first methodological pillar: literature as socio-philosophy
Dostoevsky and Tolstoy and Gogol, oh my!
It is a cliché in talking about nineteenth-century Russian literature that it performed a social function not just as literature but also as a forum for intellectual and political debates, which the censor kept out of the more expected channels.
Katerina Clark, The Soviet Novel: History as Ritual (1981)
Today, we’re going to establish unspooling’s first methodological pillar, an analytical device I’m calling: Literature as Socio-Philosophy.
It’ll come in handy next week, when we unspool Ukrainian-Russian writer Nikolai Gogol’s fantastic short story, “The Portrait” (1835), and will give us a framework to use in future analyses. As unspooling continues, we’ll add new pillars whenever possible to further expand our toolset (and I hope these threads prove valuable in their own right).
You can think of methodology as a kind of filter—a particular way of reading source texts or data sets. If this sounds like a way of being selective with evidence and finding preconceived patterns therein, that’s exactly what it is—“methodology” is the scholar’s ridiculous, jargony way of saying “the way I’ve chosen to read my sources.” As I’ve said before, I have a lot of love for many of the academics I’ve known over the years, but those of us who have spent time in the upper echelons of scholarship know that “objectivity” is more of a rhetorical ideal than a governing principle. Which is not to say that methodologies shouldn’t be defended—which is what I intend to do here today—or that they have unlimited applicably—which they absolutely do not. But having said all that, I’m also not going to pretend that methodology isn’t made up by scholars to justify their academic pursuits (which I think is great, by the way: when you need an excuse, any excuse will do—and I agree that we should make up an excuse to do scholarship).
The great downside to methodology, at least in my own experience, is that it can serve just as well as a gate-keeping mechanism than as anything else. (“Play by these rules, or we won’t let you play at all.”)
Thankfully, we don’t have to worry about any of that—we’re pursuing a fundamentally different enterprise.
To that end, allow me to explain how the concept of the novel as socio-philosophy works as a methodological framework—and tell you why you need to be reading Russian literature.
we come from the land of ice and snow
The aforementioned Gogol is one of the great titans of Russian literature—which is saying something considering the likes of Pushkin, Dostoevsky, Tolstoy, Turgenev, and Chekhov (not to mention brilliant writers of the Soviet era, such as Solzhenitsyn, Nabokov, and Pasternak). To rank amongst Russia’s greats is to count oneself amongst the most transcendent writers our species has ever produced.
Which is a fascinating historical contingency.
Why is it that Russia has produced so many writers of global renown?
Well, according to historian of Russian literature John Garrard, it stems from Russia’s historic exile from Europe’s cultural sphere.
The classical ancestors of today’s Russians—whom historians refer to by the rather generic name of “the Eastern Slavs”—were never colonized by the Roman Empire. As a consequence, the Russian lands weren’t integrated into the Latin linguistic-cultural system that linked much of the rest of Europe together after the Roman period.
Centuries later, and the descendants of “the Eastern Slavs” had become “the Kievan Rus;” a more specific label enabled by better historical sources. It was the Kievan Rus who adopted Orthodox Christianity, rather than Catholicism, which ensured that European cultural influences were kept at a healthy distance for theological reasons. Furthermore, their conversion to the Byzantine faith had been facilitated by the creation of a Slavic liturgy, which had the knock-on effect that Moscow didn’t receive an infusion of Greek language and culture, which had been the norm throughout early Christendom.
The Kievan Rus remained a regional player for centuries until their political apparatus was mericilessly destroyed by an invasion by the Mongol Empire in the 13th century. The Mongols were quite happy to faciliate the continuity of existing religious practices in the lands they conquered—all the better to ensure an easy rule—but they held the political reins of their vassals tightly. In the case of the Kievan Rus, the result was missing out on the Renaissance, which further disseminated art, culture, and ideas throughout Europe (not to mention, the utter destruction of a centuries-old political system). Once again, the Russians were going in one direction, and Europe another.
I’m sure you can see the pattern here: the historical antecedents of modern Russia remained isolated from Europe by language, cultural tradition, religion, political orientation, social organization, and aesthetic values.
Or, as my Russian/Soviet history prof once put it to get the point across, “This:
“Doesn’t look like this:”
That was, until the reign of Peter I (1672-1725), aka “Peter the Great,” which is where the novel came into play, and the geopolitical alignment of Russia and Europe began to change.
i’m just a jealous guy, watch out
You see, ole Pete was a man of vision.
He believed that the tsardom he had inherited was outdated and wanted it remodelled with an “updated” look that was all the rage in Europe: imperial, modern, enlightened, and classically inspired.
After being so impressed by a tour of the continent as a young man, Peter envisioned a role for Russia on the European stage—and not just any role, but a grand role! So, just a few years into his reign, Peter set about doing the types of things that gets historians to bestow a moniker like “the Great” on you: namely, killing lots of people. But—in fairness to ole Pete—he is also remembered as one of history’s most sweeping reformers. Because, in order to get to all that killing, he needed to improve the imperial army, which was more poorly trained and equipped than its European counterparts. The imperial “navy” was a joke and basically needed to be rebuilt from scratch to even facilitate conflict with European powers. And Pete knew that all these ambitious military reforms would cost him a lot of money—well, not “him” a lot of money, of course, but you know what I mean—far more money than the state he had inherited was even capable of reaping, in fact. And so the political structure of the newly minted Russian Empire (to help sell his reformative vision, Peter proclaimed himself Emperor and recast Russia as the true descendent of Rome), was almost wholly reorganized as well. In short, Peter set about “modernizing” Russia in the image of Europe’s so-called Great Powers.
It was the early eighteenth century, and change was the order of the day in Russia—at least, that is in it’s few urban centres. (If we had a time machine and could talk to peasants—the predominant social group in Russia until the early twentieth century—we would probably be surprised to learn how little effect all these reforms had on traditional life in the countryside, which remained essentially unchanged for nearly a millennium—probably more on that another time).
Pete even built a whole new capital to bear his name and reinforce his reformative vision. Now, Russia was starting to look like this:
And, y’know… I’m starting to think this Pete guy might have had a bit of an ego.
Unsurprisingly, European culture proved a Pandora’s Box; once Peter opened the door to European cultural influence, it never closed again—though, not infrequently, the Russians would wish that it could be (but, I mean, haven’t we all?!). The extent of these changes were hugely problematic for a culture that had traditionally been isolated, and at times even hostile, to European cultural influence. Not to mention, Russians had already constructed an unambigious identity for themselves wholly apart from Europe. And yet, rather suddenly from a historical perspective, French was made the language of the court, traditional Russian garb was considered distinctly out of fashion, and beards were forbidden and shorn in favour of moustaches—this last imperative was especially seismic and problematic because traditional Orthodox teachings had encouraged men to grow their beards as an act of piety. A better army and navy was an easy sell—but asking those soldiers and sailors to wear a mustache instead of a beard, now that was going a step too far! (Quirky historical fact: unable to walk back his initial prohibition for fear of appearing weak and fallible, a fatal error when ruling Russia—too bad though that history missed out on the Great Beard Rebellion that never was—Peter pivoted and established a “beard tax,” a compromise that allowed him to… ahem… save face, while also filling the state’s coffers with much needed rubles).
In the novel, however, the Russians found an easily adoptable cultural product. As Garrard puts it,
The lack of a classical tradition meant that the Russians found it very difficult to create viable examples of those genres closely associated with the literature of antiquity, namely, the national epic and verse drama. The modern novel, however, does not depend upon an acquaintance with classical mythology or Aristoltelian poetics. In embracing the novel, the Russians were no longer at a disadvantage as latecomers on the European cultural scene. They entered as equals, and indeed, rapidly made the genre their own.
Excerpt from “Introduction: the Rise of the Novel in Russia” in The Russian Novel from Pushkin to Pasternak (1983) edited by John Garrard
If we’re going to call a spade “a spade,” Pete’s reformative obsession reeks of feelings of envy and inadequacy. Which is a terribly ahistorical observation—I’ll admit—but I wonder if this partially explains why Russians have been so much more successful as novelists than as world conquerors. In the latter arena, they have always been merely copying the moves of more established, veteran players (who were almost always better equipped to play the game); whereas with the former, there was no sense of deficiency or self-consciousness to hinder them.
The novel quickly became a powerful tool in the hands of Russia’s greatest writers. It provided far more than mere entertainment, as historian Katerina Clark argues, as Russian literature became “a forum for the most advanced ideas of the age,” a place “to bear witness to the grim realities of Russian life not admitted to in official sources.”
Literature began to serve a crucial socio-philosophical function in Russian society as they adopted the garb of “modernity” ever more eagerly. This strikes me as a lesson well-worth learning from.
There were no cultural idosyncracies which prevented the novel’s adoption as either an artform or as a mode of socio-cultural expression, indeed, it was exactly because of Russia’s unique historical circumstance that the novel proved such an amenable cultural addition.
Or, as Garrard puts it,
Paradoxically, it is in the novel that the Russians explore some of the themes, ideas, and styles found in classical antiquity. For example, many critics have noted the use of the Homeric epic by Gogol in Dead Souls and Tolstoy in War and Peace. However, the echoes of the classical tradition reverberate at a deeper, more general level. The novels of Dostoevsky and Tolstoy explore the metaphysical and moral dilemmas that the Western reader is more likely to associate with classical tragedy or the Dialogues of Plato. But it is precisely in the novel that the Russians found their vehicle for the discussion of ideas.
…
The Russian novel has taken over from the Orthodox Church the function of engaging in theological debate. Hence, Russian literature is concerned with questions that in the West are viewed as the prerogative of theologians. Almost all of the novels of Dostoevsky and Tolstoy, as well as those of many other Russian novelists, take the form of spiritual quests which are not so much described as conducted by the protagonists. Here perhaps we see the impact of a genre that held central importance in the Russian medieval period, the “saint’s life.” At the same time, the Russian fascination with spiritual autobiography and introspection clearly draws upon the Romantic tradition that itself drives from Jean-Jacques Rousseau.
Excerpt from “Introduction: The Rise of the Novel in Russia” in The Russian Novel from Pushkin to Pasternak (1983) edited by John Garrard
If these scholars are right, and my own research leads me to believe that they are, then in Russia, the novel—and I would argue literature more generally—became a socio-philosophical tool; a measure for the soul; an assessment of the heart; an expression of the most cherished possessions of the mind.
And… I just, I love this—I think this is so cool!—which is probably why I love Russian literature (and why you should be reading it)!
It’s a way of thinking about art that gives it meaning and a clear purpose—a worthy one, I should add—and I think that’s really beautiful.
So, perhaps the answer to the question I posed above—“Why is it that Russia has produced so many writers of global renown?”—isn’t necessarilly that Russia has produced more great writers than other cultures, but that their great writers have necessarily been more focused on the themes that win artist’s global renown.
Now, I’m going to make another ahistorical jump here—one which would no doubt send shivers down many a scholarly spine—and suggest that literature’s potential for serving a socio-philosophical function is not exclusive to Russia. It might be the predominant mode in Russia, and more pronounced there than elsewhere, but the Russians aren’t the only ones with political, philosophical, social, cultural, and theological wrinkles to iron out. Of course, our mileage with this methodology will vary depending on the work in question, but it seems to me that many Western authors can be read through this lens as well—and their works can be understood as socio-philosophical treatises, and not just as pieces of entertainment.
So, in the future, when I say that we’re going to use the first methodological pillar, what I mean is that we’re going to be reading and unspooling that source thread as if it has something significant to say about the society and cultural in which, and for whom, it was produced.
Bibliography
Clark, Katerina. The Soviet Novel: History as Ritual. Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1981.
Eldridge, Richard. An Introduction to the Philosophy of Art: Second Edition. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2003.
Eschner, Kat. “Why Peter the Great Established a Beard Tax.” The Smithsonian Magazine. Uploaded September 5, 2017: https://www.smithsonianmag.com/smart-news/why-tsar-peter-great-established-beard-tax-180964693/.
Garrard, John, ed. The Russian Novel from Pushkin to Pasternak. New Haven: Yale University Press, 1983.
Shields-Kollman, Nancy. The Russian Empire 1450-1801. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2017.