The Story

I just finished The Death of Ivan Ilych by Leo Tolstoy. Before you start bending over and undressing to reward me for my achievement, I must confess it's merely a short story comprised of roughly 60 pages. (I'll be blazing through one of Tolstoy's more epic productions, Anna Karenina, when B gets back from Spain. So save the lube for that occasion.) Besides, I still have three other tales to complete before I truly finish the book. But I wanted to blog about this particular work since Naya told me she loved it, and it's considered one of Tolstoy's masterpieces.

Well, it was very typically Russian, with emotional characters and an overall tone that was depressing as hell. The story pretty much follows the thoughts of Ivan Ilych as he slowly dies an excruciating death from illness. "Gnawing, agonising pain never ceasing for an instant; the hopeless sense of life always ebbing away, but still not yet gone; always swooping down on him that fearful, hated death, which was the only reality, and always the same falsity." Every time I read classic Russian literature, almost every aspect is always so down in the dumps! (I'm basing this off Gogol and Dostoevsky, along with the fact that I now have Russian friends who totally agree that their peoples need to get hyphy.)

Would I recommend this? Definitely. A fascinating read, with a slightly uplifting (slightly, mind you) ending. Plus, you know you're never gonna get through, or even attempt, the 1400 pages of War and Peace, so by reading Ivan Ilych you can still quote from Tolstoy like the big boys!