Just finished reading “The Death of Ivan Ilyich”. I agree with most redditors that the book really hits you in the guts, it’s been a long time since I have cried reading a book. However, while comparing Ivan’s fear of death to mine, I think I understood what constitutes a good life for tolstoy (beyond deception and superficiality, living for the common joys and impulses) but I could not really relate to the idea of living like that making death any easier for Ivan or most other people. That in the end, despite everything you do to live, it is a human condition to say that you did not live enough and the cup of life will always appear undrained to the last drop.
Also, how am I supposed to work on my pending college assignments now?
Edit: First time here and I think this subreddit has the potential to become my favourite, y’all smart but cracked
by ausernamenottakenffs
40 Comments
I was floored by this book when I first read it. Absolutely floored. For whatever reason, it resonated with me like very few other books have.
I can recommend two books that might help you shake that feeling you are talking about. Siddartha and Man’s Search For Meaning. They both sort of dance around the themes of living life to your fullest and taking control of your outlook on life.
If you start either of these books, it is fully possible that you find zero connection between them an Ivan Ilyich, but I read the 3 books in fairly quick succession and felt there was a bit of a common thread.
I was assigned the Death of Ivan Ilych in university English class. Definite kick in the guts. That sense of being abandoned to his fate by family and friends who go on living.
Great book! Fell in love with both the novella as a form and Leo Tolstoy as a writer after reading this and Family Happiness. So effective, and contains insights well beyond common wisdom.
I teach this story every year as a positive model of being with the dying. The Gerasim character is the foil for the aristocracy: he’s poor, unlearned, and has no technical skills that Ivan would respect. And yet, he understands the weightier matters of life and is willing to be with Ivan as he dies. Ivan’s own family isn’t even wiling to do that.
This has been one of my favorite books for years. 20 years after I first read it only affirms how perfectly Tolstoy encapsulated the human experience of time through aging.
The curse of being human is the curse of wanting more at the cost of not appreciating what we have, and not seeing the value of what is already with us. You change your perception; “enough” isn’t a real, objective thing; life isn’t about satisfaction and accolades. We’re taught that wanting more is a virtue, but eventually we all meet the same end regardless of what we amass and our “accomplishments.”
How are you supposed to finish your assignments? Are you in college to expand your mind, or are you there because you feel you have to go through the motions to get somewhere else? Despite his flaws, Kant comes to mind; treat your experiences as ends in themselves, and not as means to a contrived end.
Another great book in this spirit is Steppenwolf by Herman Hesse.
The thing I love about Tolstoy and Dostoyevsky is that they carry over “show, don’t tell” to morality. They don’t tell you “you should be a good person,” but rather *show* you the consequences of what happens in a world when people fail to be compassionate and virtuous, and thereby prove how vital those traits are.
In addition to those two authors’ books, I think *East of Eden* does this best of anything I’ve read (and is the reason why it’s my favorite book).
I’ll never forget reading it in my college’s required lit class and hearing another student say “I mean, it’s called ‘The Death of Ivan Ilyich’ and he dies at end. Where’s the twist? Tolstoy could have done better.” I’m not saying that’s the only reason I ended up transferring school, but…
I love this novella. You should drop out of college.
I read this at the start of lockdown, which was maybe a perfect time to read it or maybe the worst. Probably because of that timing, the idea that sort of haunts me because it is so dark and also completely undeniable is the fact that when we see someone dying, it is an innate human reaction to think “at least it’s not me.” But I guess being aware that this is a normal reaction has also allowed me to forgive myself for feeling this way, not obsess about my guilt over it, and recognize that I also have compassion for them as well.
If you want something (imo) even better in the same vein, check out Dostoevsky’s fictionalised prison autobiography, The House of the Dead (which is unrelated to the video game franchise of the same name…)
Read it with a collection of other short stories like The Kosak when I was traveling at 19 years old. Floored me.
Had to read last semester right after my mom died of covid. This book hit too hard.
*Also, how am I supposed to work on my pending college assignments now?*
You don’t. You move on to Notes from the Underground by Dostoevsky. Another short book that grabs you and rips pieces off
One of my favorites!!!
Yes, Tolstoy was neurotic about dying, but I don’t recommend obsessing with death just because it’s cool or something. You only think of death when you are depressed, or have a weird fixation, in any case, it’s pathological. When you’re actually dying, you eventually succumb to the process and don’t give a fuck about how you lived your life and other bullshit. Don’t make out of death more than it is, don’t let it spoil your life, and don’t trust old dead neurotics just because they were good with the tongue.
I have never read this book but I am curious as to how Ivan lived and what Tolstoy’s philosophy on death is…
My own view is that life is both extremely challenging, and rewarding. I feel like, at times, suffering is inevitable, but one must have the ability to see the beauty in life as well to experience its joys.
There is a quote, and I’m paraphrasing, that sums up my attitude and your attitude, methinks, quite well: “It is not death I fear, but having not lived.”
I believe in reincarnation and the persistence of the Self through time and space, actively living on through others’ memories of us, though, so I know I will always have a place in the hearts and minds of the people who I have affected.
Next you should read the Kreutzer Sonata. I think it’s a good followup to that, and it’s my favorite of Tolstoy’s short stories. It’s named after Beethoven’s Kreutzer Sonata, which I recommend listening to after you read it. The sonata and the story match each other so perfectly, it’s very cool.
I love your username lol
I just bought the entire collection. I can’t wait to read it.
Bummer of a book but very consistent with great Russian literature. It seems like those writers never had a good day in their lives but converted this experience into amazing books.
Now go watch Kurosawa’s *Ikiru*.
Ugh this book is soooo good we read it in my philosophy of death class. To your point about understanding what a good life is to Tolstoy, you might enjoy his essay titled My Confession. Basically is exactly this. Briefly, he comes to the conclusion that a good life is one that makes use of illogical thinking, or in other words (at least to him) believing in God. It’s only like 10 pages and could prob find online if you have a impulse to. I thought it was a good kinda conclusion to Ivan Ilyich
Glad to see someone else enjoy it 🙂
You should give Being Mortal a chance, it’s non fiction and ties in nicely with Ilyich
I remember reading this and having a hard time with it. Everybody in the class seemed to find it deep and satisfying, but I didn’t. I couldn’t put my finger on why. Now that I’ve gone through undergrad and grad school and returned to it, I see it a little more clearly.
The story seems to be bound up in a couple of ideas: that authenticity/inauthenticity is something to worry about, that there is a meaning of life for you to find, and that in a more general sense, ‘The Good’ is out there waiting for you.
Authenticity is so weird, because people who are obsessed with it are, ironically, stuck in their own inauthentic meta-analysis of their own life. But considering anything you actually *do* is “authentic” to you, they’ve been worried for no reason. Nonetheless, this is a really common sentiment for people to have, especially when you’ve just begun to ask hard questions of yourself.
Ivan Ilyich never seems to realize that his supposedly inauthentic actions were always his, and that’s how he *is*. No wonder the guy is so wound up, he cannot bring himself to accept himself as he truly is, even at the end when he’s found God or whatever.
The meaning of life thing is similar, too. First, obviously meaning is a property of language, not of lives. But lives do not have purpose, either. The stuff that happens to us, just happens. We’re ants. Even if you believe in God, he is not much of a scriptor. But egocentricism is a very human quality, so we can understand why Ilyich feels the way he does. He thinks he’s the main character, and the main character must have a plot worthy of them. (Right?)
And then this whole thing, the authenticity, the meaning, the moral panic, it’s all building toward an idea that there is a sense of morality that we can embrace. Ostensibly, being true to oneself guides one to right action, and right action leads to living a good, meaningful life. What is right is out there to be discovered, and failure to discover what is right is unacceptable. I just flat out don’t think so.
I subscribe to something called moral error theory, which just means that we’re wrong about morality existing. The idea is that for morality to exist, it would have to be this special force that exists everywhere, always, binding us with its moral powers of right and wrong. And we just have never seen anything like that. It doesn’t even make sense to us. So if you’re an atheist, it’s easy to make that jump. It’s similar to deciding you don’t believe in a god.
From this perspective, the story feels odd. Ilyich’s internal struggles come across as misguided and self-harming. I recall there being a level of ambiguity in that sense of acceptance and peace obtained at the end of the story, so we could read into it that Ilyich finally comes to his senses and lets go of the ego. But I’m not sure that’s what Tolstoy meant to do there, since I have read that he was in a bit of a religious moment at the time he wrote this story. I do remember that in my class, the reading we came away with was that Ilyich’s taking account of his life in the way that he did was essentially accurate and useful. Of course, I disagreed.
Nobody’s going to read this, but it felt nice to write.
Also had to read that story for college! Definitly got a few friends to read it too
If that made you think, definitly recommend the book a hero of our time by lermentov. Or family happiness by Tolstoy. That one definitely made me cry a lot. How Tolstoy can accurately write a women’s perspective still baffles me.
Russian authors just have a skill you won’t find now a days
I’m an ICU nurse and whenever i train new nurses, particularly the youngest ones fresh out of college, i give them a copy of this to read. It’s an incredible step into the life of the aging and those facing their end. If any of you have other suggestions of poems or short stories that exemplify the experience of the sick and dying, i would be happy to hear them.
I read this book in Philosophy class years ago. Very enlightening.
Is this book difficult to read ?
A Hunger Artist and The Brother Karamazov are two of my favorites. Also, Crime and Punishment.
It was adapted into a beautiful perfect Kurosawa movie called Ikiru if you feel like crying again, pure masterpiece
A modern novel that reminds me a bit of Ivan Ilyich is Year of Wonders, by Geraldine Brooks. While nowhere near as masterfully written as Tolstoy’s work, it also focuses on the purpose of life and morality, as well as disillusionment brought on by contact with death (Ivan Ilyich’s own impending death in one case, and the deaths of the plague victims in the other). What I find interesting is that Ivan Ilyich’s disillusionment is focused on secular aspects of his life, while Anna’s (the POV character of YoW) is focused instead on the religious aspects of hers. Of course, this could be because the novels’ authors had different views on religion, but I also wonder if it has to do with the fact that the main character of one was dying, and so had only hope of a supernatural beyond to sustain him, while the main character of the other survived, and so had the relative luxury of focusing on the physical realm of the living. Both characters wanted to move on somehow, and they did it by focusing on what was available to them…. or something, I don’t know, I just finished YoW again and was struck by the similar themes in both books.
You cant work on assignements because you are afraid to die and I cant because I want to die, ironic
Was Ivan’s death caused by a nasty fall while changing the curtains (gradually, then suddenly)? I can’t remember exactly, but it’s been decades since I last read it. Maybe I’ll re-read it again…
wow i need to read that. shiiiiiit. perspective
I read this right after Hemingway’s “Snows of Kilimanjaro” which I found similarly awesome. One-two punches to the solar plexus.
I’ve never forgotten the part where he describes it feeling like getting stuffed down into a long dark sack
Many years ago, I wrote about this book in a college course named Living With Death. You might want to check out Gide’s The Immoralist or Mann’s Death in Venice.
I read this books a few months after my dad passed away because of cancer.
this book incredibly described the fear and the jealousy a dying person experience. and when I was reading it, made me cry because I kept wondering wether my dad felt these emotions and I realized how lonely he was must have felt.
this book is heartbreaking.
Also just finished this tonight. The last few pages are amazing. Makes it seem peaceful almost
The remarkable thing Tolstoy accomplished for me was encourage the reader to first feel superior to this dreadful little functionary of a human being, with his petty pride and lack of authenticity. But gradually it becomes clear that his plight is ours — by the end, I didn’t feel superior to Ivan, only full pity and sympathy. He lives in a small, superficial world, which the opening chapter makes clear. His “friends” are most worried about leaving the funeral with a chance to make their bridge game; his wife wants to see about getting a bit more pension money out of him. But what could Ivan have done, in this world of superficial bureaucrats, to become truly valuable? What would they have cared about? This is a world without an apparatus of meaning, and so Ivan dies utterly alone.
I think the point if not to induce despair but to encourage us to take up the search for meaning, even if it feels hopeless. And for that we need each others’ kindness and encouragement.