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Svetlana Alexievich’s Second-hand Time

I’ve always found it strange that to think, whether on the metro or while wandering through the streets of my beloved Petersburg, that not thirty years ago this all was a completely different country. By that time, of course, it was clear that the Soviet Union was on its way out. But what would replace it was anybody’s guess. Gorbachev, ever the idealist, hoped to reform the USSR into a new confederation – the Union of Sovereign States – that would alleviate many of that country’s worst failings by decentralizing its power structure. An attempted coup in August of 1991 put this proposal on ice and led to the collapse of the USSR in December of that year. But though the Soviet Union was no more, its people remained. Belorussian writer Svetlana Alexievich’s Second-hand Time gives these people a voice.

Its pages explore the lives of these people whose homeland evaporated before their eyes. The book is structured as a series of interviews, edited into monologues. “I’m trying to honestly hear out all the participants of the socialist drama”, Alexievich explains. These monologues are presented almost without judgement or comment, and are divided in theme between the end of the Soviet Union and Yeltsin’s years of power, and the time after the dawn of the new millennium when Vladimir Putin became dominant. But in contrast to the historic scope of much writing on this period, these stories are fundamentally human in scale. Love again and again comes up, alongside the pain of women and immigrants in a society that – after the collapse of the Soviet Union – became fundamentally reactionary and nationalist in terms of its culture.

A photo of Svetlana Alexievich, author of Second-hand Time
Svetlana Alexievich, winner of the Nobel prize in literature in 2015, was born in Ukraine, is Belorussian, but writes in Russian. As you read Second-hand Time it’s worth remembering that Alexievich lost her homeland too. Photo by Elke Wetzig (CC BY-SA 3.0)

A lot of people will tell you it’s a miracle that the Soviet Union collapsed bloodlessly. Second-hand Time goes against that clinical view and shows that even the “little” violence that did take place had a real and terrible human cost. Especially in the West, we also tend to take the rather parochial view that the USSR was an “Evil Empire”, that its citizens were relentlessly crushed under the wheels of a terrifying totalitarian regime. But the Soviet Union outlived Stalin, and things got better than that. Second-hand Time does not paint the closing days of the Union as filled with joy and plenty, but it shows through its many and varied speakers how great the loss experienced by its citizens in many cases was. The creation of the USSR may have been a tragedy, but its collapse – in light of what’s come after – seems even worse.

Maybe Gorbachev had the right idea after all.

Hopes and Ideals

Anybody who has come into contact with Russia and its culture knows that Russia is special. It likes to tell you as much. “we’re so soulful, we’re so special” one speaker says without irony. It retains a belief in itself as a country of chosen people, with a unique path. A path of suffering, not of joy. The Soviet Union was created because of the great faith – and opportunism – of the communists. Its collapse, likewise, was a moment when Russia seemed to be special once again. Freedom meant everything to everybody, and people were soon disappointed. The nineties were a time of lawlessness and extreme poverty – Yegor Gaidar’s “shock therapy” brought capitalism to the masses, but not the money to take advantage of it. People died in the streets and the sheets, and few could afford the coffin to bury them in, or the ambulance to try to save them.

“Instead of a Motherland, we live in a huge supermarket”. Salami comes up again and again as this symbol of capitalism’s allure. In the Soviet Union it wasn’t easy to get access to good meat – and impossible to get to choose it. But people soon realised that meat isn’t a substitute for anything good – especially when you don’t have the money to buy it. The first section of Second-hand Time, The Consolation of Apocalypse, shows people falling out of love with the changes brought about by the collapse of the USSR. There is a continual lament for the values they have lost. In the Soviet Union, people read books, people talked in kitchens – the atmosphere is decidedly intellectual. The small guy was looked after.

But alongside of shock therapy the Russians were also introduced to a new set of values, ones that were more suitable to the new system. Buy buy buy – greed grew dominant. The poor weren’t to be pitied – they had failed to show the skill and hard work that the rich (apparently) had. Instead of discussing books, people get excited about new technology, blue jeans. One speaker, a rich man who made himself in this system, says “money is a test, like power or love”. It’s hard not to agree. And this early part of Second-hand Time shows that the Russians weren’t quite ready to pass it. Next to the chaos of the new free market, socialism is utopian: “Socialism isn’t just labour camps, informants, and the Iron Curtain, it’s also a bright, just world: Everything is shared, the weak are pitied, and compassion rules”. One party official tells Alexievich.

Faulty Memory and Greatness

We remember what we want to remember and, except for those of us whose depression is particularly great, in the end the good memories rise above the bad and we come to remember the past as a better place. For the Russians of today, that innocent trick of the mind is potentially dangerous. It leads to a longing for the Soviet Union. “You forget about the long lines and empty stores faster than you do about the red flag flying over the Reichstag.” Again and again, those interviewed mention the war with Germany as a high point in their nation’s history. They were great; they saved the day.

The challenge that Russians face now, when the belief in their country’s unique path is so strong, is to decide between “great history and banal existence”. It’s not entirely clear which choice is best. One path seems to hold the salvation of the soul, the other the salvation of the body. “I can do without a lot of things, the only thing I can’t do without is the past.” – these are not the words of a salami-lover.

“We all believed that the kingdom of freedom was right around the corner… But life just kept getting worse. Very soon, the only thing you could buy was books. Nothing but books on the store shelves…” Russians turned the wheel of history with the collapse of the USSR, but very soon their naïve hopes turned to bitterness and despair. Socialism was a way of looking at the world, and without it the ground fell out from under people’s feet. And few were ready to fly… There are a great many suicides in Second-hand Time.

“I cannot go on living while my Fatherland is dying and everything I heretofore considered to be the meaning of my life is being destroyed.”

Grand Kremlin Palace in Moscow. It’s hard not to feel sorry for those who truly believed in the Communist project and had their world fall apart. Ed Yourdon from New York City, USA (CC BY-SA 2.0)

The Butcher Returns

Each one of the stories in Second-hand Time is worth telling. It’s hard to decide what to mention here. Each one hit me in different ways, but some were so powerful – so frightening – that they left me speechless. The final story in the first part of Second-hand Time is such a story. It begins with the experience of a woman who had grown up in one of Stalin’s camps in Kazakhstan as she searched for the truth of her past, but ended even more shockingly with her son’s story of a betrothal gone wrong. He is a lieutenant in the army, about to get married. The girl and her family live well for Soviets. They have crystal chandeliers, porcelain, rugs. The old grandfather, the patriarch, is an honoured veteran. He’d speak at schools, get kids as visitors to hear his stories.

Before the wedding the lieutenant and the veteran go out to the family country house to get drunk. They’re completely alone, and the grandfather begins to talk about his past and his views. He’s an old man, and sounds like one… with a particularly Russian bent. He rails against the liberals, the new generations – they don’t need freedom, they need to work, to suffer. And he reveals he was in the NKVD, how he executed the Soviet people…

“I watch TV, I listen to the radio. It’s the rich and poor all over again. Some people gorge themselves on caviar, buy islands and private jets, while others can’t afford a loaf of white bread. This won’t last long around here! People will once again acknowledge Stalin’s greatness. The axe is right where it always was… the axe will survive the master. Mark my words…”

This idea of the axe, of the power of the state for mass power through fear – this for the grandfather is message of hope. Russia demands a strong leader, it demands control and violence and destruction – not cheese and salami and blue jeans.

It is too much for the lieutenant. He breaks off the engagement without explanation. A note at the end of the story explains that he and his family emigrated to Canada before he let Alexievich publish the story. He adds “I’m glad I left in time. For a while, people liked Russians, now they’re afraid of us again. Aren’t you?”

Support for Stalin is currently at a record high in Russia. In 2000 Vladimir Putin became president and the dominant political actor in Russia, the latter being a role he has not relinquished since then. The story is the perfect end to the chaos of the 1990s. Russia’s period of anarchy – everybody agreed – had to end some way. But it is only the angry old man, filled with hate, who understood fully what would have to happen – since he believed there had been no change to the Russian people, then just as before they needed to be crushed rather than raised up. Putin is no new Stalin, but the idea that Russia needs a strong leader is dangerously ingrained into the Russian idea of its own path that with hindsight it’s hard to see what else could have happened. The second part of Second-hand Time looks at the consequences.

“The Friendship of the Peoples”

The Friendship of the Peoples was a cultural policy introduced under Stalin in 1935, designed to reduce the ethnic barriers between the various peoples of the Soviet Union. Stalin himself was a Georgian; Brezhnev was Ukrainian; and in the USSR as a whole the Russians only constituted about half of the overall population. It was a good idea, but it should be mentioned that Stalin was also responsible for large-scale population transfers, genocide in Ukraine and Kazakhstan, and generally was not exactly a paragon of ethnically harmonious leadership. All the same, the policy continued after his death, and a degree of unity began to form between the peoples of the Union. A number of monologues in Second-hand Time serve as evidence for the success of the policy.

For some people, the collapse of the Soviet Union didn’t just mean the loss of their homeland – it also meant the loss of their homes as ethnic tensions tore the new states apart. Here are some Azeri refugees displaced from Ngoro-Karabakh in Azerbaijan – a territory that was predominantly ethnically Armenian, but only after the fall of the Soviet Union became almost homogeneously so – through violence. Oleg Litvin (CC BY-SA 3.0)

And all this success was destroyed by the collapse of the USSR. In scenes that are reminiscent of the persecution of Jews under the Nazis, so too we read here of families hidden in attics to avoid being murdered – whether by Azeris, or Georgians, or Abkhazians, or Tajiks. Moldavia was split in two, Georgia and Tajikistan underwent civil war, and even in those countries that did not go to war there were still forcible expulsions.

Today there remain many Russians abroad, particularly in Kazakhstan, Ukraine, and the Baltic states, while in other former Soviet Republics there are almost none. Russia itself attracts immigrants from all over the former Soviet lands, but Second-hand Time shows that the dream of ethnic harmony remains as dead now as it was then. A particularly unpleasant interview deals with the lives of the Tajiks in Moscow in our own days and the ways they are treated by the Russians – killed, beaten, left unpaid. It’s something I’ve come to notice a lot recently in my own time in Russia – just how racist the Russian people are towards those who were once their equals. There’s a hierarchy here, one that’s almost invisible unless you look for it. It’s easy to live in Russia without meeting a single non-Russian. But you see them every day, cleaning the metro, manning stalls at the market.

I’ve travelled in Tajikistan, Uzbekistan, Georgia, Armenia, and other former Soviet countries. The people I met there were no better or worse than the Russians are. It’s disappointing that after the collapse of the USSR the peace that very nearly existed was replaced by a revival of ethnic and religious tensions that nobody, really, needs or wants.

The New World and Its Heroes

“What’s the point of changing governments if we don’t change ourselves?” People changed after the end of the Soviet Union – they had to change or else die. Their values, as I’ve written above, were overhauled. But their hearts were harder to change, and many of the characters in Second-hand Time didn’t succeed in shaking off the Soviet past. But Alisa Z, one interviewee, did succeed. She’s 35, an advertising manager, and the kind of shark that found the new world one of endless opportunities. Her monologue is fascinating… in a way, it’s like a deranged Dostoevsky character going on a rant to explain their worldview. She took advantage of the “revolution of desires” to desire everything. Sex, money, power. And she got it.

“Loneliness is freedom… Now, every day, I’m happy I’m free: Will he call or won’t he, will he come over or not? Is he going to dump me? Spare me! Those aren’t problems anymore! So no, I’m not afraid of loneliness… What am I afraid of? I’m afraid of the dentist! People always lie when they talk about love… and money… They’re always lying in so many ways. I don’t want to lie… I just don’t! Excuse me… please forgive me… I haven’t thought about any of this for a long time…”

She’s repulsive; she’s free and completely hedonistic. Her confidence, her directness of experience and existence is mesmerising. She is the kind of person who needed, truly needed, the world of capitalism. She sleeps with oligarchs and eats and drinks and enjoys herself. The world is her oyster. In my own experience of oligarchs (bless the British public school system!) I’ve seen the same brutal hunger. I’m not sure it’s the best way to live, but there’s no denying that this is a type of life… just one that I find terrifying and alluring in equal measure. And when so few of us live, even a repulsive life is more attractive than death-in-life…

Love

History was taking place all the time these people were speaking, but what almost always stands out is not the history, but the love that tries to get in the way of it. A good friend of mine in Moscow is dating a Ukrainian and – would you believe it! – both sets of parents have been trying to keep them apart from the first day of the relationship. But that’s nothing compared to the loves that are described here. There’s a woman who falls in love with a murderer stuck for life in a prison, a woman who is separated from her husband for seven years because his family refuse to let him be with an infidel, and many other examples of loves that refuse to let anything stand in the way.

Russia is a country of romantics, and it seems that love is one of the ways that the Russians – the women especially – were able to survive the horrors that the 1990s brought with them. It’s a way of living and loving that seems strange at best, and silly at worst, to us in the West. But giving oneself up truly to another person, just like giving oneself up completely to an idea like Communism, seems one of the surest ways to salvation of the soul. In any case, the passages of self-sacrifice in the name of love were regularly touching, even if it made me deeply sad to read about all the challenges these people faced, and perhaps ought not have had to.

Photo of protesters in Minsk in 2010. Second-hand Time ends on a high, suggesting that the youth will be able to change the world the way everyone had naively hoped to in the 1990s.
Protests in Belarus took place in 2010 as Alexander Lukashenko was re-elected to the office of president. The young generation in the former Soviet Union may not be placed well politically to enact changed, but from my experience of them their hearts are almost without exception in the right place. Things in these countries, which have suffered so much, will only get better. Photo by Isabel Sommerfeld (CC BY 2.0)

Conclusion – Future Hopes

The last chapter of Second-hand Time details the experience of a few students in the ill-fated protests in Belarus to Alexander Lukashenko’s re-election in 2010 to the office of president. Many of these people were put in prison and kicked out of university; others were simply beaten by riot police; Lukashenko won, of course. He also won a fourth term in 2015, and is standing for a fifth term in 2020 – although at the time of writing it’s not clear whether Belarus will be absorbed into Russia at some point after that. However much these people faced pain and disappointment, like the protesters in Moscow in 2011, the fact that they tried – Alexievich seems to hint – is already a huge achievement, and a step towards the future.

I’ve lived in Russia for two years now, and I intend to live here after university. I can’t say I love the Russians, but for me they really are a special people, just as theirs is a special country. And the times are changing. The dreams of the 1990s are not yet dead. If there is one thing that gives me more hope than anything else it is the young generation – here, and across the world. People may complain about the present situation – regarding Russia, it’s not my place to – but Russia’s youth will surely, once they come of political age, change the world for the better. Perhaps the dream of love and brotherhood that the Soviet Union held so dear may also, one day, prove not simply idealistic twaddle, but something really worth believing in.

Alexievich’s book is probably the best book I’ve read all year. Both heartwarming and heart-rending, hopeful and hateful, it is a roller-coaster of real emotions. But most importantly, it’s making me go with reopened eyes into the world and realise yet again that every human carries with them their own story, like a cross. And if we do not listen to them, however misguided or deluded they may be, how can we hope to change the world?

For more of the challenges faced by people living today, look at my thoughts on Joker, and on Mark Fisher’s Capitalist Realism.

The Magic and Mystery of Gogol’s “The Nose”

“The Nose”: Introduction – Not just a Strange Idea

What an odd idea it is to write a story about a man who loses his nose! After all, no one has ever woken up to find theirs has vanished unless I am much mistaken. But this is precisely the starting point for Nikolai Gogol’s story “The Nose”. In this piece I’d like to share a summary and interpretation of Gogol’s story, and my own thoughts on why it’s absolutely worth reading.

A daguerreotype of Gogol, showing his magnificent nose
Nikolai Gogol (1809-1852), writer of strange tales of Saint Petersburg, and himself a bearer of a fantastic nose!

“The Nose” does have a strange premise. The completely surreal idea of losing one’s nose reminds me a little bit of the sort of modern art that we foolishly claim our children could have painted. Anybody can come up with a strange idea – that’s ultimately not hard that hard if you’re sleep deprived or have access to drugs – and even writing about such an idea doesn’t take too much doing. The challenge, and the sheer genius of Gogol, lies in taking a strange and simple idea and extending it, through understanding it and its implications fully, into a full story. The spark of genius is not a good metaphor here – rather the spark is the strange idea, and Gogol’s talent is all the wood he is able to gather together for the fire. Though it’s a story about a nose, “The Nose” has a lot of depth and flavour to it.

Translations from the Russian are all my own.

The Story of “The Nose”

Part I: Ivan Yakovlevich

One morning the barber Ivan Yakovlevich wakes up and has his breakfast as usual. However, to his great surprise, he finds that in the middle of the loaf of bread he has just cut there is a nose. “A nose, that was exactly what it was! And what was more, it seemed to belong to someone he knew…” Already the initial strangeness of finding the nose is compounded by the absurd logic of Gogol’s world, where a man can recognise the nose of another with such certainty. (In much the same way, Kafka’s “Metamorphosis” begins with a strange event, but the true strangeness comes in the reactions of Gregor Samsa’s relatives).

The nose belongs to a civil servant, Collegiate Assessor Kovalev, whose whiskers Ivan Yakovlevich trims a few times each week. Threatened with the police by his wife, Ivan runs outside and throws the nose in the river, only to be caught anyway by a passing policeman. At this point the narrator intervenes to say: “But at this moment the whole matter was completely covered in fog, and I have absolutely no idea what happened next”. Thus ends the first part of the story.

Part II: Collegiate Assessor Kovalev

Next we wake up with the man with the missing nose, Collegiate Assessor Kovalev. After noticing a small spot on his nose the night before, he now discovers the whole thing is missing. After a brief detour into social status in Imperial Russia, Gogol then takes us and Kovalev out onto the street, where he has to cover his face to avoid being recognised by his acquaintances – since, as we learn, nothing is more embarrassing for a man of society than being seen without his nose either by women or by co-workers. But then he sees on the street ahead none other than his own nose! One thing that must be mentioned here is that we never learn what a walking nose looks like – Gogol only talks about the uniform of the organ. But to Kovalev’s dismay the nose has a higher rank in the civil service than he does.

Still, he needs his nose, so he goes up to “him” inside a cathedral where “he” has gone to pray. Very awkwardly, Kovalev approaches and begins to speak. “It’s awfully strange, my dear sir… but it seems to me… you should know your place. Suddenly I find you here, and where else but a church? You must agree…” In spite of a few pages all about Kovalev’s rank and pride, everything collapses into gibberish in front of a superior. Funnier still, are the puns Gogol sprinkles around the dialogue. “You should know your place” appears to refer to the nose’s place on his face, but it is just what would be said by a superior to an inferior too. The nose, naturally, is unimpressed by Kovalev, and furrows its brows before departing in a hurry. Once again, Gogol plays with our idea of what the nose must look like.

A picture of Kazan Cathdral's interior. In "The Nose" Kovalev meets his missing nose here.
Kazan Cathedral in Saint Petersburg. It is here that Kovalev and his nose have their main encounter. One thing to think about in Gogol’s works is always the role of religion, and especially the devil. What does it mean for “The Nose” that the nose itself is pious?

Kovalev is left alone, and now he tries to find some way of tracking down the nose again. He tries the police, he tries to place an advertisement in a newspaper. This last one is particularly funny, as Kovalev’s pride demands that he cannot let his name go into the paper. Instead, he falls back onto his acquaintances. “Look, a lot of people know me: Chekhtareva, wife of the state councillor; and Palagea Grigorievna Podtochina, wife of staff officer Podtochin. If they find out about this, God help me!” Which leaves the public to identify the nose without even knowing whose it is, and thus what it looks like. Another absurd moment. Kovalev goes home, writes a mad letter to a woman whose daughter he’d been flirting with, accusing her of using witchcraft to remove his nose, though naturally he has no evidence for it.

But just when all hope seems lost, the policeman from Part I arrives to say that the nose has been apprehended. What was the nose doing? It had been trying to flee the city and escape to Riga. As you do. The mad suggestion that the nose would flee Petersburg is first suggested by Kovalev’s addled mind a few pages earlier, and most readers (like me) will probably dismiss it as ridiculous. But this is just further evidence that Gogol’s world does not run on the same logic as yours or mine. The rest of Part II consists of Kovalev trying to reattach his nose, but to no avail.

Part III: Back to Normal?

And then one morning, April 7th to be precise, Collegiate Assessor Kovalev wakes up and his nose is reattached. That’s it. It reattaches itself just as magically as it vanished. Kovalev is overjoyed, and heads out into town, determined to do all of the things his nose’s absence had prevented – flirting and performing his duties as a civil servant.

The story ends with the narrator having a brief commentary on the theme of his own story. “Whatever you may say, such things do take place – not too often, but they do”. Is Gogol having one final laugh at the reader? Absolutely. Almost every story is a little ridiculous, a little unbelievable, a little too reliant on coincidences. But most are at the very least possible. “The Nose” is not, and the veneer of factuality given by its use of dates – because we’re also told at the beginning of Part I, reasonably enough, that the story begins on March 25th – is just teasing. But who are we to say what’s real and not real, possible and impossible?

That’s the story of “The Nose”. Now for a few suggestions as to what this all means – because it has to mean something, right?

Magic, Mystery and Meaning: The Themes of “The Nose”

Clothes and Respectability

For a story that is from its title onwards apparently concerned with our bodies Gogol’s focus in much of “The Nose” is oddly enough not on our skin and blood but on the things we use to cover them up. Clothes are at the centre of social rank in early 19th Century Saint Petersburg, and Gogol satirises that in his story. By dealing so much with clothes, Gogol shows how vapid and superficial people were in their interactions – they don’t care to reach the person beneath the suit. This is played with most in the case of the nose itself. Kovalev encounters his nose, but the only physical description is of what the nose is wearing, not what the thing itself looks like.

The deliberate confusion as to what exactly a nose looks like is further played up when the nose is caught by a short-sighted policeman who only recognises that it is a nose and not a man once he has put is glasses on – otherwise, he says, he would have let him pass out of the city and escape to Riga without a hitch. People are overly willing, in Gogol’s world and perhaps our own, to look no further than the rank and respectability indicated by our clothing when interacting with others. Decorum is an important part of society, but we should be wary of letting it absorb all of our attention, lest we and others become nothing more than the clothing we are wearing.

A picture of an early version of the Table of Ranks. In "The Nose" social class plays a big role
The Russian Table of Ranks created by Peter the Great is indirectly a cause of much woe in Gogol’s stories. In “The Nose” Kovalev’s anxiety about approaching his nose is in part due to the fact that it appears to be of a higher rank than him.

Women and Sex

One of the most infamous works of Gogol criticism is Simon Karlinsky’s The Sexual Labyrinth of Nikolai Gogol, which goes through Gogol’s works and finds that the key to understanding them is his repressed homosexuality. I’m not sure how far I agree with Karlinsky, but I think that thinking of “The Nose” as being about sex can prove fruitful. First of all, consider the object itself. Human noses are generally phallic in shape, and in Russian the word “nos/нос” is a masculine noun. The uses of noses, both smell and taste, are also important parts of sex. Furthermore, it’s also worth mentioning that in his correspondence Gogol regularly notes his awkwardness over the size and shape of his own. The shame that Kovalev feels at having a missing nose is directly connected with a much-reduced desire to flirt and see women. So perhaps it’s not a stretch, after all.

The Narrator and The Reading Public

It’s hard to avoid the narrator in “The Nose”. He’s a cheeky one, always appearing at the most inconvenient times with a wink. When Ivan Yakovlevich heads to the bridge the narrator decides to stop the action and tell us a little about him. The same thing happens, a few pages on, with Kovalev. And then there is the matter of the use of dates in “The Nose”. I think one layer to the story’s meaning is satirising the reading public’s demands for what a story must look like. After all, the public like prose narratives to have an element of factuality to them, in contrast to the more explicitly artistic verse narrative also popular then in Russia.

Gogol provides us with the outward appearance of veracity – clear dating, lots of unnecessary details about characters – while contrasting it with a clearly fantastic and absurd tale. Furthermore, at key moments he reveals the inadequacy of this factual veneer, such as when discussing the nose’s independent life – we learn a lot about what he wears and what rank he has, but as to what the thing actually looks like we are left completely in the dark. Gogol is poking fun at us here, and what we need to think of a story as “real”. Simply representing reality as we see it, “The Nose” seems to say, doesn’t get to the heart of things. We never learn why the nose disappears, no matter how much detail Gogol gives us – some mysteries go deeper.

Body Positivity

What I think is the most convincing overall interpretation of “The Nose”, though, is that it is about making us value our bodies more. A nose is something we can live without, but Gogol is keen to show that that doesn’t mean it is worthless. Throughout the story there are descriptions of food, flowers, and snuff – all of which we know Kovalev is unable to enjoy because of his absent nose. Furthermore, a lot of the language centres around our bodies. For example, the introduction of Kovalev – “Collegiate Assessor Kovalev woke up rather early and made a “brrr…” noise with his lips” – shows that from the moment we wake up our bodies are important to our character. When one of Kovalev’s attempts to track down his nose fails, the rejection is felt “not like a hit in the brow, but one right in the eye”.

We don’t think about our bodies until they begin to fail us, or until one morning we wake up and find a part of them has gone missing. Gogol’s story, at least to me, seems to bear the message that we ought to care about them and be grateful for them the whole time. They do a lot of good things for us.

Conclusion

The magic and mystery of “The Nose” lies in the fact that the story is so strange that, like with Kafka’s tales, it’s very hard to find an interpretation that rules out every other one. The more time we spend thinking about it, the more ideas come into our heads for what exactly the whole thing means. Ultimately though, that’s not a reason to read the story – the best reason is that it’s actually quite funny, and completely absurd. It’s short too. Give it a go.

Here’s a translation of “The Nose”. I might make my own in due course too. For more strangeness, I’ve translated Kafka’s “Before the Law” here.

The Day of Judgement by Salvatore Satta – Old Dreams

Salvatore Satta’s The Day of Judgement is a wonderful book, as warm and pleasant as the hills and valleys of Sardinia it takes as its setting. More than that, it is a classic, without a shadow of a doubt. I enjoyed last week’s Satantango more, but as much as I loved it, it is a book destined for people who read, more than people who live. If I go around the country homes of my friends the books that I find there will not be by Joyce, or Woolf, or Beckett, but rather Austen, Hardy, and Kipling. These latter group are no better or worse than the first, but they bring with them a prose that is simple, clear, and a vehicle for their books’ plots, instead of anything deliberately striving to be more. They are not, in a primary sense, experimenters. And one day, perhaps, they may be joined on their shelves by Salvatore Satta’s The Day of Judgement too.

A Classic, for Better or Worse

Pots and pots of ink have dried up in trying to explain what a literary classic is. With The Day of Judgement I simply had a feeling, as I was reading, of something ineffable, indescribable. It had, I would say, a certain bearing about itself. The book is not long, but it carries itself like an elder statesman. This may be in part because Salvatore Satta started writing it when he was almost seventy, after a long career as a jurist. There is no sense of rushing or urgency about the pages, no matter what the author himself felt as he was writing them. It is a book of anecdotes, of spilling digressions, written by an old man about his home. And – and this is what is so rare in our times, when modernism, modern science, and worst of all the horrors of the Second World War, broke that particularly Victorian self-assurance that let us preach what we believed without self-question – it has the gravitas and casual wisdom of someone who has lived, and wishes to share their experience with others. Whether you like him or not, it reminds me of Steinbeck at his best.

Salvatore Satta
Salvatore Satta (1902-1975) was a jurist of note during his life. When he began writing The Day of Judgement he was almost seventy. It is the fruit of a lifetime’s worth of wisdom and love.

Chronicle of a Town

To call this a novel is wrong. It is more a chronicle than a novel, or perhaps a story in Benjamin’s sense. Its heart is the town of Nuoro, in central Sardinia, and Don Sebastiano Sanna Carboni, a nobleman who lives and works there. For a period of perhaps twenty years his life and the life of his village is followed and recounted by the narrator, an older man trying to remember and record his past. Each chapter focuses on a different aspect, place, or person from among the village’s seven thousand. We meet schoolteachers, priests, swindlers, shepherds, and learn about making wine, or about the potential origins of the village, or the design of the houses. Moments such as electrification of street lamps, or the first arrival of radical political ideas, are recounted with tenderness and honesty. But as the book progresses, and the world itself “progresses”, there come about ever more challenges to this once so isolated mountain village, and its way of life.

A “Truth” to Challenge – the Themes

Through the way that the old man recounts his “truth” The Day of Judgement further gains the regalia of a true classic. Because of its structure, with each chapter detailing a different event, or the struggles of a different man or woman, there is an extraordinary thematic variety within these pages. The conflicts between husbands and wives, between fathers and sons, between nobles and the lower orders, between conservatives and socialists, between individuals and the state, between the church and the common man, between teachers and students, are all described. Each side is given its say, and in such a way that I can already sense that this is one of those books which like a seed grow with time and the experiences of their readers. One day I may well support the fathers, instead of the sons, even if today that is not entirely the case. The “truth” of the narrator doesn’t mean a domineering world view, but rather a series of suggestions and opinions which can be challenged or accepted, but are not meant by any stretch of the imagination to be absolute.

Progress – What Good is it?

Part of this comes from the fundamental tension at the heart of the book – between the desire for progress and the inherent conservatism of humankind. I don’t think Satta himself truly knew where he lay in this battle – and this is part of the book’s greatness. Though the narrator himself at one point says that “there is nothing I detest so much as the past”, the evidence of the book tells a different story. The “Day of Judgement” of the book’s title refers not only to the fate of humankind before God in some strands of Christian theology, but also to the role of the writer here. Satta’s narrator admits that he is reviving the dead of his own past and history, from the early twentieth century and a little before, and making them give an account for themselves before the reader. And we are supposed to judge for ourselves whether these men and women, living in the village, have lived their lives badly or well. The narrator can only show us who they were – the rest is up to us.

Nostalgia for a World now Lost

A plaintive nostalgia pervades the book. A longing for a world which was only Nuoro, or at least a world which ended at the sea. Nuoro is a place, for Don Sebastiano, “where there was room for everyone” and the way that the book goes through each of the characters and professions, the very nature of the book’s ordered structure, formally reflects a stability and certainty about life and one’s place in it. Yet there is also an occasional lyricism too, notably in chapter V’s lavish description of making bread, which has “all the solemnity of a ritual”, and then later on when discussing “the pagan mystery” of the vineyard. Here the prose itself takes on the same magical quality of its subject matter, and it’s hard not to want to be there yourself, hard at work on the fields or kneading dough.

Picture of houses in Nuoro
Nuoro today. Perhaps not that much has changed, after all

Through work there comes a sense of community and continuity. People visit each other, sit and play cards together or simply chat in a way that is alien to much of the modern world with its hustle and bustle. It is from a time before time, before precision. It is a stasis of a positive sort, which is differentiated from the present most strikingly by the hope of parents that their children will live (as Don Sebastiano hopes) just the same life as their parents – that they may be just as lucky in having such a good life, instead of eternally striving after a better one. It ties in with the religious argument in the work – that we should see the blessedness of our own lives, rather than in their potentiality.

The Sympathy of a Great Soul

It is his unbounded sympathy, too, that shows Satta as an earnest writer. He cares for all of his characters, from the grimiest urchins to the nobles like Don Sebastiano. It means that whenever progress seems almost inevitable, he is always willing to show kindness towards those it does not benefit, such as the canons who are forbidden to ring the church bells for the beginning of school by a new arrival from outside of the town. The cessation of the bells is one of the saddest moments of the book, because it represents a huge loss of pride and self-respect for the canons. With the ending of the bells’ song, there is also a hidden but no less important loss for the townsfolk of a part of their identity, and when we are told that “the bell rope hung sadly above Ziu Longu’s bench, like the rope after a hanging”, it’s hard not to think that the image is supposed to call to mind the small death inside their souls too.

What Does Modernity Mean?

What modernity means is a loss of the sanctity of the world, a loss of music, a loss of community. It means problems, for “Problems, of whatever kind, arise when the simple, humble certainties of life begin to fail”. Alongside the loss of the bells, another poignant image of the end of street lighting in the village. Before the introduction of electricity, a man would go around lighting the oil lamps, one by one. Behind him, we are told, would follow the town’s children, playing a game between them of trying to catch as many of the spent matches as possible. It is a stupid, childish game, but what it means is community.

Electrification “was destiny itself” but that hardly stops it from being a force for the destruction of the sacred past. The narrator once again deploys a characteristically reticent phrase for when the lights first turn on all at once: for the town “in some mysterious way felt that it had entered history”. It is up to us, again, to decide whether history means good or ill. But it’s hard to avoid the ominous note that creeps into the prose. “The north wind had risen, and the bulbs hanging in their shades in the Corso began to sway sadly, light and shadow, shadow and light, making the night-time nervous. This had not happened with the oil lamps”.

Tragedy of the Present: the Invention of Politics

With modernity also comes politics. Sardinia, on the periphery of Italy, has never been historically important, and Nuoro, at its centre, even less so. But one day, the narrator says, the younger generation started reading Avanti!, a radical socialist paper, and politics arrived in the village. The old certainties of life – that people stayed in their social positions and jobs, that there was a kind of harmony between all walks of life – suddenly begin to be questioned. People, told of inequality, begin to believe in it, and conflicts that had not even been conceivable a hundred years earlier, now take pride of place. Whether they are rightly motivated or not is less important here than the fact that they undermine the conservative feeling of the world as organised and correct as it is. They suggest change where hitherto it wouldn’t even have been a concept.

Politics is all well and good in theory, but in practice something else happens. The movement is co-opted by a certain Don Ricciotti, a man who feels that Don Sebastiano has done him wrong by buying Riccioti’s father’s house at auction when the latter was dealing with bankruptcy. Using his talent for giving speeches Ricciotti is able to gain a sizable support base in the town, just as elections are coming up. He hopes to use the power of office to force Don Sebastiano to return to him the house that he considers his by right. In these speeches, Don Sebastiano is targeted by name as one of the swindlers who is oppressing the poor, hardworking citizens of Nuoro, though there is no evidence elsewhere in the book that this is the case. The story serves as a grave indictment of the dangers of populism, wherever it may be found, and it is only by luck and hard work that ultimately Ricciotti’s efforts are thwarted. Perhaps what Satta wants to say here is that the world would be better off without politics, and the manipulation and deceit that seemingly has to come with it.

Picture of Landscape by Nuoro
The countryside around Nuoro. Much may be lost, but the landscape so beautifully evoked by Satta still remains almost untouched.

The Problems of the Past I – Woman’s Place

Yet for all this uncertainty, for all this scepticism towards the various changes in his own life, the narrator cannot turn his back on the future, and neither does he blind us to the acute problems of the past. Perhaps the most fully fleshed out character, and the most tragic, of the story is Don Sebastiano’s wife, Donna Vincenza. She is described as intelligent, but the society that she is in massively restricts her freedoms: she’s barely even allowed outside of her own house. The chapters centring on her life are filled with gloom and despair, and she is repeatedly described as “trapped”. The lives of the other women are no better. Those who engage in prostitution, for example, are forced to go to another village to give birth or otherwise deal with illegitimate offspring. The implications reveal a misery and disquiet underlying the apparent peace of the past. It is a man’s peace only.

Problems of the Past II – the Dark Side of Stasis

And it is not only the women who suffer here. The darker side of stasis is sometimes revealed when The Day of Judgement touches upon poverty. The book is not critical of poverty per se, and certainly not overly critical about the rigid social classes found within Nuoro which likely perpetuate it, but there are moments when the beautiful, structured façade of Sardinian life in the book suddenly shows its cracks. The moment that struck me most strongly was one of morbid horror. Near the end of the book the summer’s weather becomes unnaturally violent with strong winds and as a result a plague sets in among the fields of the countryside. The lands of almost everybody are left severely damaged – everybody’s lands except those of Don Sebastiano, that is.

When he goes to inspect his fields he meets the peasants who have been looking after them, and they are eager to explain to him why they are undamaged. But to his dismay and disgust they reveal that it is all due to a crucified dog and left hanging on the door of their hut. Don Sebastiano is left speechless and full of rage. The superstitions which at other times make for proof of the magic of the past are now transformed into something monstrous and unnerving. When the peasants then mention a problem with the peasants of the neighbouring farm, Don Sebastiano tells them to sort it out among themselves. And they do, with an axe in the dead of night. The book reminds us that for all the good things that have undoubtedly been lost with progress and time, much has been gained too. The end to the mindless violence, black superstition, and the rise of modern medicine are all things to be rightly praised.

Conclusion – The Judgement

Salvatore Satta did not finish The Day of Judgement, but the ending is in no way abrupt – instead, it finishes on an elegiac note that ties the whole work together. The chronicler could well have reckoned up every single soul of Nuoro’s then seven thousand, and no doubt would have, had they lived that long, but we should be grateful for all the pages that we have. It is a beautiful, lovely, and kind book that stands to my mind for everything the best literature can be. It is exciting, hopeful, and timeless. Read it again and again. I know I will.

For more about the ambiguous development of modernity in rural communities, have a look at my thoughts on Joseph Conrad’s Nostromo.

Picture of Salvatore Satta is in the public domain

Picture of Nuoro houses by Max.oppo [CC BY-SA 3.0 (https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0)]

Picture of Landscape around Nuoro also by Max.oppo