Curtis provides a detailed analysis of Tolstoy's crucial influence on Solzhenitsyn, and he discusses at length Solzhenitsyn's relationship to Dostoyevsky, Leskov, Chekhov, and Zamyatin. Curtis also demonstrates that a study of Ernest Hemingway whose books have been enormously popular in Russia and Virginia Woolf can contribute to our understanding of the Russian novelist.

Solzhenitsyn's Traditional Imagination includes a chapter on Dos Passos and Eisenstein whose work constituted Solzhenitsyn's first major artistic interest outside Russian literature. The chapter presents the first comprehensive examination of the importance of film for Solzhenitsyn and shows how he learned the use of film technique in literature from Dos Passos and how he adapted it from Eisenstein's films. This was the first full-length study to use Solzhenitsyn's revised editions of One Day.

Professor Curtis's careful use of the best available texts, together with his wide knowledge of contemporary literary criticism and his insistence upon Solzhenitsyn's purely literary importance, make this a valuable book for all students of Solzhenitsyn's fiction. The assassination of the tsarist prime minister Pyotr Stolypin, a crucial event in the years leading up to the Revolution of , is reconstructed from the alienating viewpoints of historical witnesses.

The sole voice of reason among the advisers to Tsar Nikolai II, Stolypin died at the hands of the anarchist Mordko Bogrov, and with him Russia's last hope for reform perished.

Each volume concentrates on a critical moment or "knot" in the history of the Russian Revolution. Solzhenitsyn Author : F. Is it possible or impossible to warn someone of danger I was swallowed myself. I have been in the dragon's belly, in its red-hot innards. The establishment had passed from Beria's jurisdiction to Abakuraov's and had been allocated top-secret work connected with telephone communications. The job was to take a year but, growing ever wider in scope and more involved, and invading related areas, had already dragged on for two.

The objective, as Rubin and Nerzhin understood it, was to find a way of identifying No one, it appeared, had tried to do this before. At any rate, they could find no books on the subject. They had been allowed six months, then another six, but they had made little progress and now time was getting short. Feeling unsettled, Rubin complained over his shoulder: 'Somehow, I just don't feel in the mood today. You only had four years of the war and you've been less than five years in prison, and you say you're tired?

You should get yourself a holiday in the Crimea. All that stuff you've got out of the Lenin Library, saying you need it for the job! Speeches of famous lawyers, Koni's Memoirs, Stanislavsky's Memoirs! Can you see a prisoner in camp with a collection like that? I'd be working my head off now, if it wasn't for a couple of things I've got on my mind.

To start with, I'm worrying about those parquet floors. It was built by people from our camp and I worked for the man who laid the floors. I heard today that Roitman lives there. I suppose it's a question of pride - I'd like to know if those floors squeak or not. If they do, it means I did a bad job. But here I am, and I certainly can't go back and fix them!

And the other thing - isn't it bad form to work on Saturday night when you know that only the free workers will get Sunday off? Do they really get more out of life than we do? I'm not so sure. Nerzhin was a mathematician who knew something about linguistics; when Russian phonetics became a subject of research at Mavrino he was put to work with the only philologist in the place, Rubin.

For two years they had sat back to back twelve hours a day. And both had got ten years - like everybody else. There was a difference of only five years in age and one degree in rank between them - Nerzhin had been a captain. It was possible that before the war he had actually attended some of Assistant-Professor Rubin's lectures.

They looked out into the darkness. Rubin said sadly: 'It worries me that you There's a lot of cleverness in the world but not enough goodness.

Is this another one about poor mixed-up bulls? Paragraph 10 of Article 58 of the Criminal Code relates to people engaged in propaganda against the regime, or other subversive activities. He has an utter contempt for falsehood, is always simple, very human and has the innocence of genius First you tried to force Capek on me, then Fallada.

My life is a shambles as it is. Don't try to make me go in all directions at once. Just let me find my own way Rubin sighed. He was still in no mood to work. He looked at the map of China, propped up against the shelf at the back of his desk. He had cut it out of a newspaper and pasted it on cardboard. All through the past year he had marked in red the advance of the Communist armies and, now that their victory was complete, had left the map there to raise his spirits when he felt depressed or tired.

But today sadness gnawed at him and even the big red expanse of victorious Chinese Communism failed to cheer him up. Nerzhin, occasionally stopping and thoughtfully sucking the tip of his plastic pen, wrote in a hand so fine that he might have been using a needle, on a scrap of paper hidden behind his books and files: 'There is, I remember, a passage in Marx I must find it where he says that the victorious proletariat might perhaps achieve its aims without expropriating the richer peasants.

This means that he saw an economic possibility of including ALL the peasants in the new social system. The Big Chief, of course, didn't even attempt this in 'twenty-nine. But then, has he ever tried to do anything subtle or intelligent? How can one expect a butcher to be a surgeon? The motor on the electrician's lathe hummed away. People ordered things to be switched on or off.

One of the radio sets was playing a dreadfully sentimental tune. Someone was calling loudly for a 6K7 valve. When she thought no one was looking at her, Serafima glanced sharply at Nerzhin who was still writing in his microscopic hand.

The Security Officer, Major Shikin, had ordered her to keep an eye on him. She wore a cotton blouse, always had a warm shawl round her shoulders, and she was a lieutenant in the MGB.

All the free workers at Mavrino were officers of the MGB. But they were entitled to do so for eight hours a day only, and their work was not productive but consisted in supervising the prisoners who, bereft of all other rights, were granted that of working a twelvehour day.

The free workers took it in turn to work late shifts in the laboratories so that the prisoners would be supervised during their additional four hours - from seven to eleven p. Today, the birdlike Simochka was on night duty in the Acoustics Laboratory where, for the time being, she was the only representative of authority. The regulations required her to see that the prisoners worked and didn't idle or use their working time to manufacture weapons, dig tunnels or take advantage of the radio equipment at their disposal to set up two-way communication with the White House.

At ten to eleven she was expected to collect all top-secret documents, lock them in the safe and then lock up the laboratory. It was only six months since Simochka had graduated from the Institute of Communications and, because her background was impeccable from the security point of view, had been sent to this top-secret research establishment, officially referred to only by a code number but which the prisoners irreverently called the 'monkey-house'.

All free workers in it were automatically given the rank of officers in the security service and salaries higher than those of ordinary engineers. They also received clothing allowances and bonuses according to rank. In return, their only duty was to be dedicated and vigilant.

It suited Simochka very well that no one expected her to show any competence in her special field. Like many of her girl-friends there, she had not learned anything at the Institute - this for many reasons.

The girls had done very little maths or physics at school. In their final years it had come to their ears that the headmaster was always reprimanding teachers for failing too many students, and they realized that they would scrape through even if they knew nothing. As a result, when the time came to go to university they were completely lost in the jungle of mathematics and radio-technology - and very often they had no time at all for study.

Every autumn they were taken for a month or so to collective farms to dig potatoes. The rest of the year they attended classes lasting from eight to ten hours a day, so they had no time to digest their lecture notes.

On Monday evenings they had political studies, and at least once a week they were obliged to attend some meeting. Then there were the obligatory 'civic' activities helping to produce the wall - newspaper, organizing workers' concerts, sponsored by the Institute. Time had also to be found for housework, shopping and looking after their clothes - and for an occasional evening at a cinema, a theatre or a dance. If you don't have a little fur as a student, when are you likely to have it later in life?

When the examinations came, Simochka, like the other girls, wrote cribs, hid them in her clothes, smuggled them in and took them out and unfolded them at the right moment, so that they looked like legitimate sheets of rough work. The ignoramuses could easily have been shown up if the examiners had asked enough questions at the orals, but the teachers themselves were overworked - what with committees, meetings and writing various memoranda and reports for the Dean and the Rector.

Failing their students meant extra work examining them a second time. Besides, if their students failed, the teachers suffered, just like factory workers turning out defective goods - on the well- No wonder that they didn't try to catch their students out but did their best to get them through as quickly as possible and with the highest possible marks.

In the last years of their studies, Simochka and her friends came to realize with a sinking feeling that they had no liking for their subject and indeed found it a terrible bore. But by then it was too late to change. Simochka trembled at the thought of actually having to do responsible work in radio technology. Fortunately she was sent to Mavrino where this was not expected of her. But even someone less small and puny might well have had been overawed on entering this secluded citadel where specially chosen jailors and armed guards kept watch over important state prisoners.

She was briefed, together with nine other girls who had all just graduated from her Institute. It was explained to them that the place they had come to was more dangerous than a battlefield - it was a serpents' nest where the slightest false step could be their undoing.

They would be in contact with the dregs of the human race - people unworthy of speaking Russian, and the more dangerous because they did not openly bare their fangs but always wore a mask of courtesy and good breeding. If asked about their crimes - which the girls were categorically forbidden to do - they would weave a clever tissue of lies, trying to prove that they were innocent victims.

Finally, the girls were told that they must never show their hatred of these vipers but, as good members of the Komsomol, and like the prisoners themselves, put on a show of politeness. On the other hand, they must not get into conversation with them except on purely practical matters or run errands for them outside the prison. At the slightest infringement of these regulations or even the first hint of such a possibility they must immediately report everything to the Security Officer, Major Shikin.

The major was a short, swarthy, self-important man with a big head, closely cropped grey hair, and feet so small that he wore boys' shoes. He told them that although the reptilian nature of these wicked men was obvious to him and to other experienced people, there might well be someone among the girls - completely new to this work as they were - who, out of the kindness of her heart, would waver in her duty and break the rules, say, by lending a prisoner a book from the library intended only for the free workers, or worse, by posting a letter for him outside.

Any such letter, though addressed to a Maria or a Tanya, was bound to be intended for a foreign spy centre. He urged anyone who saw a friend going wrong to come like a good comrade to her help by reporting her action to him at once. Finally, the major pointed out that to have an affair with a prisoner was an offence under the criminal code which, as they all knew, was very flexible and provided penalties up to a sentence of twenty-five years hard labour.

The girls were shaken by this bleak picture of the future ahead of them. Some even had tears in their eyes. But the seeds of mistrust had now been sewn among them and, as they left the briefing session, they did not talk to one another about what they had been told. With her heart in her mouth, Simochka had followed Major Roitman into the Acoustics Laboratory, and instantly felt like shutting her eyes and as though she were falling from a great height In the six months that had gone by since that day, something strange had happened to her.

It wasn't that she had stopped believing in the reality of the imperialists' dark designs, and she was still quite prepared to accept that the prisoners who worked in all the other laboratories were bloodthirsty villains. But as for the dozen or so she saw every day - these engineers and technicians, some with the highest university degrees - they seemed so grimly indifferent to the thought of freedom, to what was happening to them, to their prison terms of ten or twenty-five Simochka wasn't in the least afraid of them, nor could she hate them,.

Their great learning, and the stoicism with which they endured their fate aroused nothing but her boundless respect. Though duty and patriotism compelled her to report all their transgressions to the Security Officer, she began to feel, for reasons that were not at all clear to her, that her role was a thoroughly despicable one and that it put her in an impossible position.

It was particularly painful in the case of her nearest neighbour and working partner, Gleb Nerzhin, who sat facing her across their two desks. For some time now Simochka had been working closely with him, under his direction, on diction tests. At Mavrino new telephone circuits were always being tried out to see how well they conveyed the nuances of human speech.

There was still no instrument which could accurately measure this factor and register it on a dial. From this point of view, the efficiency of a circuit could only be judged by someone listening while a second person read out test syllables, words and sentences at the other end of the line.

Nerzhin was responsible for the mathematical programming of these tests, which were working out so well that he had even written a monograph on the methods involved.

Whenever he and Simochka felt that their work was getting on top of them, it was he who decided what was urgent and what could wait: at such moments he looked so young and self-assured that Simochka, whose mental image of war was derived from the cinema, saw him in a captain's uniform, shouting orders to his guncrew in the blaze and smoke of shell-fire. But, in fact, Nerzhin was decisive only because he wanted to get through his work as quickly as possible and relapse into idleness.

Once he had said to Simochka: 'I am active because I hate action. And indeed, once an immediate crisis was over, he would sit still for hours, his face grey, showing his age and his wrinkles. There was no trace now of self-assurance, and his movements were slow and hesitant. He would think a long time before writing a few of those notes which Simochka, today again, saw on his desk among a pile of technical reference books and monographs. She noticed that when he finished he always put them in the same place on the left side of his desk, but not in the drawer.

She burned with curiosity to know what he was writing and for whom. Without knowing it, he had become for her an object of sympathy and admiration. So far, Simochka's life had been very unhappy. She was not pretty. Her nose was too long; her hair was thin and grew awkwardly - she gathered it together at the back of her head in a straggly little knot.

She was not just small, which can be quite attractive, but too small - more like a schoolgirl than a grown woman. Also, she was rather prim and proper, had no time for fun and games, and this also put the young men off.

At twenty-five she had no boy-friends and had never been kissed. A month ago something had gone wrong with the microphone in the acoustics booth and Nerzhin had called Simochka to help him fix it. She came with a screwdriver in her hand, then, in the soundless, airless room where there was barely enough space for the two of them, bent towards the microphone which Nerzhin was examining, and before she realized it, her cheek was touching his.

She nearly died of fright at the thought of what might happen next. She should have drawn back, but she went on foolishly looking at the microphone. There followed the longest and most terrifying Suddenly he seized her head and kissed her on the lips.

Simochka's whole body felt exquisitely faint. She forgot her duty to the Komsomol and to her country; all she could say was: 'The door's not shut. Nerzhin risked only ten days in the punishment cell, but for her, Simochka, her security clearance, her career, perhaps even her freedom, were at stake. Yet she had not the strength to draw away from the hands that clasped her head.

For the first time in her life a man had kissed her. In this way, the cunningly wrought chain broke at the link formed by a woman's heart. Let's talk. I'm upset, Gleb. I was sitting with the Germans in front of their Christmas tree, and I happened to mention something about my dug-out at the bridgehead north of Pultusk. Suddenly, there it all was - the front, the war.

It was so vivid - and nostalgic too Even war memories can be sweet. According to Taoist ethics "Weapons are the instruments of misfortune, not of honour. The wise man conquers unwillingly. The mother hugging her children and the blonde Gretchen in tears - that was our masterpiece. It had a text in verse. I remember picking one up. We used to climb out of our dug-out and listen too. But your appeals were a bit naive. We did take Graudenz and Elbing without a single shot. Did I ever tell you about Milka?

She was a student at the Institute of Foreign Languages, graduated in 'fortyone and was sent straight off as a translator to our unit. A little snub-nosed girl, very keen and brisk. She was terribly vain, loved being praised for her work God help you if you told her off! Do you remember, on the Northwestern front, just beyond Lovat, south of Podtsepochye, there's a forest?

This side of the Redya River or the other? I know where you mean. It was spring. Almost spring, anyway - March. We sloshed through puddles in our boots and sweated under our fur hats. There was that everlasting smell of awakening spring. We might have been in love for the first time, or a newly married couple. Why is it that every time you fall in love, you go through it all again right from the beginning, like a schoolboy That endless forest!

Here and there, smoke from a gun-position in a clearing where there was a battery of seventy-sixes. We kept away from them. We wandered about till dusk - it was damp and the sunset turned everything pink. She had been driving me crazy all day. Then in the evening we found an empty bunker.

They built a lot of them that year, like shelters for wild animals. Inside there were branches of pine scattered on the floor, and logs smelling of resin, and soot from old fires. No stove. Just a hole in the roof. No light at all of course, just flickering shadows on the log walls if you lit a fire.

Those were the days! That's the whole point of the story for a prisoner. It's a kind of search for universal justice, don't you think? A blind man wants those who can see to reassure him that the sky is still blue and the grass still green. A prisoner needs to know that there are still real live attractive women in the world and lucky fellows who make love to them You call that a war memory? An evening with a girl in a shelter smelling of pine resin, with no one shooting at you! That same evening your wife was turning in her sugar coupons for a little sticky lump of sugar all mixed up with paper, and wondering how to share it out between your daughters so that it would last thirty days.

And in Butyrki Prison, in cell seventy-three On the first floor, down a narrow corridor A young Moscow history professor, Razvodovsky, only just arrested and who of course hadn't been at the front, was arguing passionately and brilliantly and convincingly, too - that war had its good side. He produced a whole battery of political, historical and philosophical arguments to back up his case. And some of the boys in the cell, who had fought on every front, were so furious they nearly lynched him.

I listened and said nothing. Razvodovsky had some good arguments. Every now and then I thought he was right, and I did remember some good things about the war but I didn't dare argue with those soldiers.

The professor, you see, had been spared from having to fight. And as a reserve artillery officer, so had I - at least compared to those men, who had been in the infantry.

You know how it was, Lev, you were at the front yourself - you had a pretty easy war in your little Psychological Warfare outfit. You were never in the sort of fighting where you and your men had to hold out at all costs.

It was the same with me, or very nearly so - I never once led an attack. Our memory plays tricks with us, we forget the worst And we remember the things we liked. But that day when a Junkers divebombed us and nearly blew me up near Orel - there was nothing I liked about that. The only good war is one that's over and done with. Even of transit camps.

But some trusty who had a soft job there - a storekeeper or a bath attendant, who maybe even had a woman as well - he'll swear there's no better place than a transit camp. Happiness, after all, is a relative term.

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This article may be used for research, teaching, and private study purposes. Any substantial or systematic reproduction, redistribution, reselling, loan, sub-licensing, systematic supply, or distribution in any form to anyone is expressly forbidden. The reproachful corpse suggests that death has not been sudden and static, but slow and evolving.

In the second stanza, the antithesis of the dialectic, the observers become participants. The poet relieves the deadly seriousness of the topic by undercutting the tragic narrative with witty touches. James A. Murray et al. James MacGibbon, ed. All references are to this edition. Paul Edwards et al.