“It snowed, it snowed over all the world
From end to end.
A candle burned on the table,
A candle burned.”
These poignant lines, from one of Yuri Zhivago’s poems nestled at the end of Boris Pasternak’s masterpiece, Doctor Zhivago book, encapsulate the novel’s core essence. In a world often rendered bleak and desolate, art serves as a vital illumination, offering solace during moments of solitude and despair. Revisiting Doctor Zhivago after years, I approached it with a blend of anticipation and trepidation, wondering if the enchantment it held in my youth would endure through a more seasoned perspective.
My renewed engagement with doctor zhivago book was sparked by a confluence of literary encounters. Immersing myself in Dostoevsky’s profound explorations of the human condition the previous year, coupled with Dickens’ sweeping portrayal of societal upheaval in A Tale of Two Cities, and the nature-infused prose of Tarjei Vesaas, prepared fertile ground for re-examining Pasternak’s epic. Dickens illuminated the dual nature of revolutions, grand in historical scope yet often devastating on a personal level, a theme resonating deeply within Doctor Zhivago. Dostoevsky’s influence, previously overlooked, now revealed itself through the novel’s subtle yet persistent echoes of Orthodox mysticism and the timeless relevance of Christ’s life. Vesaas, in turn, heightened my sensitivity to the profound connection between the artist and the natural world, a bond vividly portrayed in Pasternak’s work.
As translators aptly noted, Doctor Zhivago delves into “the accursed questions” – those fundamental inquiries about human existence that Dostoevsky himself articulated. These are the enduring riddles of man’s nature, the presence of the divine, the enigma of evil, the quest for life’s meaning, and the inevitable shadow of death. Pasternak revives these quintessential Russian questions, daring to confront them even when history seemed poised to suppress them indefinitely.
To attempt a concise summary of what doctor zhivago book is “about” feels almost reductive. It is, in essence, a profound exploration of “Life, The Universe, and Everything,” echoing Douglas Adams’ whimsical breadth, yet grounded in the tumultuous reality of early 20th-century Russia. The novel unfurls with an ambitious scope, populated by a vast cast of characters and a plot woven with intricate complexity. At its heart is Yuri Antonovich Zhivago, a physician and poet, inextricably caught within the throes of the 1918 Russian Revolution and the ensuing Civil War. Throughout this turbulent backdrop, Zhivago grapples with the relentless tension between the primal need for survival and the unwavering commitment to his artistic integrity. His emotional and intellectual yearnings converge upon a single, resonant name:
Lara, I’m afraid to name you, so as not to breathe out my soul along with your name.
To truly grasp the significance of Larissa Fyodorovna within the narrative tapestry of doctor zhivago book, one must consider Pasternak’s early affiliation with the Symbolist movement. Lara embodies archetypal feminine forces – she is Earth Mother, Goddess, Mother Russia herself, representing womanhood and the yearning for peace amidst the chaos of class conflict. For Zhivago, love for Lara becomes synonymous with the love of life in its totality – his very raison d’être, his source of strength and artistic inspiration. The other men who orbit Lara’s life are equally imbued with symbolic weight. Khomarovsky, the opportunistic libertine, embodies corruption and self-serving amorality, a figure who thrives in both pre-revolutionary and revolutionary societies, profiting from the moral decay around him. Pasha Antipov, in stark contrast, is the idealistic puritan, whose noble aspirations for a better world tragically morph into the brutal 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.
While the anti-communist undertones of doctor zhivago book are undeniable, and Zhivago’s religious fervor and rejection of socialist realism are significant facets, my enduring fascination lies elsewhere. Ever since experiencing David Lean’s cinematic adaptation and later immersing myself in the novel itself, I have been less captivated by what Pasternak critiques and more drawn to what he passionately affirms. This inclination explains the profound impact of the chapters dedicated to Lara, and perhaps too, my enduring fondness for Julie Christie’s portrayal in the film, despite her non-Russian heritage.
Delving into the intricate themes and myriad characters of doctor zhivago book feels like a daunting undertaking, one that risks reducing its richness to a mere list of decontextualized quotations. Yet, to capture the essence of Pasternak’s vision, some excerpts are indispensable. Nikolai Nikolaevich, or Uncle Kolya, emerges as another authorial alter-ego, an intellectual steeped in the traditions of the old world, deeply interested in religion, and possessing a distinctly elitist worldview.
Every herd is a refuge for giftlessness, whether it’s a faith is Soloviev, or Kant, or Marx. Only the solitary seek the truth, and they break with all those who don’t love it sufficiently. 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 further elucidates the role of Christianity and symbolism as artistic tools:
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.
Expanding on this, Pasternak, through Zhivago’s reflections, presents history itself as a form of art, a human construct built upon the foundations of time and memory:
… he developed his long-standing notion of history as a second universe, erected by mankind in response to the phenomena of time and memory. The soul of these books was a new understanding of Christianity, their direct consequence a new understanding of art.
Even in his youth, Yuri Zhivago is depicted as a soul brimming with untapped potential, a romantic yearning for a means of expression:
Everything in Yura’s soul was shifted and entangled, and everything was sharply original – views, habits, and predilections. He was exceedingly impressionable, the novelty of his perceptions not lending itself to descriptions.
The initial fervor of the revolution resonates with the doctor, perceived as an opportunity to embrace life more fully, to realize his potential:
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.
Serving as a doctor in a small Ukrainian village, tending to wounded soldiers, Zhivago is yet to confront the stark disillusionment that arises from the chasm between revolutionary ideals and their flawed implementation:
Suddenly everything has changed, the tone the air; you don’t know how to think or whom to listen to. As if you’ve been led all your life like a little child, and suddenly you’re let out – go, learn to walk by yourself. And there’s no one around, no family, no authority. Then you’d like to trust the main thing, the force of life, or beauty, or truth, so that it’s them and not the overturned human principles that guide you, fully and without regret, more fully than it used to be in that peaceful, habitual life that has gone down and been abolished.
One of the most captivating scenes unfolds as Zhivago’s initial revolutionary enthusiasm transmutes into a powerful declaration of love:
In these days one longs so much to live honestly and productively! 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. What wouldn’t I give for it not to be there, for it to be written on your face that you are pleased with your fate and need nothing from anyone. 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.
The line blurs between realism and symbolism as we ponder: Is Zhivago addressing Larissa Fyodorovna, or is he speaking to Russia itself, poised on the brink of civil war after a fleeting honeymoon of revolution?
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.
Times of upheaval serve to reframe trivial concerns, foregrounding the profound “accursed questions” that preoccupied Dostoevsky. During his exile in the Urals, Zhivago grapples with articulating his thoughts in his 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.
This “happiness of existing,” for Zhivago, finds its ultimate expression in 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. “Lara!” – closing his eyes, he half whispered or mentally addressed his whole life, the whole of God’s earth, the whole sunlit expanse spread out before him.
If the message wasn’t sufficiently clear, Zhivago elaborates:
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 assumes anthropomorphic qualities when perceived through the poet’s eyes:
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.
Is Lara merely a cipher, a mystery veiled in silence? Do we only perceive her through Zhivago’s perspective, or does she possess her own distinct agency and inner world?
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.
Her wisdom and love are more instinctive than Zhivago’s intellectual pursuits, yet no less profound:
I don’t like works devoted entirely to philosophy. 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.
She reciprocates Zhivago’s tormented love with unwavering warmth and devotion:
I don’t think I’d love you so deeply if you had nothing to complain of and nothing to regret. I don’t like the righteous ones, who never fell, never stumbled. Their virtue is dead and of little value. The beauty of life has not been revealed to them.
Yet, their paths are not destined to converge in a conventional happily-ever-after:
You understand, we’re in different positions. 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.
Ultimately, doctor zhivago book stands as a sprawling epic where symbolism often overshadows plot mechanics and character motivations. The critique of a corrupt value system is more apparent upon each revisit. But it is Pasternak’s poems, interwoven throughout the narrative and lingering in the mind like Maurice Jarre’s iconic film score, that truly endure. They serve as a constant reminder of the inherent beauty that persists in the world, waiting to be discovered by those who are willing to seek it.
