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kevin_shepherd 's review for:
The Death of Ivan Ilych Illustrated
by Leo Tolstoy
“Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day; Rage, rage against the dying of the light.” ~Dylan Thomas
Ivan Ilych is slipping away and he knows it. His progression (regression?) into darkness is one of introspection and regret. Interspersed amid the episodes of physical pain, brought about by injury and illness, are Ilych’s contemplations on the meaning of life.
Being led inside the head of a dying man isn’t my idea of a good time, but Tolstoy, being Tolstoy, does it masterfully. Let’s face it, we are all going to be there someday. We know it’s coming. Some of us (most of us?) deal with this inevitability by ignoring it. We either pretend it isn’t there or we embrace the myth that if we do this or that we can somehow circumvent the unavoidable and plant our ass in an eternity of perpetual bliss. Tolstoy’s Ilych isn’t above all that, but his situation forces him to examine not the ‘what’ of it all, but rather the ‘why’ of it all.
Tolstoy was a genius. I read that some critics believe that this, The Death of Ivan Ilych, is the best short fiction he ever wrote. They will get no argument from me.
Old age should burn and rave at close of day; Rage, rage against the dying of the light.” ~Dylan Thomas
Ivan Ilych is slipping away and he knows it. His progression (regression?) into darkness is one of introspection and regret. Interspersed amid the episodes of physical pain, brought about by injury and illness, are Ilych’s contemplations on the meaning of life.
Being led inside the head of a dying man isn’t my idea of a good time, but Tolstoy, being Tolstoy, does it masterfully. Let’s face it, we are all going to be there someday. We know it’s coming. Some of us (most of us?) deal with this inevitability by ignoring it. We either pretend it isn’t there or we embrace the myth that if we do this or that we can somehow circumvent the unavoidable and plant our ass in an eternity of perpetual bliss. Tolstoy’s Ilych isn’t above all that, but his situation forces him to examine not the ‘what’ of it all, but rather the ‘why’ of it all.
Tolstoy was a genius. I read that some critics believe that this, The Death of Ivan Ilych, is the best short fiction he ever wrote. They will get no argument from me.