On Mikhail Sholokhov’s And Quiet Flows the Don

One of the joys of reading is to walk into a bookshop, browse around to look at books (preferably for some hours), and stumble onto a new book that you had not meant to read, and probably did not even know about until you stepped into the bookshop that day. That was the case with me and Mikhail Sholokhov’s And Quiet Flows the Don, which I discovered as I was browsing around Kinokuniya in KLCC a few weeks ago.

What caught my eye? Firstly it was the fact that Sholokhov had won the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1965, with this book being his magnum opus. The other was the inevitable blurb on the back cover, comparing the book to Tolstoy’s War and Peace.

So, having finished reading the book, here are some observations and reflections from Sholokhov’s work.

The first is that, sadly, this book is no War and Peace. The comparison is inevitable, I suppose, given that Sholokhov deals with relatively congruent themes of intertwined lives, family drama and love affairs, and how these get strained and tested amidst the horrors and travails of war. But thenceforth the comparison grows thin.

Sholokhov is a capable enough writer, and his love for his native Cossack life shines through at regular moments throughout the novel. He grows especially lyrical when describing the titular Don river, and how it frames and shapes the lives of the novel’s characters. But Sholokhov lacks Tolstoy’s supreme skill and ability as a writer, especially in the ways that Tolstoy draws very accurate psychological portraits of the main characters of his novel. Sholokhov’s characters are believable, and for the most part the very likeable, but lack the realistic depth and psychological heft of Tolstoy’s cast. Also, while parts of the book were given to expositions of Bolshevik ideology, which the reader assumes Sholokhov has deep sympathies, if not allegiance, for, Sholokhov shies away from the essential questions that form, to this reader at least, the core of War and Peace. Gregor Melekhov is an interesting and admirable Cossack protagonist, but he is no Pierre Bezukhov, with the latter’s almost desperate search for existential truth.

The other observation is that, as a paean to Cossack life, the book certainly hits all the right notes. The reader gets a panoramic sense of the daily lives of the Cossacks, deeply religious, very agrarian, and always engaged in hard and strenuous labour. The Cossack is also a famed warrior, and the Cossack cavalryman is a key linchpin of the Russian Army of that era. But what is especially poignant is the way in which the individual characters in the novel convey, through their choices and decisions, the unique way of life of the Cossacks: independent-minded, free-spirited, courageous, democratic, passionate.

The other thing worthwhile noting about the book is that it does not shy away from portraying the horrors and senselessness of war. The fact that Tolstoy took great pains to paint realistic portraits of military action during the Napoleonic invasion of Moscow, especially the battle at Borodino which takes centre stage in the early part of War and Peace, is clear to see. But when the reader steps backwards to survey the novel as a whole, one cannot escape the feeling that for Tolstoy, the war was merely one part of the overall framing of the lives of his characters, especially Bezukhov and his search for universal truth. Whereas for Sholokhov, the war was interesting and worthy of attention, in and of itself. Throughout the novel, we read of various depictions of military action, and the ways in which the principal characters – Gregor Melekhov, Eugene Listnitsky, Ilya Bunchuk and others – are shaped and wounded and transformed by the experience of war. The drama peters off somewhat in the third quarter of the novel, but this is consistent with the chaotic time between the February and October Revolutions of 1917, and the narrative has stayed largely true to the historical drama of the time.

Overall, I enjoyed reading this. A four-star read, and especially recommended as a Deep Cuts selection for readers who have gone through the Tolstoy, Dostoyevsky and Turgenev books, but still crave further exploration of Russian literature.

On Days Unending

These days I tread in silence
In patient reverie
With faith in His Munificence
I spend each day with thee

These days I do remember
And softly meditate
On past travails and thunder -
Reflections inundate!

These days I wait and wonder
If ever future holds
Or if perhaps t’was never
My fortune to behold

These days I pass in silence
I wait resignedly
For Him to pass my sentence
My fate, eternal be!

On Record

I write this to you
An unnameable and unknown you
From across these miles
These years
These centuries

As a record
of my erstwhile existence.

On Reading as a Means of Coping

A few weeks ago, there was a sense of deep concern and foreboding in our household. In very quick succession, we had two of our family members who received notice that they could be coming down with a severe illness. I would have dearly liked to be able to report here that both instances were cases of false alarm, but alas the fact of the matter is that my stepfather has been recently diagnosed with what appears to be a severe and somewhat advanced case of cancer.

Amidst these discoveries, at a time which now feels like quite an age ago, I tried my best to carry myself with the usual and expected dignity of a Malay man: no overt or unnecessary displays of emotion or anguish, and to show concern without allowing the maelstrom of feelings to affect my day-to-day doings too much. I would like to think, in fact, that as I have gotten older, I am becoming better at being able to be genuine and sincere in my dealings with my emotions: not to hide them, or ignore them, nor to allow them to overpower me. I wanted to feel, without being buried or thrown overboard by those feelings.

So I reached for my usual method of coping in times of difficulty and anguish: I looked for something to read, that would help me make sense of what was going on. The idea is that with more that you know about something, the less mysterious, and hopefully the less scary that thing becomes. I reached out to Siddhartha Mukherjee’s The Emperor of all Maladies, a Pulitzer Prize-winning exploration of cancer, and the ongoing medical and scientific efforts to understand, treat, and conquer cancer. It was calming to know that this disease, which was and is eating up a loved one, had a name, and a history, and a present and future chronicle of valiant efforts to combat and defeat it. Learning and understanding helped me to know what it was that our family would have to deal with.

I had a similar episode for this, a few years ago. The demise of my father-in-law in 2018 threw me into my own form of soul-searching. Knowing what I knew of his life, and how he struggled to cope with his final years on this earth, I was struggling on my own with the idea of death, and what it means to live a good life so that one could welcome a good death. I went into a sprint of reading: books like Katherine Mannix’s With the End in Mind and Paul Kalanithi’s When Breath Becomes Air were my guides and companions in a process that lasted for many months (and, in truth, probably is still ongoing.) I went back to the Qur’an, sometimes reading the translations and exegeses to comprehend the meanings of the words, but most often, just reciting the words out loud and meditating with the melody and grammar of Holy Scripture.

There are many ways to cope with shock and sadness and grief – my weapon of choice is the soothing rain of words and understanding. None of this is going to take away the sharp pain of loss that I am bracing myself for, knowing that it will come, perhaps sooner than I am prepared for. But I also know that this is part of what it means to be truly alive.

In an interview with The Times Magazine, Cormac McCarthy, one of my favourite authors who had passed away only recently, had said that he considered only a short list of authors, including Melville, Dostoyevsky and Faulker, as “good writers”, and omitted many others such as Proust and James who do not “deal with issues of life and death”. In the McCarthyian scheme of literature and life, it is the contest with death that is the one and true genuine drama of human existence.

These words, these words
they come down upon me
like gentle rain at night

They tell me,
"it's going to be okay"
as my courage takes flight

Amidst the pain, amidst the blight
A thousand curses I defied
.

On Being Grim

He looked right at me
and said,
“It is going to be grim.
You need to be strong
for your mother,
and your family.”

I just looked away,
desperately trying to hide
my breaking heart.