The Redemption of Ivan Ilych

The Death of Ivan Ilych by Leo Tolstoy is not an enjoyable story to read. The novella, however, does contain a powerful message. It is a message of sin, repentance, and forgiveness. A theme that every Christian is familiar with.

Tolstoy's narrative opens with the observation that “Ivan Ilych's life had been most simple and most ordinary and therefore most terrible” (102). His middle-class existence is not just terribly plain and boring in its outward forms but, more significantly, terrible in its spiritual dullness and oblivion. Ivan Ilych, a middle-aged man with a high paying government job, a wife and two children is incredibly selfish and thinks of no one but himself. What makes the story even more depressing is that every other character is utterly selfish. (With the possible exception of the young man Gerasim who tends Ivan when he gets sick. But even Gerasim the peasant servant has a cold and dutiful pity as if he is above the troubles of others and can therefore consent to look down upon their affliction.)

Ivan Ilych develops an illness that he is unwilling in his pride of life to admit has control over him. As his pain worsens, however, the life-threatening nature of the sickness becomes impossible to deny. His response to approaching death is to accost God angrily. To Ivan's surprise, immediately he hears an inward voice that asks him what he wants (143). “Why, to live as I used to—well and pleasantly” (144). But with the reply Ivan begins to realize that his life had not been well and pleasant. Of course, he always had the luxuries of money and a fashionable wife but... He sees that the only really pleasant times in his life were far back in childhood on the verge of memory (144). He had made his own life into a miserable and terrible thing.

Ivan is coming around to the fact that his life is empty of all but the sins that he has contentedly filled his life with. Only two hours before his death does he grasp that he could have lived better. More importantly, he understands there is still time to treat others better. When his wife and son come into his room he attempts to speak in his weakness and ask forgiveness. He is unable to speak but he rests content, “knowing that He whose understanding mattered would understand” (152).

In this novella of Leo Tolstoy's, with all its unpleasant characterization of a lone man's life, can be seen the universal need of all men. Ivan Ilych is a sinner condemned to death for his fruitlessness, but who recognizes this, repents, and is snatched from a spiritual death.

“'it is finished!' said someone near him.

He heard these words and repeated them in his soul.

'death is finished,'he said to himself. 'it is no more!'” (152)

Leo Tolstoy, The Death of Ivan Ilych and Other Stories. Trans. Alymer Maude and J.D. Duff. New York, Signet Classics-Penguin Putnam Inc. 2003

Tolstoy's Rehabilitation

I've had a change of heart about Leo Tolstoy. The change has come with the reading of a little book of Tolstoy's short stories with the innovative title of Twenty-Three Tales. A few years ago I tried reading The Death of Ivan Ilych and Other Stories and made up my mind that I did not like Tolstoy. For some reason, when this old book moved in with the rest of my Grandma's stuff I decided to give it a second chance. It turns out I'm glad I did.

I don't know whether these stories are still in print under the title of Twenty-Three Tales. My edition is part of the Oxford World's Classics series from the 1940s. Most of the stories have a supernatural element, many are fanciful, a great number have the theme of forgiveness, and all have a clear moral. In fact, they can be downright preachy at times."> But—whether I just like didactic stories and parables or Tolstoy handles them well—I never felt like wincing when a story was wrapped up with a tidy little lesson. The story Two Old Men from my last post is characteristic of most of the tales in the volume.

One of my favorites was a fairytale: Ivan the Fool. Like all the stories it too has an overt moral. Ivan has two brothers: a soldier and a merchant. Both of these fall into the traps of their profession. The soldier conquers a kingdom and becomes a dictator; The merchant greedily buys up a kingdom and enslaves the people to his gold. Ivan also gets a kingdom by marrying a princess, but because he is a fool all the “wise” men and merchants and soldiers leave his land till only farmers are left. Finally, the Devil comes and fights the kingdom of the soldier brother, conquering him. He then buys up all the food in the kingdom of the merchant brother, leaving him starving among treasuries of gold. When the Devil comes to ruin Ivan's kingdom, however, he meets a snag. Armies tire of invading because the people freely give them what little food they have till they make friends with the invaders. The people also refuse to sell their goods and food for money because they do not see what is so special about gold. Rather they feel sorry for the rich Devil and offer him charity “in Christ's name” (which of course, he can't take) and work (which he is unwilling to do). Hungry and humiliated, the Devil finally gives up and leaves the kingdom of fools.

Altogether it was an enjoyable book of short stories. Lest you get the wrong impression about Tolstoy, however, (and before you rush out and indiscriminately buy his works) I will call up from the past something I wrote on the novella The Death of Ivan Ilych in my next post. Since I have no desire to reread The Death of Ivan Ilych, I will assume that I still agree with what I wrote about it a few years ago.

Spur One Another On Toward Love and Good Deeds

I was shocked and humbled a few nights ago while reading a short story by Leo Tolstoy. It got me thinking about one of the purposes of reading literature. The story (called Two Old Men) commences with old Effim and Elisha setting off on a pilgrimage to Jerusalem. A few weeks into their trek, Elisha, feeling thirsty, approaches a hut to ask for water, assuring Effim that he will catch up on the road later. When there is no response to his knock, Elisha decides to open the door and go in. He finds a family on the point of death due to a famine and sickness. Instead of getting water from them, he must get water for them as they are too weak to draw any themselves. He then goes on to feed them, buy back the lease on their field, and get them a horse and cart.

The thing that came as such an unpleasant surprise to me was my initial reaction to the story: I did not want Elisha to help them and spend all his time and pilgrimage money on them. (How callused is that?) My thoughts mirrored those of Elisha on the fourth evening of his stay with the family. He,

“was in two minds... On the one hand he felt he ought to be going, for he had spent too much time and money as it was; on the other hand he felt sorry for the people.

'There seems to be no end to it,' he said. 'first I only meant to bring them a little water and give them each a slice of bread, and just see where it has landed me. It's a case of redeeming the meadow and the cornfield. And when I have done that I shall have to buy a cow for them, and a horse for the man to cart his sheaves'” (Tolstoy 114).

Such a course seems worse than foolhardy for a poor man in the midst of a pilgrimage to Jerusalem to honor God. In the end, all his money is used up and his fellow pilgrim, Effim, is weeks ahead in his journey to Jerusalem. Elisha has no choice but to admit he must turn back home.

“I'm afraid I shall never fulfill my vow [to go to Jerusalem] in this life. I must be thankful it was made to a merciful Master and to one who pardons sinners” (117).

What Elisha doesn't know is that his shining bald head had been seen in Jerusalem at the holiest shrines. His friend Effim is amazed that his lost companion had made it to Jerusalem ahead of him (124). The moral of the story, and the one that I was finally forced to accept after my initial stubbornness, was the one Effim saw months later when he got home and learned: “that the best way to keep one's vows to God and to do His will, is for each man while he lives to show love and do good to others” (130). “Or else while I go to seek the Lord beyond the sea I may lose Him in myself”(115).

I mentioned that this story got me thinking about one of the purposes of literature. I was reluctant to let Elisha do the right thing in the story. Because our wills and desires are so often contrary to doing the right thing, we need all the help we can get in the quest to develop a mindset of godliness. Our lives and imaginations need to be saturated with examples of saintly action. The pragmatic and utilitarian “walk by on the other side of the road” mentality often seems to make sense but it is not the right response. We need examples of godly action to spur us on. These role-models can, hopefully, be found in real life but reading the right literature is also a good way to find heroes who will stir up an enthusiasm for virtue. The writer of Hebrews puts it this way: "Encourage one another daily . . . so that none of you may be hardened by sin's deceitfulness" (Hebrews 3:13). And again: “let us consider how we may spur one another on toward love and good deeds.... let us encourage one another” (Hebrews 10:24).

We need the encouragement of right-acting role-models, real or fictional, that capture our imagination. Allen Bloom points out the need for heroic role-models who practice the classical and Christian virtues when he insightfully observes that: “The moral education that is today supposed to be the great responsibility of the family cannot exist if it cannot present to the imagination of the young a vision of a moral cosmos and of the rewards and punishments for good and evil, sublime speeches that accompany and interpret deeds, protagonists and antagonists in the drama of moral choice” (Bloom 60). A daily dose of stories like Tolstoy's Two Old Men may be the spur that the imagination needs for “love and good deeds” to be eagerly pursued.

Allan Bloom, The Closing of the American Mind, New York. A Touchstone Book, Simon and Schuster inc. 1988

Leo Tolstoy, Twenty-Three Tales. Trans. Louise and Aylmer Maude. The World's Classics, London, Oxford University Press. 1947.

The Selfishness of the Passions

My last post (from a very long time ago) was an egotistical complaint about not feeling qualified to write an essay about Jean-Jacques Rousseau, this post is an egotistical boast about what a good grade I got on my essay about Rousseau. As you will see from the transcribed essay below, I have condemned such egotism but have not yet learned to practice what I preach. Since I was so shocked to get a perfect score with lots of flattering comments from my Literature teacher I thought it would be a good idea to get a second opinion to bring me back to earth. So rip into it folks.

* * *

A recurrent theme in life and literature is the conflict of control between our passions and our reason. On the one hand is the desire to gratify our wants and live in a constant state of satiety where every whim is instantly gratified. On the other is the sober analysis of the long term goal and the greatest ultimate happiness for life. There are obvious problems with the first mode of living: for one, it is not always possible to do what one feels like doing. In addition, the harmful effects of indulging every emotion can be catastrophic. While living according to a strict intellectual system also has its problems and has been criticized as a diminution of humanity, following the passions alone is a selfish, egotistical way to live. Jean Jacques Rousseau, as one of the great mouthpieces advocating for the passions, shows this in his autobiographical Confessions. We will investigate the inherent selfishness of Rousseau's embrace of the passions and its ultimate destructiveness by looking at the portrayal of this mode of living in Rousseau's Confessions and three stories from three different cultures.

To begin with, a definition of the terms passion and reason is in order. Passion is essentially the same as emotion. To be guided by passions is to allow feelings and hormones to direct what a person does. Reason, on the other hand, is the intellectual contemplation of a course of action: a weighing of the pros and cons; a cost/benefit analysis engaged in before making any move. The passionate person says: “I am hungry; give me a huge juicy cheeseburger.” The reasonable person says: “I am hungry, but I am already overweight so I will not eat this huge juicy cheeseburger today.”

Rousseau observes that the “common lot of humanity” is to feel before thinking (Rousseau 666). Truly, young children are known for not using reason. Their instinctive passions show just how selfish human beings are, even from birth. Augustine, in his own Confessions nearly 1500 years before Rousseau, recounts the selfishness and envy of a baby, “not yet able to talk, but it was pale and bitter in face as it looked at another child nursing at the same breast” (Augustine 49). In adults such envy and selfishness would be justly ridiculed because such angry passion directed at another's source of sustenance would be harmful if allowed to have its way. Everyone's passion operating against another--as would inevitably be the case in a world ruled exclusively by the passions and not by reason--would lead to terrible conflict. Passion against passion in a state of war. In the end, only the most passionate would survive and have their way.

Rousseau realized the danger of different passions coming into conflict. In order to avoid the inevitable confrontation of two people with opposing passions, Rousseau says: “I withdrew as far as it lay in my power, from situations which opposed my interests to those of others, and might, consequently, inspire me with a secret, though involuntary, desire of injuring them” (670). Maybe Rousseau had the selflessness to do this, and if so it is laudable, but the fact that he did is evidence that he thought something (peace, harmony, justice) of greater importance than indulging his own selfish passion.

The competing emphasis placed on passion or reason is not new to Rousseau's generation or our own. Even as far back as the Stoic and Epicurean schools of philosophy in ancient Greece they were wrestling with the same question. The Epicureans were the embodiment of the saying: “eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow we die.” This selfish enjoyment of whatever the body and emotions craved, they thought, was the way to happiness. The Stoics took a different line of thinking by asserting that the ultimate good—and therefore the ultimate happiness--was to be found in virtue. For them, the physical body with its passions was a hindrance to virtue and therefore, something to be subdued. The passions, far from setting them free as Rousseau claimed, actually chained them. As Epictetus, one of the Stoic philosophers said: "freedom is secured not by the fulfilling of men's desires, but by the removal of desire." (Epictetus 84).

This quote from a Greek philosopher is remarkably similar to Buddhist thought. For Buddhists too, Nirvana is found not by fulfilling desires but by removing desires. This is illustrated in the Chinese novel Monkey or Journey to the West by Wu Ch'Eng-en. The title character, Monkey, is a proud, impetuous creature who loses his temper easily and is always ready to rush off on a whim to gratify his own vanity and pride. The Dragon King of the Eastern Ocean says to Monkey: “you must learn to control yourself and submit to the will of others, if you are not to spoil all your chances” (Ch'Eng-en 22). Monkey's one desire is to follow his own passions. As he puts it, to “amuse myself as I pleas[e]” (Ch'Eng-en 27). The quest that Monkey and his master Tripitaka are on, however, is to find Buddhist scriptures in India, not amuse themselves as they please. The theme that figures large in the story is that there is a greater good (the “quest”) in pursuance of which, personal feelings (passions) must be ignored.

Rousseau in his Confessions, however, feels that the greatest good is to amuse himself as he pleases. It is in this unfettered “state of nature” that freedom and happiness are possible. Just like the early Monkey in Ch'Eng-en's story, Rousseau states: “I worship freedom; I abhor restraint, trouble, dependence” (Rousseau 669). Unlike Monkey, he does not learn that this attitude hinders his journey to enlightenment. Rousseau is a man who looks “upon plans, which need considerable time to carry out, as decoys for fools... the least trifling pleasure which is within my reach tempts me more than the joys of paradise” (Rousseau 672). In other words, he does not have the prudence to look ahead and pick the best longterm choices but instead does whatever his feelings dictate at that moment.

This aspect of the passions—that they are irresponsible—is a major theme of the Japanese short-story Bewitched. Written by author Ueda Akinari in the Eighteenth century, Bewitched (also called A Serpent's Lust), tells the story of a young man who falls in love with a devilish woman. A case of “love at first sight” only without the happy ending typical of such stories, the hapless hero Toyo-o is enticed into pledging his love to the she-devil. Giving in to his lustful and immature passion for a woman he knows nothing about rather than contemplating his action or seeking advise, Toyo-o brings horrifying consequences on himself and others. Ignoring the reality that he is, “still dependent on my parents. I have no property of my own except the hair on my head and the nails on my fingers. I have no power to earn my own living. How could I support you? I feel wretched in my present situation. But... how can I help but overlook my filial obligations and sacrifice myself for your sake?” (Akinari 636). Although reason tells him that he cannot support the strange woman and should learn a little more about her before making a rash promise, he does so anyway because of his passion rather than his reason. This selfishness on Toyo-o's part is destructive because it opens the door for himself and others to be harmed by the consequences of his passion.

Rousseau was aware of the harmful possibilities in his espoused philosophy. Rousseau says: “my passions have made me live, and my passions have killed me” (676). A tacit admission that, though in his view he has been able to experience human existence to its full, he also has been harmed in the process. Again he says that, “my soul was ever in a state of agitation; I was devoured alternately by desires and fears” (677). Who would wish to live constantly in this state of mind? The irresponsible nature of giving in totally to the passions is shown when Rousseau says: “while I am stirred by them nothing can equal my impetuosity; I forget all discretion, all feelings of respect, fear and decency; I am cynical, impudent, violent and fearless; no feeling of shame keeps me back, no danger frightens me; with the exception of the single object which occupies my thoughts, the universe is nothing to me” (Rousseau 669).

The emotionally devastating nature of selfishly followed passions is further illustrated in Anton Chekhov's short story: The Lady With the Dog. Adultery—one of the most selfish and stereotypical examples of passion--breaks Anna's spirit and leaves her “ever in a state of agitation.” Her passion overcomes her so that, “I could no longer control myself, nothing could hold me back” (1527). Rather than bringing her happiness, however, she comes to despise herself and lives constantly in remorse (1527). Remorse too is a passion but not one most people would like to live with. At the end of the story, when their relationship had brought them nothing but unhappiness, Anna silently asks herself: “was not their life a broken one?” (1534).

This is a good question to consider in a discussion of the passions. While some passions are harmless and some may even better the world, too often, as these three stories have shown, passions divorced from reason will bring pain and unhappiness into the world. We have seen that even Rousseau realized this to some degree, although he was not able--or willing perhaps--to mellow his passion with the exercise of reason. Of Rousseau we might ask: was not his life a broken one? Controlled by his passions like the characters in these stories, he brought harm to himself and--despite his naturally gentle disposition—who can doubt that others were hurt by his selfishness more than if he had considered the happiness of others rather than following his own passions.

Works Cited

Akinari, Ueda. Bewitched. The Norton Anthology of World Literature: 1650-1800: Volume D. Ed. Sarah Lawall and Maynard Mack. 2nd ed. W.W. Norton Company, 2002.

Augustine. The Confessions of St. Augustine. Trans. John K. Ryan. Image Books, Garden City, New York. 1960.

Chekhov, Anton. The Lady With the Dog. The Norton Anthology of World Literature: 1800-1900: Volume E. Ed. Sarah Lawall and Maynard Mack. 2nd ed. W.W. Norton Company, 2002.

Ch'Eng-en, Wu. Monkey. The Norton Anthology of World Literature: 1650-1800: Volume D. Ed. Sarah Lawall and Maynard Mack. 2nd ed. W.W. Norton Company, 2002.

Epictetus. Discourses: Books 3 and 4. Translated by Percy Ewing Matheson. Courier Dover Publications, 2004. http://books.google.com/books?id=1pDMSCUMNIgC&printsec=frontcover#PPA84,M1

Rousseau, Jean-Jacques. Confessions: The Norton Anthology of World Literature: 1800-1900: Volume E. Ed. Sarah Lawall and Maynard Mack. 2nd ed. W.W. Norton Company, 2002.

Tribute to Alexander Solzhenitsyn

One of my favorite Russian authors, Alexander Solzhenitsyn, died Sunday. While I have only read 5 of his books, I've been meaning to read more for some time. Like all Russian authors I have encountered, Solzhenitsyn wrote at great length about serious subjects. His novels do not always end happily and his autobiography The Oak and the Calf records a series of trials encountered in his life. Yet his writing sought to advocate justice and the "eternal oughtness" of moral choices.

Dostoevsky Again

My last post made me think of a much better book written by Fyodor Dostoevsky. The Brothers Karamazov is one of my favorite novels and definitely the best I have read from Russia. Dostoevsky’s penetrating insight into the fallen human soul and his ability to translate these insights onto paper with intensity is extraordinary. Many laud authors for their “subtle” portrayal of character; Dostoevsky, on the other hand, with honest directness unlayers his actors piece by piece, in an intensely suspenseful story of love and hate.

The story could easily have been broken into two or three separate full-length books. The whole history of Father Zossima, for instance, which spans his entire life yet is only a framework to contain his voluminous wisdom and sayings could be a separate study altogether. But before you turn away from such a long-winded and boring sounding book as The Brother Karamazov (a classic in the sense of “a book nobody reads anymore”) let me press that it is very good.

Yet even the word good must be qualified; this is no Sunday school story, no David kills Goliath and becomes king narrative. This is King David murdering Uriah to cover up his adulterous affair with Bathsheba, this is David faking insanity and hiding from Saul in caves. And so it is with the brothers Karamazov: Dmitri (Mitya), Ivan and Alyonsha. Each must confront the moral choices before them and sometimes stand and sometimes fall.

It would be impossible to condense the story. Some stories can be outlined in a page or a few minutes and that brief description might be as good or better than reading the full tale. C.S.Lewis calls such stories myths. He describes the other kind, those like The Brothers Karamozov, as being uniquely an author’s own: incapable, without loss, of being retold. If I sketch the outline of a morally degenerate father hated by his children, eventually murdered by one of them, contributing to the insanity of another, and imprisonment for a third, you will be rightly amazed that I esteem it so highly. Yet such is the case.

The plot is not what draws me to it, but rather Dostoevsky’s moving portrayal of character. Alyosha immediately draws the heart with his quiet shyness, aglow as it is with faith and hope. His brother Ivan is just the opposite: distrustful, pessimistic, at home in the world (as Alyosha is not) but without any real hope. Dmitri is a shifting cross between the two, at one moment able to reach mystic heights of benevolence, at another sinking to bitter, disgruntled agnosticism. His monologue (again, a standard feature in Dostoevsky’s writing) to Alyosha before his trial is an excellent example of this interior conflict. At one moment Dmitri pours out his climatic “hymn:”

Even there, in the mines, underground, I may find a human heart in another convict and murderer by my side, and I may make friends with him, for even there one may live and love and suffer. One may thaw and revive a frozen heart in that convict, one may wait upon him for years, and at last bring up from the dark depths of a lofty soul a feeling, suffering creature; one may bring forth an angel, create a hero! And then we men underground will sing from the bowls of the earth a glorious hymn to God, with whom is joy. Hail to God and his joy! (626).

Immediately after this speech he reverts to his original gloom:

It’s God that’s worrying me…What if He doesn’t exist? What if Rakitin’s right—that it’s an idea made up by men? Then if He doesn’t exist, man is the chief of the earth, of the universe. Magnificent! Only how is he going to be good without God? (626).

This is the Dmitri described by the prosecutor as, “two extremes at the same moment.”

Among the minor characters, those that don’t contribute to the main action, Zossima is significant. The author spends an incredible amount of time on this saint who adds little to the plot. I was reminded of the Bishop of Digne in Les Miserables. Even though they take little part in the drama, they both strongly influence those around them who do. My favorite, however, is the schoolboy Kolya. He is immature in his maturity, putting all childish things behind him except the fear of seeming childish. His character is fascinatingly depicted. He has a desperate desire for acceptance and admiration that is only too realistic. One way he tries to gain this is by talking about those ever-recurrent subjects: politics and religion.

‘Oh, I’ve nothing against God. Of course, God is only a hypothesis, but…I admit that he is needed…for the order of the universe and all that…and that if there were no God he would have to be invented,’ added Kolya, beginning to blush. He suddenly fancied that Alyosha might think he was trying to show off his knowledge and to prove he was “grown up.” ‘I haven’t the slightest desire to show off my knowledge to him,’ Kolya thought indignantly. And all of a sudden he felt horribly annoyed (584).

I must halt my rambling discourse or risk running on forever. Here is a quote that sums up the book:

‘And did you understand it?’ Alyosha asked.

‘Oh, yes, everything…that is…why do you suppose I shouldn’t understand it? There is a lot of nastiness in it, of course…. Of course I can understand that it is a philosophical novel and written to advocate an idea….’ Kolya was getting mixed up by now.

And so am I.

Dostoevsky, Fyodor The Brothers Karamazov. Trans. Constance Garnett. London, William Heinemann Ltd. 1945.

Unhappy Weakness For Russian Literature

He would sit like a post for six hours at a stretch, perspiring and straining his utmost to keep awake and smile. On reaching home he would groan…over their benefactor’s unhappy weakness for Russian literature (370-71).

Usually in our world things come to nothing, but this will end in something; it’s bound to, it’s bound to! (219).

The subject…who could make it out? It was a sort of description of certain impressions and reminiscences. But of what? And about what? Though the leading intellectuals of the province did their utmost during the first half of the reading, they could make nothing of it, and they listened to the second part simply out of politeness (486).

Maybe you can see where this is leading…. C.S.Lewis remarked that the plots of some stories in abstract “would be completely worthless—not only worthless as a representation of the book in question, but worthless in itself; dull beyond bearing; unreadable” (Lewis 41). Very likely someone will add that some stories themselves are dull beyond bearing. Though I want to agree, something makes me hesitantly demur in the case of Fyodor Dostoevsky’s novel The Possessed. Although the 700 hundred pages seem to go (in the words of one song) “on and on, forever,” there are occasional passages of gripping intensity.

But the merit of Dostoevsky's book would be small indeed if plot and narrative were the only criteria to judge it by. No, if it has merit it lies in other areas, particularly in its prophetic analysis of Communism and Nihilism. I am no philosopher so probably much of Dostoevsky’s exploration of the rising ideological trends in Russia at the end of the 19^th century passed well above my head. Yet even admitting this there were some passages so plain they could not be missed.

Communism is scoffed at today and terms like McCarthyism applied to the occasional warning against it, yet Communism was (and still is) a huge disaster for humanity. Being already a fan of Alexander Solzhenitsyn, and through him knowing the inhuman practical reality of that ideology, I was fascinated to discover Dostoevsky, almost 50 years before the revolution in Russia, wrote a novel with the aim of exposing Communism in its infancy.

In the person of Pyotr Stepanovitch all the revolting aspects of nihilistic Communism are embodied. In a frantic, feverish speech (why do all Dostoevsky characters make long feverish speeches?) Pyotr Stepanovitch outlines his goals:

Everyone belongs to all and all to everyone. All are slaves and equal in their slavery…to begin with, the level of education, science, and talents is lowered. A high level of education and science is only possible for great intellects and they are not wanted. The great intellects have always seized the power and been despots. Great intellects cannot help being despots and they’ve always done more harm than good. They will be banished or put to death. Cicero will have his tongue cut out, Copernicus will have his eyes put out, Shakespeare will be stoned—that’s Shigalovism. Slaves are bound to be equal. There has never been either freedom or equality without despotism, but in the herd there is bound to be equality, and that’s Shigalovism! Ha ha ha! Do you think it strange? (424-25).

With a shockingly modern parallel in American society’s moral uncertainty and upheaval, one of Pyotr Stepanovitch’s co-conspirators confesses at the end of the book that,

it was with the idea of systematically destroying society and all principles; with the idea of nonplussing everyone…and then, when society was tottering, sick and out of joint, cynical and skeptical, though filled with an intense eagerness for self-preservation and for some guiding idea, suddenly to seize it in their hands, raising the standard of revolt (680).

With profound insight Dostoevsky has the social engineer Shigalov declare:

I am perplexed by my own data and my conclusion is a direct contradiction of the original idea with which I started. Starting from unlimited freedom, I arrive at unlimited despotism (409).

Dostoevsky, Feodor. The Possessed. The Modern Library Inc. Random House, 1963.

Lewis, C.S. An Experiment In Criticism. Cambridge Univ. Press, Cambridge. Canto ed. 2006.