The Gulag Archipelago - Aleksander Solzhenitsyn

First, I have to admit that the version of The Gulag Archipelago I read was abridged from the original three volumes down to one. I don’t read abridgements as a rule, but this was the only copy they had at the library, and it was at least authorized by the author, so I can hope the key elements were distilled.

The Gulag Archipelago is in part an autobiographical depiction of Solzhenitsyn’s time in a Gulag prison, but it also stretches much beyond that, providing a detailed examination of the Gulag system’s history and sharing stories from dozens of prisoners. The book is unflinching in its criticism, not just of the Gulag system itself, but of Stalin, Lenin, and even Khrushchev, whose “thaw” was supposed to correct the grossest injustices of Stalinist communism but instead simply buried them a bit deeper underground (though it must be admitted that he allowed a bit more criticism, at least).

The tone is so biting, so justifiably aggrieved, that I’m honestly surprised that Solzhenitsyn survived its publication, ultimately suffering expulsion from the Soviet Union rather than prison or death. That alone speaks to some small evolution on soviet punishment, though Stalin set such a lower bar that even serious human rights offences can seem liberal by comparison.

The most shocking part of the book to me was the description of interrogations. I had expected the Gulags to be miserable places, and never thought the Soviets would be averse to using torture, but the breadth and extent of it was absurd, especially because it was all so pointless. Clearly the interrogators knew that these people hadn’t done anything and didn’t have any useful information on dissidence for them. The whole thing was simply a way to meet quotas. As such, why not just round them up and cart them off to the Gulags? It’s not as if there was any actual due process going on.

Solzhenitsyn is foremost among soviet dissident writers, standing alongside Bulgakov and Akhmatova, and deserves his reputation. One day I will need to track down an unabridged translation and readthe parts I missed this time round.

The Corpse Walker: Real-Life Stories, China from the Bottom Up - Liao Yiwu

I can’t remember where or why I came across this The Corpse Walker, except that I was in an oral history mood and wanted to read something about China. Still, I was sufficiently unclear that when it first came in and I saw the title without the sub-title on my Holds list, I assumed it was a novel I didn’t recall requesting.

The Corpse Walker is no novel, but some of the stories are strange enough to populate one. A long-time dissident and activist in his native land, Liao Yiwu fills this book with conversations he’s had with a wide range of Chinese citizens, from beggars to counterrevolutionaries and former Red Guards to human traffickers. The sole thread uniting the subjects of his book is their status as outcasts or peripheral figures, individuals who dwell on the lowest rungs of China’s social ladder.

Other themes ripple across stories, as well, commonly injustices enacted by the Communist regime, abject failures of the legal system, and witch hunt hysteria against Rightists that made scapegoats of anyone unlucky enough to stand out even briefly. The book is not a history text, and assumes a certain level of familiarity of the reader, but nonetheless it provided a good primer on some of the mainstays of 20th century Chinese history: the Great Leap Forward, the sixties thaw, the Cultural Revolution, the One Child Policy, the Tiananmen Square Massacre. The tight focus of individual accounts lends an urgency to the telling, allowing some of the finer facets of these brutal events or policies to shine brighter.

Yiwu also allows glimpses of pre-Communist China, which seap through in the practices suprressed by the governtment: professional mourning, Feng Shui, Erhu playing and music generally, Falun Gong (actually a recent phenomenon, but harkening to an earlier age). I finished the book with a better appreciation of life in China beyond the basic stereotypes, and while I’m no expert, Liwu’s accounts gave me a glimpse I wouldn’t otherwise have managed.

The books can be classified as oral history, but Liwu actually handles them more like straight-ahead interviews, including his own prompts and reactions in the text and carrying on conversations with his subjects. Unlike a typical journalist, he makes no effort to hide his feelings, betraying indignation on behalf of injustices, and disgust with those he thinks have behaved poorly. Such subjectivity wouldn’t fly in standard journalism, but it works well here, since everything is coloured with a tinge of uncertainty. Subjects recount superstition as fact, and s omany of the tales are such blatant hard luck stories, it makes you wonder if they are shading events in their favour a bit. What’s more, Liwu didn’t generally have access to a tape recorder, and was unable always even to take notes, so all conversations are only approximations of what really occurred. Still, I believe what is written in broad strokes.

Liwu has won international accolades for his writing, but I don’t feel I can comment, since the book is almost entirely transcripts of conversations, which isn’t a proper venue for judging prose. Still, he is perfomring important work, and is undoubtedly fearless in the face of oppression. I’ll look out for more of his work, where he is able to express himself in his own words.

Darkness at Noon - Arthur Koestler (Translated by Daphne Hardy)

If I had to describe Darkness at Noon in one word (why would I ever have to do this? It’s not important), I’d call it “brooding.” The book details the imprisonment and confession of Nicholas Rubashov, a member of the communist old guard who has been accused, somewhat arbitrarily, of crimes against the state.

The majority of the novel is set in Rubashov’s cell, where he communicates with his neighbours using a tap code, and the interrogation room, where he undergoes questioning by two men: Ivanov, an old friend who retains some sympathy for him, and Gletkin, a younger man who represents to Rubashov the changing face of the party he helped build. The action briefly flashes to other times and places, mostly through Rubashov’s recollections of events that are being used against him in the accusation.

The story is lean, slow, and meditative, with most of the action occuring inside Rubashov’s head as he reflects on his situation and explores his shifting attitudes towards communism. Koestler’s creates a rich and conflicted character in Rubashov, a man too intelligent to buy the absurdities of communism, yet nevertheless dedicated to the movement and not yet ready to disavow it. At the start of the book, Koestler provides a brief note explaining that Rubashov is a composite of many individuals who were purged during the Soviet show trials of the late 1930s, and this authenticity bleeds into the narrative.

The prose was rich and engaging, full of sumptuous images that chronicle Rubashov’s inner and outer turmoil. It’s worth noting that the English version of the novel is actually a work of translation, despite appearing on the Modern Library’s Top 100 Best English Language Novels of the 20th Century. I imagine it was deemed to qualify because Koestler’s original manuscript (written in German) was lost, and Daphne Hardy’s English translation was the first version to see publication. I question whether it counts, personally, but translation or no, it’s an excellent novel, and the psychological richness of Koestler’s account cannot be denied.