Dead Souls Paperback – March 25, 1997

I think that I’ve been enjoying Russian literature (read: Dostoevsky) so much lately because it feels so universal. It is not that I have a particular interest in Russian history but rather in self. I need to understand myself, and these novels have been speaking to me more directly than nearly anything I’ve experienced before. Although Gogol (and Dostoevsky) is certainly writing about the “Russian man” the faults, the successes, the fears, and the desires are those of the everyman. I see myself and those around me reflected so clearly in the prose (or the poetry in this case) that I often miss the specificity of “Russian” in the descriptions of “man.” This approach has worked much better while reading Dostoevsky than it did as I pushed through Dead Souls as Gogol seemed to really wish to hold a mirror to the face of Russia specifically. Despite some very universal truths presented here (“…nothing could be more pleasant than to live in solitude, enjoy the spectacle of nature, and occasionally read some book. Still, if there is no friend with whom one can share… What are all the treasures of the world then! Keep not money, but keep good people’s company.”), I fear as though I missed much of what Gogol was attempting to describe about his time and place in history as I continued to look for myself through his conscious effort to put the “Russian” into his description of man.My desire is also to connect with the characters and the ideas on a personal level. I found that to be as difficult here as it was throughout the majority of Demons. Chichikov was not a relatable character to me. Neither relatable nor sympathetic, he was simply a vehicle through which Gogol funneled his satirical observations on life as a Russian. Although stylistically incredibly different, the satirical focus of this novel/poem often had me feeling as though I was reading Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead with shades of Patrick Bateman in Chichickov’s insistent attention to detail – especially apparent at the end of Volume 2 during his visit to the tailor. Additionally, unlike Dostoevsky’s deliberate reliance on dialog and conversation, Gogol’s lengthy paragraphs and descriptions put me more in the position of outside observer than active participant. While these things may have made it slightly more difficult for me to feel involved, I read how I read – that is, with an agenda – and it would be folly for me to attempt to reflect in any way other than that which is my own. I know I’ve struggled with this often – especially of late. I do not intend to make this a common theme, but my heart is what it is, and I’m not trying to escape it. The meaning is, after all, what the Reader wishes to read much more than what the Writer attempted to write is it not?With that said, how can I not allow Gogol to look directly into my soul and pull out the most painful of episodes? Forgive my extensive quotation, but this was perfectly sublime and heart-wrenching at the same time:“… a man will at least once meet with a phenomenon which is unlike anything he has happened to see before, which for once at least awakens in him a feeling unlike those he is fated to feel all his life. Wherever, across whatever sorrows our life is woven of, a resplendent joy will gaily race by, just as a splendid carriage with golden harness, picturebook horses, and a shining brilliance of glass sometimes suddenly and unexpectedly goes speeding by some poor, forsaken hamlet that has never seen anything but a country cart, and for a long time [I] stand gaping open-mouthed, not putting [my hat] back on, though the wondrous carriage has long since sped away and vanished from sight. So, too, did the blonde girl suddenly, in a completely unexpected manner appear in [my] story and also disappear. For a long time [I] would have stood insensibly on the same spot, gazing senselessly into the distance, having forgotten the road, and all the reprimands that lay ahead of [me], and the scoldings for the delay, having forgotten [myself], and the office, and the world, and all there is in the world.”Until this point (about a quarter of the way in) I was wholly enjoying the narrative, but it was here that my heart melted, and all I wanted to do was commiserate with the characters on the page… to know them and to be known and not feel “like a familyless wayfarer… left alone in the middle of the road.” Bitterly did I feel my solitude at this point, but I cannot deny that I certainly *felt* for the first time in this journey, and it was glorious turning point in my ability to connect with this story.Where, however, did those feelings lead me? There was little I found in the remainder of the story that drew me toward Chichikov in such a fashion as that excerpt. I went on and on about the universality of man as presented in these narratives above, yet I see the words I put on the page and feel as though I am still only looking for the universality of myself. If there is no object for one’s desire, it is at least minimally helpful to believe that others, no matter the separation of time, distance, or reality empathize with a true understanding and, in that empathy, become united with me. Despite his multiple warnings against solitude Gogol did not, however, simply speak to matters of the heart. I felt like this was also a story of motivation… what causes us to think, to feel, to act in a certain manner. What affects our success or our failure? Not less than twice does Gogol warn of the dangers of acting without first being firmly rooted in a Truth. “…a man’s goal is never defined until he finally sets a firm foot on solid ground, and not on some freethinking chimera of youth,” and, “how can you walk if not down a path; how can you drive if there’s no ground under you; how can you float if the bark isn’t in the water? And life is a journey.” Yet how is it that we define that goal once we’ve found our footing? How do we choose the path down which we will walk? Or is that path chosen for us?I, once again, fall back into my heart when Gogol notes that, “there are passions that it is not for man to choose. They are born with him at the moment of his birth into this world, and he is not granted the power to refuse them. They are guided by a higher destiny, and they have in them something eternally calling, never ceasing through one’s life.” Could it really be that these Dead Souls were poor Chichikov’s eternal passion? The argument certainly exists! Though this seedy underhanded character who, “think[s] not about not doing wrong, but only about having no one say [he] is doing wrong,” certainly seems driven by the desire for worldliness, he never can quite escape his underlying desire for companionship, for family, and for wholeness. He cannot escape his desire to leave a mark on his beloved country for his country, for posterity, and for himself. Unfortunately, however, Chichikov ultimately loses himself. While we do not, of course, know Gogol’s eventual intentions for his “hero,” I find it difficult to believe that Chichikov would have been successful in his drive to complete himself in a meaningful way as he had simply fallen too far down the rabbit hole of selfishness and temporal pursuit.I want so desperately to fall into the place where, “it happens that a man sometimes sees such a thing in a dream, and afterwards he dwells on this dream all his life, reality is lost to him forever, and he is decidedly good for nothing anymore.” I want to follow that passion with which I was born. I want to chase the splendid carriage with golden harness. I feel Gogol saying to me that this blind and complete devotion can, however, lead one to failure as well – especially if one has forced a direction and inadvertently(?) chosen the wrong goal. Does Chichikov replace his true desire with his worldliness? I feel he does, and how easy it is to fall into this trap. How easy it can be to misplace your born passion or not see it until it is too late – especially if your foot is not yet set on firm ground. This, to me, was Gogol’s warning to us. It is a warning that many of us do not receive in time, if ever. A warning I hope, finally, to heed. Chichikov does eventually come around, albeit, too late… he realizes his desire for a “frolicsome lad and a beautiful daughter…” he understands, finally, that only in this way… only in communion… only in family… only in truth and in love can, “everyone know that he had indeed lived and existed, and had not merely passed over the earth like some shadow or ghost.” I believe that he recognized his folly and his futility for he realizes that, “much came into his head of the sort that so often takes a man away from the dull present moment, frets him, teases him, stirs him, and gives him pleasure even when he himself is sure that it will never come true.” That is pure Truth… pure depression, and pure acceptance of a fulfilling Truth, but only at the point where he has given up. The tragedy being that, even in his realization, he does not change his ways but continues to pursue the ephemeral and transient pleasures of the world. His most lucid acceptance of his true desire comes only when he feels he has lost. I want to believe it was a true epiphany, but he mind immediately wanders back to the mundane – I find it difficult to have hope for him.So now what? Will it be that, “starting tomorrow [I’ll] begin a new life, starting tomorrow [I’ll] begin doing everything as I ought to, starting tomorrow [I’ll] go on a diet…?” I doubt it. Tomorrow, “by the evening… [I will] overeat so much that [I] just blink [my] eyes and can’t move [my] tongue, [I] sit like an owl staring at everybody.” Perhaps I will do that right now as I imagine the carriage riding away. But that can’t possibly be the lesson, can it? I could talk about the importance (or not) of money… I could talk about the misogyny in the book, I could try, again, to tie together the ideas applicable to the everyman, or I could lament the fact that reading this felt like watching Metropolis with all of its lost scenes. But I can’t. I think my takeaway is simply to be aware, to try to understand myself, and my motivations. To understand what is important and chase that, and to not allow myself to slip into a place willful blindness and indifference to the things that actually create a life. The satire of man’s pursuit of wealth and the justification of his actions is at least as relevant in 21st century America as it was in 19th century Russia. That we all long for completeness and often find that true longing overshadowed by a society that tells us fulfillment can be found in the world is a timeless battle that will forever be raging. And I, like you, am simply another soldier in that battle hoping to make it home alive.

Dead Souls the novel by Gogol is a masterpiece of the theater of the absurd. Early Russian critics, Belinsky in particular, mistakenly considered the novel to be a piece of naturalistic realism, when in fact it is a world based in a depiction its characters of what is called poshlost' (self satisfied mediocrity where the acme of happiness is purchasable, and the purchase ennobles the purchaser-- a Nabokovian assessment). It is marvel of language and a somewhat satirical work where the satire is not corrosive but rather an expose of Russian mores where the Russian will say with acceptance that, "yup, that's the way it is." This translation is a good one, but not the one I like the best. Andrew McAndrew's translation, now out of print, while not as scrupulously accurate in rendering the Russian captures the mood of humor and satirical acceptance best. So, this is a good translation, but there is no translation that can capture Gogol's manipulation of the Russian language.

This is quite an exceptional novel, I would say!! A scathing indictment on the complacency and torpor of post-Napoleonic war Russia written in the most deliciously discurssive prose!! The novel takes you through a troika ride (literally) across the impressive landscape of the Russian countryside, as our hero (or antihero) Chichikov visits the homes of various landowners, rounding up as many dead serfs as possible in a hair-brained effort to ascend the societal ladder. We meet a host of peculiar characters along the way, from the boisterous Nozdrev to the reclusive Tientietnikov, all hopelessly without qualities. In the process, the often-unrelable narrator skewers every Russian institution from the bureaucracy to the officials to the serfs in language rich with irony and laugh-out-loud satire. One cannot help but think of the epics of Homer, even down to the use of (hilariously) complicated simile.In Chichikov, Gogol undoubtedly sees a man of infinite potential, a man with real talents who could make a positive difference in society. Unfortunately, surrounded by corruption and self-indulgence, he succumbs to temptation and chooses instead the path of self-interest. Dogged by nature, Chichikov does not stray from his cause, determined to amass a great fortune no matter whom he must inveigle. The dead souls of the title seem to represent the corruption of Chichikov's soul, as well as that of his mother country at the time. Nevertheless, Gogol does not give up on his character or on Russia, offering the possibility that either may one day from this "dead" state.While Gogol's novel is on the surface unfinished and at times fragmented, it offers a more unified and cohesive story than do a great many novels that are finished. With good reason does it rank in the Top 35 of greatest novels ever written ( and Top 5 greatest Russian novels ever written). Even the reader who has only time to scan this amazing work will depart with much food for thought, some delightful laughs, as well as a tantalizing curiosity to try sturgeon!!

This is a surprisingly humorous read that follows Chichikov, a middle aged gentleman who tours through the Russian countryside buying the rights of deceased serfs from the landowners. He gives the impression that he is doing them an immense favour when really he is out for his gains, although it doesn't necessarily work out all that well for him. Each of the landowners that he speaks to are caricatures of the greed, corruption and paranoia that Gogol implies is deep seated in the Russian government. The second half of the book finds Chichikov moving to another part of the countryside and leaving his dead souls behind where he tries to help another landowner gain favour with a General so he can marry the General's daughter. Once again Chichikov moves from estate to estate meeting many odd and eccentric characters before getting himself into hot water again. Although the second part finishes mid sentence it doesn't feel too unfinished and this seems to add to Chichikov's character of being able to escape by the skin of his teeth. A rather readable and entertaining book.

The novel is amusing, and wildly picaresque, but it also castigated the post-Napoleonic Russia for its corruption at all levels of society. Google's structural parallel with Homer is unconvincing or conceived maliciously. The descriptions of the country nobility are hilarious, but Gogol's admiration for life in the country is Virgilian. The farcical elements are almost Dickensian.

Another fine addition to Russian Classics collection!

explains the russian culture of doing business

All fine.