Turgenev, Ivan Sergeevich, 1818-1883; Turgenev, Ivan Sergeevich, 1818-1883 -- Criticism and interpretation
is that there is nothing terrible, that the very essence of life is
petty, uninteresting and degradingly inane."
"But are there no great conceptions, no great words of consolation:
patriotism, right, freedom, humanity, art? Yes, those words there are
and many men live by them and for them. And yet it seems to me that
if Shakespeare could be born again he would have no cause to retract
his Hamlet, his Lear. His searching glance would discover nothing new
in human life: still the same motley picture--in reality so little
complex--would unroll beside him in its terrifying sameness. The same
credulity and the same cruelty, the same lust of blood, of gold, of
filth, the same vulgar pleasures, the same senseless sufferings in
the name ... why in the name of the very same shams that Aristophanes
jeered at two thousand years ago, the same coarse snares in which
the many-headed beast, the multitude, is caught so easily, the same
workings of power, the same traditions of slavishness, the same
innateness of falsehood--in a word, the same busy squirrel's turning
in the old, unchanged wheel...."
With this passage of weary disillusionment and disgust of life we may
compare one in _Phantoms_, written a year earlier: "These human flies,
a thousand times paltrier than flies; their dwellings glued together
with filth, the pitiful traces of their tiny, monotonous bustle, of
their comic struggle with the unchanging and inevitable, how revolting
it all suddenly was to me"; and one, no less significant, in the
opening pages of _The Torrents of Spring_:
"He thought of the vanity, the uselessness, the vulgar falsity of all
things human.... Everywhere the same everlasting pouring of water
into a sieve, the everlasting beating of the air, everywhere the
same self-deception--half in good faith, half conscious--any toy to
amuse the child, so long as it keeps him from crying. And then all of
a sudden old age drops down like snow on the head, and with it the
ever-growing, ever-growing and devouring dread of death ... and the
plunge into the abyss."
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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