Friday, March 9, 2018

'One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich' Book Review




One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich by Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn



     Despite the impression the title may impart, One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich is an approachable novella that gives an interesting, realistic look into the Soviet forced-labor camp system, known as the Gulag.  The Gulag system, which can be compared to the coinciding Nazi concentration camps, kept inmates in harsh conditions and intended to use them as an inexpensive workforce.  A major difference between the two systems was the Nazis’ ambition to exterminate entire categories of people – the mass death of the Soviet camps was a side effect (1).  While the killing in the Nazi camps was more purposeful and active, the total death toll of each system is comparable enough to consider the Gulag camps to be among the great evils of the 20th century.  

     The deaths that occurred in the Gulag system were due to execution, torture, exile, but perhaps most of all due to criminal negligence in harsh conditions.  The labor camps forced inmates to work throughout the year, including the unforgiving Soviet winters, coerced by extremely limited food rations and punished by imprisonment in diseased cells.  Whatever hardship the average citizen contended with in the Soviet Union, the suffering of the Gulag inmate was remarkably worse.  

     These conditions are what Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn depicted in One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich, the semi-fictionalized account of his own personal experience with the Gulag.  One Day can be read as a distillation of the eight years the author spent in various labor camps, working outdoors in freezing temperatures from sunrise until sunset.  There isn’t any room for romantic philosophizing in this work, the prose nearly terse in its straightforwardness.  But Solzhenitsyn’s writing isn’t terse, and the thoughts and actions of the main character situate the reader firmly into the life of a camp inmate.  

     It is the realism of this piece that makes it so compelling.  One Day isn’t simply a description of the common events in the Gulag, it provides an intimate look into the little triumphs and evils that permeate the experience of every person, which are made more poignant in the extreme conditions.  The main character of the story, Ivan Denisovich Shukhov, is powerful in his relatability.  The secret grievances he harbors, the difficulties he overcomes, the minor charities he contributes, and the constant essence of self-preservation that motivates him provide for the reader a subject worthy of contemplation: how could I have been any different if placed in Shukhov’s boots?  

     Mostly, Shukhov seems like a good guy.  He works hard to secure a decent food ration for himself and his fellow inmates.  He shares a cigarette with a deaf man who would have otherwise missed out.  But even these examples are tinged with a sense of planned reciprocity.  True altruism is a rare thing in the Gulag.  Nearly every moral action can be contextualized by a calculation of its potential return.  Shukhov would have us believe that this calculated charity isn’t bad, it is practical and economical.  It doesn’t harm anyone; rather, it establishes relationships that the inmates rely on to make it through their arduous situation.  

     That’s not to say that Shukhov is without fault.  Although he doesn’t express much guilt or regret, there are a few occasions where he exerts himself to the detriment of others.  For example, Shukhov needs a tray to carry bowls of soup to his team, but the tray he wants has already been promised to another prisoner on another team: “[An inmate] carried a tray to the table and unloaded the bowls.  Shukhov immediately grabbed it.  At that moment the man it had been promised to ran up and made to seize it.  But he was punier than Shukhov.  Shukhov shoved him off with the tray – what the hell are you pulling for? – and flung him against a pillar.  Then putting the tray under his arm he trotted off.”  The camps are dog-eat-dog and, by Shukhov’s reckoning, if he didn’t assert himself for food, he would starve and die.  Seeing the Gulag camp through his eyes, it is hard to argue.  

     It is a combination of the necessity to help other people who may be likewise able to help Shukhov, while fighting not to be pushed to the bottom of the dogpile, that establishes in One Day a subtle condemnation of Soviet communism.  Despite the supposed efforts to put everyone on equal ground, to receive equal benefit, the actuality is rife with corruption and favoritism.  Prisoners assist guards in exchange for extra food and privileged positions, often at the expense of their fellow inmates.  Even though commerce is prohibited among the inmates (2), prisoners are able to quietly exchange their services for benefits.  Shukhov makes slippers in exchange for money, which he uses to buy cigarettes.  Prisoners who help maintain the uniforms have better beds.  In these circumstances, where every aspect of camp life is to be regulated and equilibrated, communism still doesn’t work.  Every inmate is supposed to be the same, but nearly everyone claws in competition for just a little something extra.  And those that are able to get a little something extra are able to use that benefit to accrue more.  The trade and hierarchies among the prisoners demonstrates the injustice and hypocrisy of forcibly imposing an allegedly egalitarian system.  

     The subtlety of this condemnation was perhaps necessary for the author to be able to get his novella published.  Up until Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn’s publication of One Day, no written work had reached the public discussing the situation inside the Gulag camps; it was prohibited.  Nearly a decade after Joseph Stalin had died and Solzhenitsyn had been released from the forced-labor camps, One Day was presented in a premier Soviet magazine and read throughout the world, validating many people’s experiences and suspicions (3).  The popularity of this unprecedented depiction of Gulag life both established Solzhenitsyn as an international literary figure and helped Western countries justify antagonism towards communism.  By allowing this story to establish Solzhenitsyn as a writer, the foundation was set for his ultimate work, the piece that helped demolish the Soviet Union: The Gulag Archipelago.  

     Put into context, Solzhenitsyn wrote One Day as more than an exposé, more than penance for his own misdeeds.  He wrote this novella as a practice of personal moral significance.  Ultimately, the value of this book culminates when the reader analyzes themself in regard to the main character, Shukhov.  It is through the author’s compelling writing that we become absorbed by the story, living a day in Shukhov’s life.  We readers have the advantage of taking a step back from the narrative to take a more objective look and express the lessons to be learned by Shukhov’s experiences.  When we then practice that perspective-taking on our individual experience of reading the book, we can learn a personal lesson, made all the more powerful through its intimacy and relevancy.  Through reflection on how we judge the behavior of someone in the Gulag labor camps, we can more aptly assess the ethical conduct of our own everyday life.  

     While not widely discussed today, One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich could be considered among the important 20th century novels.  It certainly deserves to be ranked with more famous contemporary works (4).  Its cultural-political significance alone warrants its study, not to mention the skillfully personal realism with which Solzhenitsyn writes.  



Thank you for reading.



  1.   Anti-Semitism was not as explicitly condoned in the government of the Soviet Union as it was in Nazi Germany, though “pogroms” that occurred in Soviet states led to the deaths of thousands of Jews. 
  2.   In Soviet communism the resources were meted by the government – capitalism was the enemy. 
  3.   It is my opinion that Nikita Kruschev, the Soviet leader after Stalin, endorsed the publication of One Day to further legitimize himself as ruler by discrediting his predecessor.
  4.   Such works as Elie Wiesel’s Night or Victor Frankl’s Man’s Search for Meaning come to mind.




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Friday, February 9, 2018

Not Advertised: Bali Diving Trip for 1




This is a short story from my visit to Indonesia, July 2017.


A shimmer to my side and I turn my head to see a barracuda at eye level, slowly following baitfish. The barracuda gazes fanatically at me before turning back to its prey. Lazily, the fish disappear in a haze of sunlight. The water is warm, and I look downward.
 Nearly below me, as the bright tropical sea recedes into an ever deeper blue, rests the wreck of the USAT Liberty. The gutted ship no longer has the sharp lines and curves of a manmade vessel; instead, it has been given new life by asymmetrical, organic growth. I can’t quite make out the individual corals and fish, so that their movements along the skeleton of the shipwreck animate it. The Liberty pulses with the rhythm of the waves, its far end fading into the depths.
My breathe whooshes through the snorkel, rattling slightly. I’m going to freedive into this ship. No scuba tank – lungs only.
I push forward to center myself above the highest tip of the wreck. The extent of my freediving training is this: a drunken conversation with an Australian at a beach bar last night.
I take 3 full breathes, completely exhaling each. Sucking in as much air as I can, I throw myself downwards, kicking my fins. The nearby end of the ship isn’t too far underwater, and I easily reach it. I pop my ears. My nerves are calmed now that I’m actually diving. I decide to push down a little deeper. To my surprise, I find I have to pop my ears again, wiggling my jaw with a slight crackling sound.
I descend into the Liberty’s shadow where immediately the water is a touch cooler. Approaching the wall of metal, the ship’s surface has clarified into a higher resolution and I can see that the metal is splotched with algae.  My chest starts to feel uncomfortable, so I get my fins underneath me and kick. Without haste, I return to the surface. *Pshew!* I shoot the water out of my snorkel with a firm exhalation.
I want to see more interesting parts of the ship. Eyes scanning the body of the wreck, I paddle over the open belly. This is where the most life is, waving and darting around. I see a crossbeam within the hold and determine to swim under it.
3 big breaths, I plunge forward, and kick the surface away. I crackle my ears. I’m swimming with more purpose, having to go twice as deep. I wiggle my jaw again. I’ve reached the edge of the ship. I pop my ears for a third time. Now I’m into the hold where corals reveal their resolution. What looked like dull blurs from above showcase intricate patterns and vibrancy, more than my eyes can take in as I continue to descend. I must be 50 feet underwater. The crossbeam. As I loop under it, my lungs are aching, and I’m suddenly faced with a fish bigger than me. No time for pleasantries, I kick, waving my arms upward.  The roof of air is far above as I struggle towards it.  Kicking, grasping, aching, racing the bubbles I cough.

*PSSSHEW!* I explode into the air. Heaving, my chest is nearly spasming. I look towards the shore, where the sun sits atop Mt. Agung. The volcano hasn’t quite yet blocked out the light. I think I can fit in a few more dives.