I am about halfway through Gogol's Dead Souls and wondering how it is possible that someone can reach the age of 46 and never have read anything by this Russian giant. Dead Souls is a book that will keep a smile on your face for pages and pages with its descriptions of Russian characters -- odd, stingy, rapacious, insane -- and then, in a flash, pierce your heart with a poignant aside. For example, Gogol starts Chapter 6 by stepping outside the narrative to relate a bit of personal history:
"Long ago, during my youth, in the days of my childhood which have flashed by and vanished irretrievably, I felt a joyful anticipation on approaching a place for the first time. No matter whether it was a village, a small town, or some suburb -- my keen eye always discovered much that was fascinating there." He goes on to describe in detail some of the everyday sights which engaged him, then delivers this lament:
"Today, I feel nothing but indifference when I approach an unknown village, and with indifference I gaze at its commonplace sights. To my eyes grown cold, it is uninviting and I am neither excited nor amused. Things that would have brought a lively expression to my face, made me laugh, and set loose torrents of words now glide past me while my motionless lips preserve a detached silence. Oh my youth, oh my freshness!"
Gogol died in his early 40s, apparently insane, shortly after burning the manuscript of the sequel to Dead Souls.
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