Review: The Death of Ivan Ilyich

The Death of Ivan Ilyich by Leo Tolstoy
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

I got interested in reading this book, after a reference to it, in a memoir by a lesser-known author. He himself was dealing with crippling poverty, mental health issues, as well as from the general indifference that the world had to his life. On his second or third suicide attempt in Kanyakumari, after preparing to swallow a bottle of pills, he read the book that he had brought along on the journey. Reading it was a life-changing experience; quite literally. Driving him away from the embrace of death, and giving him the hope to keep living, no matter how difficult life might present itself as. Not that I think about it, I should sit down and write my thoughts on that book, before this one.

The book is Visappu Pranayam Unmadam വിശപ്പ് പ്രണയം ഉന്മാദം by Muhammed Abbas, for those of you who are able to read it in the original language.

Ivan Ilyich is a quintessential Tolstoy character; a man born in a well-off family, expected to go into the family business, of being government servants. In doing so, he went from occupying one meaningless administrative position to another. He considered himself to be an important person, but in the grand scheme of things he was nothing but a glorified paper pusher, who was never quite content with life.

When a seemingly innocuous fall, slowly exacerbated into a mysterious illness, Ivan’s health deteriorated precipitously. The pain and suffering which he endured, made worse by his own nerves, as well as the indifference of family and friends, eventually made him unable to work, socialize, in the end even unable to get out of bed and take a dump without outside assistance.

Perhaps as excruciating as the pain which racked his body, was the realization that life which Ivan had spent constructing, meant very little, made up of events which gave him no sense of joy or accomplishment. The best moments being those in the far distant childhood. Faced with his impending death, and fearing that his life held no meaning, Ivan tries to grapple with his feelings of hopelessness in face of the inevitable, and trying to find some shred of meaning, to know that after he’s gone, he would not entirely be forgotten.

This familiar sense of hopelessness, as well as the fear of irrelevance, mixed with a small dose of nihilism, is one which I’m familiar with, intimately. It’s the very same fear which plagues me as the days turn to years, as the grains of sand in the hourglass trickle down irreversibly, and life in its entirety seems meaningless. That persistent shadow of dread plagues you, in the form of the question, ‘After I die, will anyone even remember me? Was my time on earth ultimately meaningless? Is this my legacy, to not have lived and be forgotten?’
Then again Ivan had the privilege of worrying about such sensibilities, considering his well-off circumstances. Despite holding a lofty government position, and making lavishly more than your average Russian, Ivan and his family had reasons to gripe; at not being able to afford the latest useless knick-knack, or not being able to socialize with the other pish-posh fat cats, who go around wooing life, as if they actually had to struggle in it.

In parts of society where the likes of Ivan and his ilk would never deem looked at, old men seeking some warmth give up their sturdy boots, the only worthwhile possessions they have, for others who might need it more. When they die, the only thing they can wish for is a painless passing, and perhaps a few people who would fondly remember them after a couple of glasses in.

Death comes whether you fear it, resent it, fight against it, try to stave off it, beg it, reason with it, bribe it, or run away from it. Indifference, incalculable, perpetual. Only thing one can do is to live out this humble life in the best way you see fit, in accordance with your own personal beliefs and common decency. To hope that when that time comes, if the end is not violent or abrupt, one may lay on their deathbed holding but few regrets of a life not lived. Most won’t have that luxury.

In moments such as these, one can find comfort in the brave words of the great King Theoden. (Is it morbid or sobering that I’m writing this, on the eve of Bernard Hill’s passing?)

“Forth, and fear no darkness! Arise! Arise, Riders of Theoden! Spears shall be shaken,swords shall be splintered! A sword day...a red day...ere the sun rises! Ride now!...Ride now!...Ride! Ride to ruin and the world's ending! Death! "Death!" Death! "Death!" DEATH! "Death!" Forth, Eorlingas!!”

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