Russian duels be insane! Much like the age, I suppose... curiously, his life mirrors that of a similarly famous Russian poet, Alexander Pushkin... and his own character, whose account is a presciently eerie narrative of the author's own demise...
I'm a history Ph.D., so you're bound to get some in my reviews, especially for Classic literature, but this one more than most, as context is vital to getting the most out of Russian literature of any descript. Mikhail Yuryevich Lermontov, born in Moscow to minor nobility in 1814, died far before his time, at the tender age of 26, after fighting a duel with a former Cadet school friend, Nikolai Martynov. He had lost his mother at age three, and was subsequently raised by his maternal grandmother, seeing little of his father. He began writing verse at about age fourteen, where his prodigious talent was recognized. Sometimes called the "Poet of the Caucasus," he is considered the most significant Russian poet after Alexander Pushkin, who was also killed in a duel in 1837. He had also spent some time there in his youth, during trips to health resorts to the magnificent mountain terrain with his rather overbearing grandmother. The scenery deeply affected him, however, and it seems that he developed an early affinity for the region.
The tragedies of the day greatly shaped Russian writers, and Lermontov was no exception. His poems and other works were heavily censored, and, like his contemporary, Pushkin, he was essentially sent into exile on more than one occasion for having run afoul of both the authorities and Russian aristocracy, the first instance following the publication of the wildly popular but highly controversial "Death of a Poet," where he lambasted the Russian upper crust for the Pushkin's death in 1837. The poet's death in a duel was suspected and widely whispered by many to have been the result of an orchestrated conspiracy to get rid of him. Lermontov thus became essentially became Pushkin's literary heir, and his popularity only increased. Having entered a Cavalry training school after his formal education in Moscow, two years later took a commission with a Hussar regiment. He was essentially shipped off to the outermost Caucasus region with his regiment, but there found some solace in the isolation of the beautiful mountain landscape, where he actually began "A Hero of Our Time." He had by this time gained the reputation of being something of a social outcast, which certainly enhanced his renown as a romantic poet following his exile, which made him seem even more the Romantic.
His death was sudden and tragic: he reportedly mocked a former school friend until the man, out of a sense of honor, challenged Lermontov to a duel, which occurred at the foot of Mashuk mountain. Lermontov reportedly made it known that he was going to shoot into the air, refusing to risk harm to his former acquaintance, but Martynov had no such scruples: he reportedly shot first, aiming for the heart, which killed his opponent instantly. Lermontov was buried five days later, on July 30th, 1841, with thousands of mourners in attendance.
The title of his last great masterpiece is something of a misnomer: it refers to something of an anti-hero, a rather despicable man who is a product of the age, who is anything but heroic. It takes the form of five individual stories which recount the life of the protagonist, which mirrors a tradition set by Pushkin himself, who published something similar in his novel Eugene Onegin. In this example, the vignettes do not appear even in chronological order, nor is there really a central plot which connects them. Each is a short story which provides a snapshot, or video short, if you will, as a testament to the protagonists's character, or lack thereof.
Obviously heavily influenced by his literary predecessor, Lermontov even named his "hero" Pechorin, in reference to Pushkin's character Onegin, both named after famous rivers. Both were shiftless, rootless hedonists, products of their time - they were born with at least a modicum of talent, but seemingly squandered it over the course of a lifetime due to a lack of both opportunity and suitable ambition or the willingness to work to change their fortunes. As I noted in one of my other reviews recently (perhaps owing to my OWN experiences over the last month: we've spent almost a month in lockdown due to a coronavirus outbreak), death by ennui is a miserable end, indeed.
Lermontov's character is more sinister, however: he is indeed a raging narcissist, bordering on sociopath, who seemingly gets whatever kicks he can muster by inflicting suffering and degradation on others, manipulating them (especially women) for his own amusement. Discounting anyone's feelings but his own, he delights in their suffering as a way to fuel his own ego. He acknowledges as much, stating that "ambition has been crushed in me by circumstances, but it comes out in another way, for ambition is nothing more than a lust for power and my chief delight is to dominate those around me."
In a moment of rare introspective insight not terribly befitting a psychopathic narcissist, quipping: "there are times when I can understand the Vampire." Even more to the point: "The first time we suffer, we see the pleasure to be had from torturing others." He also plays the victim, however, as the aforementioned is wont to do, lacking the understanding as to why others hate him. He even states at one point: "Why do they hate me? I thought. What cause have they? I haven't offended anyone, have I? [!] Or am I one of those people the very sight of whom rouses hostility?" Yes.
These themes, to me, are quintessential in Russian literature, which I've seen described as "Dickens on crack cocaine." They often end in the ultimate Shakespearean tragedy, with the destruction of both the protagonist as well as the unfortunate victims. I'll spare you the details here, but so it goes in a great sense with Pechorin: he has the capacity for love, feeling, accomplishment and renown, but just can't seen to achieve it. In the end, he is his own worst enemy, unable to rise above because of his very sociopathic tendency to blame others and to eschew personal responsibility, which, perhaps, is his greatest failing.
----------NOTABLE PASSAGES---------
The most active man is the one who conceives most ideas, and so a genius stuck in an office chair must die or go mad, and, in the same way, a man of strong physique who leads a sedentary and temperate life will die of apoplexy.
Passions are merely ideas in their initial stage. They are the property of youth, and anyone who expects to feel their thrill throughout their life is a fool.
The turmoil of life has left me with a few ideas, but no feelings.
This is how the hero of our time must be... he will be characterized by decisive inaction or else by futile activity.
My soul has been corrupted by society. My imagination knows no peace, my heart no satisfaction. I'm never satisfied. I grow used to sorrow as easily as I do to pleasure, and my life gets emptier every day. The only thing left for me is to travel.
I said there were a lot of people who did talk like that and very likely some of them told the truth, but disenchantment like any other faction, having started off among the elite had now been passed down to finish its days among the lower orders. I explained that now the people who suffered most from boredom tried to keep their misfortune to themselves, as if it were some vice.
The story of a man's soul, however trivial, can be more interesting and instructive than the story of a whole nation, especially if it is based on the self-analysis of a mature mind and is written with no vain desire to rouse our sympathy or curiosity. The trouble with Rousseau's Confessions is that he read them to his friends.
I'm a history Ph.D., so you're bound to get some in my reviews, especially for Classic literature, but this one more than most, as context is vital to getting the most out of Russian literature of any descript. Mikhail Yuryevich Lermontov, born in Moscow to minor nobility in 1814, died far before his time, at the tender age of 26, after fighting a duel with a former Cadet school friend, Nikolai Martynov. He had lost his mother at age three, and was subsequently raised by his maternal grandmother, seeing little of his father. He began writing verse at about age fourteen, where his prodigious talent was recognized. Sometimes called the "Poet of the Caucasus," he is considered the most significant Russian poet after Alexander Pushkin, who was also killed in a duel in 1837. He had also spent some time there in his youth, during trips to health resorts to the magnificent mountain terrain with his rather overbearing grandmother. The scenery deeply affected him, however, and it seems that he developed an early affinity for the region.
The tragedies of the day greatly shaped Russian writers, and Lermontov was no exception. His poems and other works were heavily censored, and, like his contemporary, Pushkin, he was essentially sent into exile on more than one occasion for having run afoul of both the authorities and Russian aristocracy, the first instance following the publication of the wildly popular but highly controversial "Death of a Poet," where he lambasted the Russian upper crust for the Pushkin's death in 1837. The poet's death in a duel was suspected and widely whispered by many to have been the result of an orchestrated conspiracy to get rid of him. Lermontov thus became essentially became Pushkin's literary heir, and his popularity only increased. Having entered a Cavalry training school after his formal education in Moscow, two years later took a commission with a Hussar regiment. He was essentially shipped off to the outermost Caucasus region with his regiment, but there found some solace in the isolation of the beautiful mountain landscape, where he actually began "A Hero of Our Time." He had by this time gained the reputation of being something of a social outcast, which certainly enhanced his renown as a romantic poet following his exile, which made him seem even more the Romantic.
His death was sudden and tragic: he reportedly mocked a former school friend until the man, out of a sense of honor, challenged Lermontov to a duel, which occurred at the foot of Mashuk mountain. Lermontov reportedly made it known that he was going to shoot into the air, refusing to risk harm to his former acquaintance, but Martynov had no such scruples: he reportedly shot first, aiming for the heart, which killed his opponent instantly. Lermontov was buried five days later, on July 30th, 1841, with thousands of mourners in attendance.
The title of his last great masterpiece is something of a misnomer: it refers to something of an anti-hero, a rather despicable man who is a product of the age, who is anything but heroic. It takes the form of five individual stories which recount the life of the protagonist, which mirrors a tradition set by Pushkin himself, who published something similar in his novel Eugene Onegin. In this example, the vignettes do not appear even in chronological order, nor is there really a central plot which connects them. Each is a short story which provides a snapshot, or video short, if you will, as a testament to the protagonists's character, or lack thereof.
Obviously heavily influenced by his literary predecessor, Lermontov even named his "hero" Pechorin, in reference to Pushkin's character Onegin, both named after famous rivers. Both were shiftless, rootless hedonists, products of their time - they were born with at least a modicum of talent, but seemingly squandered it over the course of a lifetime due to a lack of both opportunity and suitable ambition or the willingness to work to change their fortunes. As I noted in one of my other reviews recently (perhaps owing to my OWN experiences over the last month: we've spent almost a month in lockdown due to a coronavirus outbreak), death by ennui is a miserable end, indeed.
Lermontov's character is more sinister, however: he is indeed a raging narcissist, bordering on sociopath, who seemingly gets whatever kicks he can muster by inflicting suffering and degradation on others, manipulating them (especially women) for his own amusement. Discounting anyone's feelings but his own, he delights in their suffering as a way to fuel his own ego. He acknowledges as much, stating that "ambition has been crushed in me by circumstances, but it comes out in another way, for ambition is nothing more than a lust for power and my chief delight is to dominate those around me."
In a moment of rare introspective insight not terribly befitting a psychopathic narcissist, quipping: "there are times when I can understand the Vampire." Even more to the point: "The first time we suffer, we see the pleasure to be had from torturing others." He also plays the victim, however, as the aforementioned is wont to do, lacking the understanding as to why others hate him. He even states at one point: "Why do they hate me? I thought. What cause have they? I haven't offended anyone, have I? [!] Or am I one of those people the very sight of whom rouses hostility?" Yes.
These themes, to me, are quintessential in Russian literature, which I've seen described as "Dickens on crack cocaine." They often end in the ultimate Shakespearean tragedy, with the destruction of both the protagonist as well as the unfortunate victims. I'll spare you the details here, but so it goes in a great sense with Pechorin: he has the capacity for love, feeling, accomplishment and renown, but just can't seen to achieve it. In the end, he is his own worst enemy, unable to rise above because of his very sociopathic tendency to blame others and to eschew personal responsibility, which, perhaps, is his greatest failing.
----------NOTABLE PASSAGES---------
The most active man is the one who conceives most ideas, and so a genius stuck in an office chair must die or go mad, and, in the same way, a man of strong physique who leads a sedentary and temperate life will die of apoplexy.
Passions are merely ideas in their initial stage. They are the property of youth, and anyone who expects to feel their thrill throughout their life is a fool.
The turmoil of life has left me with a few ideas, but no feelings.
This is how the hero of our time must be... he will be characterized by decisive inaction or else by futile activity.
My soul has been corrupted by society. My imagination knows no peace, my heart no satisfaction. I'm never satisfied. I grow used to sorrow as easily as I do to pleasure, and my life gets emptier every day. The only thing left for me is to travel.
I said there were a lot of people who did talk like that and very likely some of them told the truth, but disenchantment like any other faction, having started off among the elite had now been passed down to finish its days among the lower orders. I explained that now the people who suffered most from boredom tried to keep their misfortune to themselves, as if it were some vice.
The story of a man's soul, however trivial, can be more interesting and instructive than the story of a whole nation, especially if it is based on the self-analysis of a mature mind and is written with no vain desire to rouse our sympathy or curiosity. The trouble with Rousseau's Confessions is that he read them to his friends.
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