Dolors's Reviews > The Death of Ivan Ilych

Today I turned the last page of Banville’s Eclipse and was literally hit by the profundity of a book that surreptitiously echoes the mastery of the classic tragedies. My pupils dilated until they watered when I bumped into this paragraph:

“As a boy I knew the stars, and loved to speak their names over to myself, in celestial litany, Venus, Betelgeuse, Aldebaran, the Bears, great and lesser. How I loved the coldness of those lights, their purity, their remoteness from us and all we do and all that befalls us. Where they are is where the dead live.”

And you might be wondering what on earth Banville and Tolstoy have in common. My unscholarly response is that they are both masters of exploring the most recondite crevices of the human mind and the existential angst that is inherent in its nature; they describe the undescribable, recreate death and grief unflinchingly and make the reader be racked in pain by both. And so following the thread of my pensive mood I remembered the unfinished review of Tolstoy’s novella that I have been meaning to revise for months on end unsuccessfully, not finding the appropriate words, not feeling satisfied with what I had written, which I enclose below:

*****
Do we really know what death entails?
Is the life we lead worthy of being lived?
Do we appreciate the gift of existence?
Tolstoy stares back with blank countenance and pens a sobering story stripped of artifice in response to those unanswerable questions.

“The Death of Ivan Ilych” confronts the reader with his own mortality. A civil servant in the high ranks of the Czarist Administration in the nineteenth-century Russia ponders about the arbitrary system of rules that have dictated his life when the threat of death puts an unwanted emphasis on how he should have lived.
Dragged away by the currents of a set of conventions accepted without further enquiry and spurred by an eagerness to climb up the social ladder, Ivan’s soul has undergone the same process of bureaucratization than his professional career. A prominent citizen, he has married well, he has established contact with the influential members of his class and accumulated a vast list of superfluous achievements when death knocks on his door.

Either in nemesis or in randomness, fated or chanced, nature is unveiled as capricious, unbridled and inscrutable, and man’s pursuit of transcendence clashes with the finitude of his banal existence. At first, Ivan faces his impending death with disbelief, then denial settles in only to be swamped with an overpowering disconsolation at his own disintegration while the world keeps on turning without him being part of it. His family and closest friends regard him with superficial sympathy and remain indifferent and detached from his suffering.

As Ivan’s flesh withers with decay and stinks of sickness showing unmistakable signs of its transience, his mind is reignited and a reverse process takes place on his soul. Ivan looks death in the eye with more frustration than fear, dumbfounded that his life might be reduced to a trivial list of actions performed by an absurd sense of duty making of his time in this world even less than an anecdote.

Tolstoy presents a magisterial reflection on mankind’s incapacity to plow a satisfactory path to a dignified death and throws back his own vulnerability at the reader in the form of an omniscient narrator that chronicles the mundane yet gruesome death of a man. The dilemma he contemplates goes beyond the realms of religion, philosophy or fiction, for the physical agony, the ruthless demise of body and mind is described in painful detail infusing the story with perturbing realism.
Despite the heartfelt compassion that Ivan perceives in his son’s glance, as the young, untainted boy takes his lifeless hand, Death places her cold, blindfolded kiss and presses her finger upon the man’s lips, sealing them forever, and I, uninvited outsider, shaken and teary, get a sour taste of what dying feels like.

******

I had meant to polish the review; retrieve some sentences, rephrase others, perhaps add some quotes... It's highly probable that I would have never published it, but Banville’s masterpiece made me realize that there are some things that mere words can’t convey, the touch of a virtuous pen is needed, the sparkle of geniality is required. I am not the possessor of such talents, but Banville has both. And so did Tolstoy.