness have more meaning and goodness in them than any great deeds or ideologies we see coming from verbose philosophies and the characters consumed by them. Indeed, the entire thesis of The Brothers Karamazov is demonstrated in this manner. While the opposition, Ivan’s rebellion, is given in the form of a long, detailed, wordy argument in one section of the book (which is one of the reasons it is so easy to grasp, and why so many latch on to it), the real message of “giving onions” is demonstrated by the various characters actions throughout the entire novel. Looking at this through Bakhtin’s idea of the polyphonic novel, it is literally the character’s actions, the way they exist in the world, that demonstrates their worldview (their voice), with the act of giving an onion leading to separate world views connecting and allowing

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separate voices to exist in harmony during those moments within the story.

In conclusion, the juxtaposition of silence versus verbosity is used in Dostoevsky’s works to as part of his attempt to demonstrate the need for action based on faith (i.e. “giving onions”) versus inaction or ideologically based, selfish actions. These grand actions (that are shown to only ever lead to more suffering) are verbose in their complexity, compared to the simplicity of the acts of goodness like believing in someone’s innocence or making water into wine for a wedding. In a polyphonic world where every character has their own specific views and voice, the importance of actions and what occurs when there is finally silence is afforded particular weight, as it is the actual acting out of the world views demonstrated in the characters various voices.

Notes 1 Fyodor Dostoevsky, The Brothers Karamazov, Trans. by Richard Pevear and Larissa Volokhonsky, (New York: Farrar, Straus, and Giroux, 1990) 20.

2 Fyodor Dostoevsky, The Brothers Karamazov, Trans. by Richard Pevear and Larissa Volokhonsky, (New York: Farrar, Straus, and Giroux, 1990), 98.

3 Elizabeth Blake, "Sonya, Silent No More: A Response to the Woman Question in Dostoevsky's Crime and Punishment," The Slavic and East European Journal 50, no. 2 (2006): 255.

4 Fyodor Dostoevsky, Crime and Punishment, Trans. by Richard Pevear and Larissa Volokhonsky. (New York: Random House Inc, 1992) 237.

5 Fyodor Dostoevsky, The Brothers Karamazov, Trans. by Richard Pevear and Larissa Volokhonsky, (New York: Farrar, Straus, and Giroux, 1990) 666.

6 Fyodor Dostoevsky, The Idiot, Trans. by Richard Pevear and Larissa Volokhonsky, (New York: Random House Inc, 2001) 541.

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7 Gary Saul Morson, “The God of Onions: The Brothers Karamazov and the Mythic Prosaic,” A New Word on The Brothers Karamazov. Ed. by Jackson, Robert Louis.

Evanston: Northwestern UP, 2004, 110.

15 Fyodor Dostoevsky, Karamazov, 508.

The

Brothers

16 Fyodor Dostoevsky, The Idiot, Trans. by Richard Pevear and Larissa Volokhonsky, (New York: Random House Inc, 2001) 511.

8 Fyodor Dostoevsky, The Best Short Stories of Fyodor Dostoevsky, Trans. by David 17 Gary Saul Morson, “The God of Onions: Magarshack, (New York: Random House Inc, The Brothers Karamazov and the Mythic 1992) 162.

Prosaic,” A New Word on The Brothers Karamazov. Ed. by Jackson, Robert Louis.

9 Fyodor Dostoevsky, Crime and Evanston: Northwestern UP, 2004, 114.

Punishment, Trans. by Richard Pevear and Larissa Volokhonsky. (New York: Random House Inc, 1992) 415.

10 Fyodor Dostoevsky, The Brothers Karamazov, Trans. by Richard Pevear and Larissa Volokhonsky, (New York: Farrar, Straus, and Giroux, 1990) 245.

11 Fyodor Dostoevsky, Karamazov, 507.

The

Brothers

12 Fyodor Dostoevsky, The Brothers Karamazov, Trans. by Richard Pevear and Larissa Volokhonsky, (New York: Farrar, Straus, and Giroux, 1990) 262.

13 Fyodor Dostoevsky, Karamazov, 597.

The

Brothers

14 Fyodor Dostoevsky, Karamazov, 349.

The

Brothers

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Works Cited - Bakhtin, Mikhail. “Dostoevsky’s Polyphonic Novel”.

- Blake, Elizabeth. "Sonya, Silent No More: A Response to the Woman Question in Dostoevsky's Crime and Punishment". The Slavic and East European Journal 50, no.

2 (2006): 252-71. doi:10.2307/20459250.

- Dostoevsky, Fyodor. Crime and Punishment. Translated by Richard Pevear and Larissa Volokhonsky. New York: Random House Inc, 1992.

- Dostoevsky, Fyodor. The Best Short Stories of Fyodor Dostoevsky. Translated by David Magarshack. New York: Random House Inc, 1992.

-Dostoevsky, Fyodor. The Brothers Karamazov. Translated by Richard Pevear and Larissa Volokhonsky. New York: Farrar, Straus, and Giroux, 1990.

- Dostoevsky, Fyodor. The Idiot. Translated by Richard Pevear and Larissa Volokhonsky. New York: Random House Inc, 2001.

- Morson, Gary Saul. “The God of Onions: The Brothers Karamazov and the Mythic Prosaic.” A New Word on The Brothers Karamazov. Ed. by Jackson, Robert Louis.

Evanston: Northwestern UP, 2004, pp. 107-124.

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