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Loved each and every part of this book. I think a little philosophy should be added to life and art by way of spice, but to make it one's speciality seems to me as strange as feeding on nothing but pickles". And Pasternak definitely loves his pickles. Now that we've dealt with the bad and the ugly, let me tell what was good about this book. It has some of the most captivating descriptions I have come across in literature. This is where Pasternak's true genius comes to the light.
I didn't know you can talk about snow in so many different beautiful ways and even though I know most of it was probably lost in translation what I've read was enough to pull this book out of the two-stardom. It maybe would've even pushed it into four-stardom if I had been in a better mood. View all 24 comments.
Before getting to indulge in this Russian epic, I had to decide what translation to go for. For me, this was a big deal, whether to choose the more reader friendly version, or, a newer translation by Richard Pevear and Larissa Volokhonsky that sticks closer to Pasternak's original difficult text. I went for the latter simply because if this is how Pasternak wrote it, then I wanted to read it in the purest form. Even if it meant not sitting in the comfort zone for much of the time.
Both Pevear an Before getting to indulge in this Russian epic, I had to decide what translation to go for. Both Pevear and Volokhonsky have worked on much of Dostoyevsky's work, and received translation accolades in the process. I scored this top marks yes, but one thing is certain. I will definitely have to read it again, for a broader and richer experience. I spent half the time thinking so hard about something that went before, and lost track somewhat with the present.
There was just so much to take in, even though I read in huge chunks, without distractions, slowly and methodically, it still felt overwhelming. All the signs are there for one heck of a remarkable novel, but I couldn't help feel my hands were only brushing gently over a layer of snow, rather than thrust deeper into all that coldness.
The result though, after it's first outing, still remains a special one. Doctor Zhivago opens in the first years of the century, spans the revolution, civil war and terror of the thirties, and ends with an epilogue in the mids. On a level far deeper than politics and with a strength and sterility that must remove all doubts, it persuades us that the yearning for freedom remains indestructible.
Quietly and resolutely Pasternak speaks for the sanctity of human life, turning to those eternal questions which made the Russian novel so magnificent, and he seems to have made a lot of other world-renowned novels seem that little bit more trivial. Pasternak spent ten years up to working on Doctor Zhivago, he considered it the work that justified not only his own life, but that of fellow Russians who had perished through decades of war.
And one thing I can't yet decide on, is whether this is a love story set against the backdrop of war, or a war story set against the backdrop of love. Both play so heavily throughout, yet not one stands out beyond the other.
It's little surprise to me that in rumours began circulating that Pasternak was a likely candidate for the Nobel Prize, which he rightly won. The Academy cited him for an important achievement, in the novel, his contemporary lyrical poetry, and the field of Russian traditions.
His vision here is essentially defined by real presence, by the intense physical and emotional sensations of his main characters. Whilst these characters internally are some of the best I have ever come across, it's also worth noting just how important a role the landscape plays. His descriptions here are nothing short of spectacular. I still feel the chill, the snow, the wind, and the big thaw. Pasternak captivates in his characters fallacy, in his world the inanimate nature constantly participates in the action, but there is no historical or psychological analysis in the narrative, no running commentary on the causes of events, or the motives behind the person.
This was a masterstroke in creating a deep feeling of the chaos that surrounds them at every turn during the second half of the novel. There is a lot of random movement for no particular reason, chance encounters, sudden out nowhere disruptions, trams and trains coming to an abrupt halt, and the breakdown of communication between all those caught up in the upheavals of war. He portrays happenings as they happen, sometimes right in the middle of something else.
And although this may not be music to ears of all, I can fully appreciate just what he set out to achieve, in keeping things as realistic as possible. When you think of civil war, revolutions, and political terror, how on earth can you expect things to run smoothly? And that brings me on to the names, which took some getting use to. The principle characters all go by different names at different points. Sometimes their names would even change mid-sentence.
There is also an extraordinary play with the names of minor characters, they are plausible, but often barely so. Some have oddly specific meaning. Some are so long that for the Russianless reader it has the ability to cause headaches.
On places used, some like Moscow are obviously real, but out in the Urals fictional places exist. And there is a big difference in these worlds. One, more historically accurate, the other, almost takes on the feel of folklore.
The novel moves around, one place to another and back again, creating a double sense of time, it never stands still. Even when people are just sitting, or in the arms of one another. Once Pasternak reaches the revolutionary period, the novel becomes a kind of spiritual biography, still rich in social references but primarily the record of a mind struggling for survival.
What now matters most is the personal fate of Zhivago and his relationships with two other characters, Lara, the woman who is to be the love of his life, and Strelnikov, a partisan leader who exemplifies all of the ruthless revolutionary will that Zhivago lacks.
Zhivago's time as a family man and doctor are long gone, and thinking back to the novel's opening sections feels like it was read in another life. Even though it was only a few weeks ago. The huge scale of the story is simply exceptional. There is a section of some twenty pages towards the end that seem to me one of the greatest pieces of imaginative prose written in our time.
It soars to a severe and tragic gravity, the likes of which haven't affected me this much before. What Begins as a portrait of Russia, would end as a love story told with the force and purity that's never to be forgotten. A book of truth, of courage, of wisdom, and of beauty, a stunning work of art, where one's final thought is nothing less than a feeling of deep respect for both novel and writer.
This version concludes with the 'poems of Yuri Zhivago', which polishes off perfectly the immensely felt novel that went before. View all 34 comments. There is one edition of Doctor Zhivago whose cover boasts that it is 'one of the greatest love stories ever told'. In fact, that one tagline is what almost put me off reading this epic novel from Russian master-poet Boris Pasternak.
This is a hefty book. I didn't want to dedicate all my time to a soppy love story. Thankfully, calling Doctor Zhivago a 'love story' is like saying Crime and Punishment is about the perils of being a pawnbroker.
Doctor Zhivago is a vast novel. Like most great Russian There is one edition of Doctor Zhivago whose cover boasts that it is 'one of the greatest love stories ever told'. Like most great Russian novels, there is a large cast of characters all of whom go by at least three different names and many chapters in which a whole lot of nothing happens. Therefore, being a masochist at heart, I just adored it. There is nothing I love more in a book than pages and pages of nothing, and Doctor Zhivago delivers nothingness in abundance.
For example there is a whole chapter just set in a train carriage. Over fifty pages we spend in that carriage. Nothing happens.
And it's brilliant. If one insists of a plot synopsis then it is a story of Doctor Yuri Zhivago and his attempt to keep his life together as his country crumbles around him. Pasternak's politics are very much at play throughout the novel. The book was famously banned from publication in the Soviet Union and it is no surprise why.
Overall I read this work as a searing critique of the modern Soviet state and the bloodshed from which it grew. Pasternak does not side with either the Whites or the Red, both destroyed Zhivago's beloved country. At times Zhivago does become somewhat of a mouthpiece for Pasternak, especially near the end of the novel where it becomes a brutal critique of everything from War Communism to the NEP to Collectivisation.
I would suggest a somewhat sound knowledge of the Russian Revolution and its aftermath is needed for this novel, as the entire plot is based around the formation of the Soviet state. I really enjoyed my time with Doctor Zhivago. It is an epic tale of an epic time in modern history.
It is throughly readable and wholly enjoyable something which you can't often vouch for with Russian literature. I would recommend this for Russian lit beginners as it gets the balance of plot and philosophy just right something which Dostoyevsky and Tolstoy often fail to do.
Jul 09, Lyn rated it really liked it. Like James Dickey and Robert Penn Warren, this novel written by a poet leaves the reader with an idea of lyric quality. Nowhere is his identification as a poet more realized than at the end, as the books finishes with a section of poetry, though there are passages throughout the book that blend seamlessly into an introspective, mystical poetry and back again to the illustrative narrative.
The great art of Doctor Zhivago is the connection with the tragic time and place it documents, the Russian transformation into the Soviet Union. Yet Pasternak, and by extension his creation Zhivago, makes allowances for the need for social reform in Russia, and so his later and eventual dissatisfaction with communism has greater weight and credibility.
Kamerovski could be on a short list of greatest literary villains of the twentieth century. Lara is Mother Russia, raped by a gilded villain, obligatorily married to an ideal, and in love, hopelessly and tragically, to a poet philosopher with whom togetherness cannot be. View all 20 comments. Shelves: It snowed, it snowed over all the world From end to end. A candle burned on the table, A candle burned.
We need art to illuminate a bleak existence, to comfort us in the cold, lonely hours when sleep refuses to come and the abyss is gazing back at us. Pasternak was such a bright candle in my life, a It snowed, it snowed over all the world From end to end. Pasternak was such a bright candle in my life, and I was not a little afraid to revisit the novel that so enchanted me in my mid-twenties with the older and more circumspect eyes of an over-fifty y.
And that one over there! And the bright shiny red one there! So many new authors claimed my attention that I have virtually stopped re-reading these old friends.
It turns out all three are relevant, at least to me, in the interpretation of the work of Pasternak. Dickens is the easier, as both authors focus on the way revolutions might be explained at the level of a whole society and in a historical context, but they often are destructive on the personal level. And from Vesaas I got tuned in advance to the deep link between the artist and the greater rhythms of nature. Iuri Antonovich Zhivago is a doctor and a poet, caught up in the Russian Revolution of , and later in the Civil War that ensued.
Throughout the novel, Zhivago is torn between the need for survival and his artistic integrity. To understand the importance of Larissa Fyodorovna in the economy of the novel, I appealed to the early adherence of Pasternak to the Symbolist movement. To love her is to love life in all its glory for Zhivago, his reason for being, his strength and inpiration. The other, Pasha Antipov, is the idealistic puritan that dreams of bringing a better world order by killing the old one, and so he becomes an instrument of terror.
And for doing good, he, a man of principle, lacked the unprincipledness of the heart, which knows no general cases, but only particular ones, and which is great in doing small things. This is one of the reasons the chapters on Lara are so significant to me, the other being that I really loved Julie Christie in the role, even if she is British, and not Russian.
The rest of my review here is a sign of laziness, as I find the task of going into detail on the different themes and characters daunting. Is there anything in the world that merits faithfulness? Such things are very few. I think we must be faithful to immortality, that other, slightly stronger name for life.
We must keep faith in immortality, we must be faithful to Christ. Kolya again, on Christianity and symbolism as an artistic tool: I think that if the beast dormant in man could be stopped by the threat of, whatever, the lockup or requital beyond the grave, the highest emblem of mankind would be a lion tamer with his whip, and not the preacher who sacrifices himself.
But the point is precisely this, that for centuries man has been raised above animals and borne aloft not by the rod, but by music: the irresistibility of the unarmed truth, the attraction of its example. It has been considered up to now that the most important thing in the Gospels is the moral pronouncements and rules, but for me the main thing is that Christ speaks in parables from daily life, clarifying the truth with the light of everyday things.
At the basis of this lies the thought that communion among mortals is immortal and that life is symbolic because it is meaningful. Rinse and repeat The soul of these books was a new understanding of Christianity, their direct consequence a new understanding of art.
He was exceedingly impressionable, the novelty of his perceptions not lending itself to descriptions. The doctor is caught up in the revolutionary spirit of the first months of the revolution, seeing it as a chance to experience life more truly and to the fullness of his abilities: Everything around fermented, grew, and rose on the magic yeast of being.
The rapture of life, like a gentle wind, went in a broad wave, not noticing where, over the earth and the town, through walls and fences, through wood and flesh, seizing everything with trembling on its way. One wants so much to be part of the general inspiration! And then, amidst the joy that grips everyone, I meet your mysterioulsy mirthless gaze, wandering no one knows where, in some far-off kingdom, in some far-off land. So that somebody close to you, your friend or husband, would take me by the hand and ask me not to worry about your lot and not to burden you with my attention.
Realism or symbolism? Does Zhivago talks about Larissa Fyodorovna or about Russia that is about to be awakened to civil war after a short honeymoon? There was a roll of thunder, like a plow drawing a furrow across the whole of the sky, and everything grew still. But then four resounding, belated booms rang out, like big potatoes dumped from a shovelful of loose soil in the autumn.
The thunder cleared the space inside the dusty, smoke-filled room. Suddenly, like electrical elements, the component parts of existence became tangible — water and air, the desire for joy, earth, and sky. In his time of exile in the Urals, Zhivago struggles to put his thoughts down in a journal: Art always serves beauty, and beauty is the happiness of having form, while form is the organic key to existence, for every living thing must have form in order to exist, and thus art, including tragic art, is an account of the happiness of existing.
A happiness that for him has a name: Since childhood Yuri Andreevich had loved the evening forest shot through with the fire of sunset. In such moments it was as if he, too, let these shafts of light pass through him. As if the gift of the living spirit streamed into his breast, crossed through his whole being, and came out under his shoulder blades like a pair of wings.
That youthful archetype, which is formed in every young man for the whole of life and serves him forever after and seems to him to be his inner face, his personality, awakened in him with its full primary force, and transformed nature, the forest, the evening glow, and all visible things into an equally primary and all-embracing likeness of a gril.
If the message was not clear enough already, Iuri has more: Oh, how sweet it is to exist! How sweet to live in the world and to love life! Oh, how one always longs to say thank you to life itself, to existence itself, to say it right in their faces! And that is what Lara is.
It is impossible to talk to them, but she is their representative, their expression, the gift of hearing and speech, given to the voiceless principles of existence. Nature itself gains antropomorphic qualities when viewed through the eyes of the poet: The first heralds of spring, a thaw. The air smells of pancake and vodka, as during the week before Lent, when nature herself seems to rhyme with the calendar.
Somnolent, the sun in the forest narrows its buttery eyes; somnolent, the forest squints through its needles like eyelashes; the puddles at noontime have a buttery gleam. Nature yawns, stretches herself, rolls over on the other side, and falls asleep again.
You might ask, but is this woman mute, a mystery, a closed door? Do we only know her through the eyes of Zhivago, or is she a real person, with a mind of her own? Lara walked beside the rails along a path beaten down by wanderers and pilgrims and turned off on a track that led across a meadow to the forest. Here she stopped and, closing her eyes, breathed in the intricately fragrant air of the vast space around her.
It was dearer to her than a father and mother, better than a lover, and wiser than a book. For an instant the meaning of existence was again revealed to Lara. She was here — so she conceived — in order to see into the mad enchantment of the earth, and to call everything by name, and if that was beyond her strength, then, out of love for life, to give birth to her successors, who would do it in her place.
I think philosophy should be used sparingly as a seasoning for art and life. To be occupied with it alone is the same as eating horseradish by itself. Their virtue is dead and of little value. The beauty of life has not been revealed to them. Wings were given you so as to fly beyond the clouds, and to me, a woman, so as to press myself to the ground and shield my fledgling from danger. In the end, this is a sprawling epic that lets symbolism take precedence over plot coherence and character motivations.
But the poems of Pasternak endure, haunting me like the famous theme by Maurice Jarre, reminding us that there is beauty in the world, if we care enough to look for it. View all 17 comments. You'd think, having Julie Christie as a mistress and Geraldine Chaplin as a wife, that you couldn't do much better than that in life.
Alas, you can, because if it's that good and it's all taken away and your net time with each amounts to squatski Russian for "squat" , in the scheme of your life, maybe life's a bitch after all. Zhivago brings us another Russian opus dealing with man as pawn against the great playing board of history. You can see why the Soviets banned the book, too, as its vi You'd think, having Julie Christie as a mistress and Geraldine Chaplin as a wife, that you couldn't do much better than that in life.
You can see why the Soviets banned the book, too, as its view of the Bolsheviks becomes increasingly dim as the book plays out. I remember, in fact, talking the book and movie up when I was in the Soviet Union back in the 70s.
My tour guide was much intrigued and furtively questioned me about both, but stopped suddenly, perhaps thinking for a panicked nanosecond that I was a plant ficus, peace lily, whatever. Nyetski, comrade. Just an interested reader. I considered 4-stars because the book has stretches that could be excised without harming it in the least. And it commits the cardinal sin of including an epilogue after its two protagonists have exited the scene.
The sound you hear is pages flipping. It ends with some 30 pages of Doc's poetry, few of which survive the turbulence of translation.
But that's the point and the reason for the fifth star, actually. Zhivago is a Renaissance man of Russia, interested in poetry, writing, philosophy, history, medicine, etc. He's a regular William Carlos Williams of the steppes, coming in from his doctor calls to write poetry like he does. Here's typical fare, as a for instance of the descriptive flare Pasternak has: "Meanwhile it was getting dark. The crimson-bronze patches of light the sunset scattered over the snow were swiftly fading, going out.
The ashen softness of the expanses quickly sank into the lilac twilight, which was turning more and more purple. Their gray mist merged with the fine, lacy handwriting of the birches along the road, tenderly traced against the pale pink of the sky, suddenly grown shallow. He grasped everything with tenfold distinctness. His surrounding acquired the features of a rare uniqueness, even the air itself. The winter evening breathed an unprecedented concern, like an all-sympathizing witness.
It was as if there had never been such a nightfall until now, and evening came for the first time only today, to comfort the orphaned man plunged into solitude. It was as if the woods around stood on the hillocks, back to the horizon, not simply as a girdling panorama, but had just placed themselves there, having emerged from under the ground to show sympathy.
Small wonder so many western girls were named after her once the book and then the movie was released. She links together disparate characters like Zhivago and his wife, Tonya; the repugnant Komarovsky; Pavel Antipov Strelnikov. And she surely comes across as the wife everyman envisions but never gets Zhivago included, though his vision at least took form for an ethereal second.
Pasternak is equally adept at both.
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