On the Dark Side of Russian Literature, 1709–1910 by Constantin V. Ponomareff (review)

HUMANITIES 197 long, and ends on an unspectacular note: 'It is not surprising that the Western should be parodied in the 1960s ... Nor is it strange that the formula should be revived repeatedly.' Sellingthe Wild West has long been a successful and colourful aspect of American popular culture. Selling Bold's hypothesis and claims will not, I fear, be so easy. (MARSHALL W. FISHWICK) Constantin V. Ponomareff. On the Dark Side of Russian Literature, 1709-1910 American University Studies Series XII: Slavic Languages and Literature, vol 2. Peter Lang. xi, 261. SFr56.70 In his conclusion to this book, Constantin Ponomareffwrites of 'the sense of moral discomfort and ·spiritual unease among the major Russian writers,' adding: 'This intent to overcome inner and social malaise induced by a growing awareness of the disparity between European humane ideals and Russian political reality - began with Kantemir's satires and finished with Blok's yearning for wholeness in the poetical outpourings to his Beautiful Lady' (235)~ This in effect is his central thesis, and he pursues it admirably in a book which shows an impressive grasp of Russian and European literature alike. The author chooses to call this 'dark side' of Russian literature 'nihilism,' which he defines as 'an inherent hostility to man and to life, a cold inhuman vision' (2). He supports this view with a number of definitions by other writers. For me the word is nevertheless somewhat confusing: I constantly found myself asking whether the author was always using it in exactly the same sense with respect to different writers. Thus while he stresses that his view of nihilism 'has very little to do with what has erroneously been called "Russian nihilism" as applied to the radicals ofthe 1860'S' (5), it seems to me that at times he uses the word that way himself, particularly in his chapter on Dostoevsky. I would perhaps have preferred some formulation avoiding the existing connotations of 'nihilism,' based possibly on Ponomareff's reference to 'a disease of Russian literary characters ... to do with an inability to feel, to love, as was the case with Pechorin' (184). This theme is indeed demonstrated by a close examination of the works of the major authors of the chosen period (except, regrettably, Tolstoy, to whom Ponomareff felt - with unnecessary modesty, surely - he could not do justice). The author's arguments are convincing. In Pushkin's little tragedies, for example, 'life and death, health and virulent disease grapple with each other, genuine love is pitted against its more negative manifestations such as possessiveness, jealousy and hate' (78). Or in Turgenev: 'the "fathomless depths of Bazarov's conceit," his satanic pride in himself, prevented any real emotional involvement with others, 198 LETTERS IN CANADA 1987 especially women' (136). The discussion terminates with the Symbolists, where 'The flight into self-oblivion was a more modern form of dehumanization bringing in its wake rejection of our world, spiritual frustration and the desire ... for self annihilation' (218). Such insights and there are many - go a long way towards counteracting the generally held view of Russian literature as being primarily concerned with social issues. As Ponomareff points out in his conclusion, two diametrically opposed readings of Russian literature are indeed possible, and in concentratingon its more negative side he is providing a refreshingly new interpretation and a greater depth of understanding. One minor complaint: in a bookwhere there are a number ofquotations in Russian, it would have been easier on the reader if Cyrillic could have been used instead of transliteration. (A. COLIN WRIGHT) Witold Rybczynski. Home: A Short History of an Idea Penguin 1986. x, 258, illus. $9.95 paper Several pages near the beginning of Home contain a detailed description of the study where the author is working: 'I am sitting in a creaky old swivel-type wooden armchair.... When I use the telephone, I tilt back and feel like Pat O'Brien in The Front Page.' He is surrounded by 'personal mementoes': a 'small gouache of a young man - myself,' 'a sepia colored photograph of a German zeppelin.' The desk is 'three-deep' in books and papers, and, for Rybczynski, 'there is comfort in this confusion.' In its immediate context, this...