O primeiro de uma curta série de dias com indicação de actividade elevada da fauna piscícola. Resultado: uma moderadamente “generosa” pescaria na antiga “pedreira” anexa à praia das Cabanas Velhas. Para amanhã talvez a faina se centre no Cerro dos Toiros, um local com um antigo acesso agora dificultado por uma pomposa habitação de um conhecido político que conseguiu construir quase a cavalo com a falésia!!!!...
II A morte de Aleksandr [Isaevich] Solzhenitsyn /Alexandre Soljenitsin (1918-2008:
jovem comunista (pelas circunstâncias), matemático, professor, intelectual, escritor, crítico do Estalinismo e depois dissidente soviético, prémio Nobel da Literatura (1970), admirador dos ditadores ocidentais tradicionais, conservador serôdio, adversário da democracia parlamentar e do “modelo europeu” e entusiasta da “nova Rússia” putiniana (“democracia” com liberdades e direitos humanos muito limitados)
A notícia está na primeira página do The New York Times: “Solzhenitsyn, Literary Giant Who Defied Soviets, Dies at 89”, em obituário assinado por MICHAEL T. KAUFMAN de que destaco um extracto: “Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn, whose stubborn, lonely and combative literary struggles gained the force of prophecy as he revealed the heavy afflictions of Soviet Communism in some of the most powerful works of the 20th century, died late on Sunday at the age of 89 in Moscow.[…].Mr. Solzhenitsyn had been an obscure, middle-aged, unpublished high school science teacher in a provincial Russian town when he burst onto the literary stage in 1962 with “A Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich.” The book, a mold-breaking novel about a prison camp inmate, was a sensation. Suddenly he was being compared to giants of Russian literature like Tolstoy, Dostoyevski and Chekhov.
Over the next five decades, Mr. Solzhenitsyn’s fame spread throughout the world as he drew upon his experiences of totalitarian duress to write evocative novels like “The First Circle” and “The Cancer Ward” and historical works like “The Gulag Archipelago.” [The Gulag Archipelago, 1918-1956: An Experiment in Literary Investigation, 1974,n.m.]
“Gulag” was a monumental account of the Soviet labor camp system, a chain of prisons that by Mr. Solzhenitsyn’s calculation some 60 million people had entered during the 20th century. The book led to his expulsion from his native land. George F. Kennan, the American diplomat, described it as “the greatest and most powerful single indictment of a political regime ever to be leveled in modern times.”
Mr. Solzhenitsyn was heir to a morally focused and often prophetic Russian literary tradition, and he looked the part. With his stern visage, lofty brow and full, Old Testament beard, he recalled Tolstoy while suggesting a modern-day Jeremiah, denouncing the evils of the Kremlin and later the mores of the West. He returned to Russia and deplored what he considered its spiritual decline, but in the last years of his life he embraced President Vladimir V. Putin as a restorer of Russia’s greatness. […]” [CF. NYT, 4.08.08]
Sobre o lugar de Alexandre Soljenitsin na literatura soviética e russa do pós- 2ª Guerra Mundial e, acima de tudo, o contexto em que ele emergiu como tal, relembro aqui, apesar de longa, a “Introdução” do Prof. Paul W. Blackstock que acompanhou a edição de “ We Never Make Mistakes: Two Short Novels “ ,[inclui “An Incident at Krechetovka Station” e “Matryona's House”] pela University of South Carolina Press [Columbia, SC. 1963]:
“Alexander Solzhenitsyn "Two Stories" appeared in the January, 1963, issue of the Soviet literary magazine, Novy Mir (New World), which had previously published his sensational story of life in the Stalinist labor camps, One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich [Один день Ивана Денисовича , ed. orig. 1962 ; um dia na vida do camponês Ivan Denisovich Shukhov como prisioneiro no “campo de trabalho” de Karanga sob a acusão de espionagem pró-germânica (1943), com duas ed. em inglês LOGO EM 1963 (n.minha)]. In a foreword to this earlier work, Alexander Tvardovsky, Editor-in-Chief of Novy Mir, wrote that "it marks the appearance on the literary scene of a new, original and mature talent." He had such a feeling of gratitude for the honesty and candor of Solzhenitsyn's work that his "greatest wish" was that "this gratitude be shared by other readers." Hence the publication of these "Two Stories," or two short novels.
To the reader who lives in an open, unregimented society, this kind of remark may seem puzzling. What, one may ask, is so unusual about appearance of a new Soviet author who writes openly and honestly about life as he has known it? And why should the Soviet reader be grateful for the opportunity to read his works?
There are no simple, direct answers to these questions. The explanation lies deep in the nature of Soviet society and the role which the artist, especially the writer, is called upon to play in it.
The impression created by the Soviet system on the visitor from one of our open, Western societies is one of "togetherness gone mad." The state has created an official ideal image of Soviet society as a sort of grandiose, prize-winning collective in which each private individual heroically overfulfills his plan, no matter how great the obstacles.
For example, in their first-grade reader, all Soviet school children are introduced to an ideal image of "Mother" drawn for them in a story which begins: "My mother works in a factory and makes little electric lamps. Every month she overfulfills the plan." A Marxist-Leninist ideology and an official image of Soviet life and society are thus imposed on the individual beginning in his earliest formative years.
All must pay lip service to these concepts, and, under the doctrine of Socialist Realism, artists are called upon to reinforce them. They are regarded by the state as instruments in the general task of uplifting and indoctrinating Soviet society, and, what is more, are for the most part willing to accept this role. This is especially true of writers, whom Soviet Chairman N. S. Khrushchev, addressing the Fourth Congress of the Union of Soviet writers in May, 1959, described as "a type of artillery. They clear the way for our forward movement, and help our Party in the Communist education of workers." He added, with typical Khrushchevian candor, "You must brainwash the people with your works!"
This is the official literary mission. The doctrine of Socialist Realism has been developed not only to defend this mission, but as a means of condemning all art which, according to official standards, fails to provide the necessary uplift, to sound a call to overfulfill the plan, and to portray life as part of the ever-forward march of Soviet collectivism, which is implicitly held up as the ultimate goal of all humanity.
Since the death of Stalin and the publication in 1954 of Ilya Ehrenberg's novel, The Thaw, followed by Vladimir Dudintsev Not By Bread Alone, there has been a tentative unfreezing of the rigid Socialist Realism formula. A random sample of recent Soviet novels and short stories will reveal both the strengths and weaknesses of literature produced under these somewhat improved conditions.
The uninitiated reader is both attracted and repelled by current Soviet literature. He is attracted by the fact that many of the authors have talent. Obviously they can produce what by Western standards would be called good -- perhaps even great -- literature, until the inevitable Communist indoctrination seeps through. The social and political lessons are rarely subtle. In most cases they are as obtrusive as the ubiquitous hammer-and-sickle symbol of Soviet power. Certainly the Western reader, and probably many Soviet citizens as well, find this continuous moralizing and political indoctrination both repulsive and disheartening. What a pity that such talents are employed (or in some cases clearly prostituted) for purely didactic or propaganda purposes!
At least two features are common to most current Soviet writing and image-making. First, work -- almost any kind of work as long as it is hard and unremitting -- is held up as one of the highest individual and collective ideals. Theoretically it is not only an end in itself which gives life meaning, but is also richly rewarded. As a general rule, manual labor is highly romanticized, above all, tireless, "heroic," labor in a pioneer setting, as illustrated by Alexis Malenkii's long novel, Developers of the Tundra (Pokoriteli Tundry) -- (Siberskie Ogni, 1959-60). Thus a large percentage of Soviet short stories and novels falls into what may be called the "production" or "construction" category or genre. Second, the Communist Party and the collective organizations under its influence or control are idealized and romanticized. These range from individual work brigades to collective farms and large Party or bureaucratic institutions. Frequently a story line will concentrate on the individual human being, caught in circumstances beyond his control by an unkind fate, who is miraculously rescued by the Party or by one of its organizations.
He thus achieves "true happiness" in the collective, as illustrated in a story, very skillfully drafted, by Boris Zubavin, entitled "Happiness" (Radost) -- (Moskva, 1962). It should be noted that in the Soviet moral universe this kind of happiness is the equivalent of "salvation" for the Christian. The basic Western idea that "no man is an island" has been distorted beyond all recognition. The ideal prototype of the new Soviet man achieves inner grace by self-less toil, but his redemption can only come from the collective, when at the decisive moment of his life's struggle, he merges with it and "measures up to the demands of the Revolution, of human society, of history."
The strength of such literature lies in its idealism and optimism. Its writers, frequently with undeniable skill and talent, accomplish the mission laid down for them by the canons of Socialist Realism.
They discharge what a Soviet youth recently called: that great responsibility which has been placed upon our generation -- to preserve the fire of the October Revolution, not to surrender a single position, to rise yet another step in man's ascent toward the sun, toward happiness, toward light. [Stormy applause.] (Komsomolskaya Pravda, April 5, 1961.)
Soviet writers who accomplish such tasks (or indeed, any who are published at all) are well paid for their work. Such writing has its counterpart in many of the Horatio Alger, success story novels produced in the open, unregimented societies of the West. The "happy-ending" formula literature of the West -like its Soviet counterpart -- also pays its producers well. In this genre some readers may be inclined to rate Soviet writing (which at least has a well-defined set of social objectives) higher than purely escapist literature which offers no goal other than the aimless pursuit of pleasure in an idealized affluence--utterly beyond the reach of the majority of the people. Some readers may also prefer Soviet "uplift" literature to Western products of various "realistic" schools, which apparently regard almost any parade of sex and violence as Art, especially if the product is infused with elements of social protest.
When queried as to "why they do it?", writers who specialize in the Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm or Developers of the Tundra product come up with the counterquestion: "After all, we have to eat, don't you agree?" Talleyrand had an unkind but pertinent reply: "I don't see the necessity." The pity of it all, as far as Soviet authors are concerned, is that basically there is no market for any other kind of product. There is only one publisher -- the State. The "work conquers all" type of story is what the Government wants and what it buys. There are no private presses, although a few handmimeographed poems or stories are occasionally circulated surreptitiously.
The weaknesses of literature produced by the Socialist Realism formula are too familiar to require extensive elaboration here. As with all the products of "formula" writing, whether capitalist or Soviet, the characters are simply not human. They are stylized caricatures of human beings which move like puppets through a distorted dreamworld. Both the Rover Boys and the heroic figures of the Soviet "production" novels are equally hollow, equally out of touch with the real world.
The basic weakness has been recognized in rare moments of candor by official Soviet sources themselves. For example, Komsomolskaya Pravda, the daily paper of the Young Communist League, in its April 5, 1961, issue, quoted the following candid criticism by a young teacher from the Leningrad State Pedagogical Institute:
The heroes of our literature and of our theatre merely hint at what we see in real life. There is no arguing that our young people have courage and other fine qualities. But whenever we try to show a hero personifying these qualities -- say, a builder on a construction site or in the virgin lands -- what emerges is something rather schematic, sometimes even grotesque.
This criticism strikes home, as anyone with the patience to read through a representative sampling of contemporary Soviet literature can testify. It is precisely because such "heroic" literature is so far out of touch with reality -- either human or Soviet -- that the editor of Novy Mir, quoted above, is grateful for the kind of direct, honest portrayal of life found in Solzhenitsyn's earlier work, and is really like. They are in the great tradition of the stories of peasant life written by Turgenev and Tolstoy -- stories which contributed materially to the prerevolutionary scene in late nineteenth- and early twentieth-century Russia. They have the same ring of authenticity, pay a similar attention to significant detail, and provide comparable insights into Russian character.
In his March 1963 speech to the Soviet writers and artists, Khrushchev forcefully indicated that the liberal trend in art and literature had gone too far, and that it was time to retreat back into the rigid framework of Socialist Realism. Although Khrushchev mentioned Solzhenitsyn's work favorably, there were rumors in Moscow that Tvardovsky, editor of Novy Mir, who published it, would be removed from his post. The rumors proved false, but the March issue of Novy Mir appeared a month late, and the last installment of Ilya Ehrenberg's controversial memoirs was much shorter than previous ones. The young poet Yevtushenko's planned visit to the United States was canceled. On the other hand, three Soviet writers ( Alexander Yessenin-Volpin, Michael Naritza, Valeriy Tsaris) who had formerly been declared insane and forcibly detained in insane asylums, were quietly released.
All these signs point to a campaign against liberalism similar to the one which took place in 1957 after publication abroad of the late Boris Pasternak prize-winning novel, Doctor Zhivago. How far the current "refreeze" will go and how long it will last is an open question, part of the larger problem of how any authoritarian regime handles the emergence of an art and literature of social protest, a subject which merits brief consideration.
It is ironic that the Soviet regime has nursed its present generation of intellectuals on the social protest literature of Western Europe and the United States. Today, forty-five per cent of all Soviet grade school students study English as a second language continuously for six or seven years. In the course of even such elementary instruction the Russian student actually reads more English and American literature than American students at the same grade level. Certainly, most contemporary Russian authors are familiar with outstanding examples of social protest writing ranging from the novels of Dickens and Mark Twain through Dreiser, Faulkner, Steinbeck, and England's "Angry Young Men" of today. (The study of such literature is encouraged since presumably it "unmasks" or exposes the evils and contradictions theoretically inherent in a bourgeois capitalist system which, according to dialectical materialism, makes its ultimate replacement by Communist society inevitable. It is hoped the Soviet student will form an image of the United States, for example, which is a composite of An American Tragedy, Tobacco Road, and Grapes of Wrath.) Moreover, many of the great Russian classics of the nineteenth century were written in protest against the obvious political and social abuses of the Czarist regime. Under these circumstances it is inevitable that Russian intellectuals writing today should seek some means of protesting against similar abuses which they discern in contemporary Soviet society. However, by definition the Soviet system has none of the weaknesses of previous, capitalist societies and is a near-Utopia in transition to the final Marxist Paradise. Accordingly, the regime attempts to contain the writer's deep-seated urge to protest within the increasingly inadequate doctrinal framework of Socialist Realism. Ever since the 1956 Twentieth Party Congress when de-Stalinization became official policy, the regime has permitted criticism of the Stalinist past. The abuses of that period can be attributed to "the cult of the individual" and have theoretically been corrected with the new course under Khrushchev. For a significant number of "angry" Russians of all ages, however, this minor concession has not been enough. They have sent abroad, for publication under assumed names, works which protest against present abuses. The most familiar example is Abram Tertz's (pseudonym) The Trial Begins. For the moment the regime has responded by another official warning from Khrushchev and certain repressive measures. But like open terror (which Khrushchev has denounced as a Stalinist crime) such repressive measures have their limits, and ultimately prove self-defeating. Too many bullets put an end to all cooperation. Similarly, artists and authors cannot fulfill their assigned tasks from jails or insane asylums. Some sort of compromise is called for and may take the already established form of an increasingly flexible interpretation of what is permissible under Socialist Realism.
The USSR has made enormous scientific and technological progress in the last decade since no more than lip service to dialectical materialism is now required of Russian scientists. This is an encouraging sign of growing intellectual honesty and maturity, and if the trend is extended to the humanities, the USSR may yet come of age and take its rightful place among the truly civilized powers in the society of nations. Now that the Soviets have demonstrated that they are no longer "backward" in science and technology, they may seek to demonstrate that they are a kulturny (cultured) nation as well. A first step in this direction would be to show enough selfconfidence in their much vaunted "new Soviet society" to permit the free development of a literature of social protest. Obviously the present Soviet leadership lacks this self-confidence. However, a hesitant first step in the direction of cultural emancipation has already been taken with the publication of novels and stories such as these by Solzhenitsyn which are written as literature rather than for the lessons they contain.
It is encouraging that Soviet authorities have permitted the publication of such writing, under the claim that "today there is no aspect of our life that cannot be dealt with and faithfully described in Soviet literature." Let us hope that this claim may yet be proven true, that the regime will someday permit its authors to return to the original sources of Russian inspiration, to the Russian people and to the Russian soil, which somehow stubbornly resists political indoctrination. It may be that with increasing maturity, the USSR, now widely recognized as one of the superpowers in the world today, will outgrow some of its youthful preoccupation with purely political objectives. It may even be that Russia will again return to the main stream of Western civilization. However, one swallow does not make a spring.
On the one hand, the appearance of such stories as these of Solzhenitsyn could mark the beginning of a new flowering of Russian literature. On the other hand, such promising new efforts could be suppressed and the men who produced them could be silenced in a new wave of tyranny and oppression. The latter development is unlikely at this stage under the present Soviet regime. On the contrary, the persistent demand for more, rather than less, artistic freedom is already so strong that it is doubtful whether a narrow strait jacket of Socialist Realism can in fact be reimposed on Soviet literature by those who, like the Stalinist security police, "never make mistakes."
Paul W. Blackstock
Columbia, South Carolina , May, 1963 “
[in SOLZHENITSYN Alexander: “We Never Make Mistakes: Two Short Novels”, Paul W. Blackstock – translator] Ed. University of South Carolina Press, Columbia, SC. 1963]
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