Russia has been on my mind lately. Last time, I mentioned Yanka Dyagileva and she and all the Russian poets and writers have been on my mind this week. I grew up as a poet, following their arguments, desires, thoughts. And then today after a long cycle and siesta woke up with the news that the Russian devil and darling Yevgeny Prigozhin was blown out of the sky. Mafia settling scores.
I lived in Slavic lands a good while - Czech Republic, Ukraine, Russia and have always had a fascination with the “Russian soul”. Doestoevsky can’t write 10 words without it being embedded somewhere - this notion of suffering that is central to the idea of Russian specialness. Catholics worship suffering, Russians take the idea one step further - they live it.
"the most basic, most rudimentary spiritual need of the Russian people is the need for suffering, ever-present and unquenchable, everywhere and in everything."
- Fyodor Dostoevsky
What is the idea of the Russian soul?
It’s a kind of romantic thuggery. Life, our living boiled down to its basics - an off or on switch between the spiritual and the carnal. A wild romantic belief system coupled with a savagery and brutality that embraces suffering as divine.
Russians, even those with money, means - exhibit a very basic, almost peasant like, earthly reality and simplicity. It’s so apparent in Russian humor, this element of being an emperor without any clothes. After Yiddish jokes, for me, Russian humor always hits home.
A man walks into a shoe shop. He says: “Give me a pair of shoes, please.”
“Certainly, sir, what size?”
“I wear a 10 but I’ll take a five.”
“Why, sir? Are they for someone else?”
“Oh, they’re for me. They’ll be too tight but when I take them off, it’ll be the one moment of pleasure I experience all day.”
Gyorgy Faludy recounts a story, 1956 Budapest. The Russians brought in the tanks to crush the Hungarian uprising. The tanks went down the streets terrorizing, randomly shooting into apartments on each side of the wide boulevards they traveled down. Out of nowhere, one old lady, cane in hand, starts crossing the street in front of the column of tanks blasting away. The line of tanks comes to a standstill to let the old lady cross the street. The turret of one tank pops open and out comes a baby-faced Russian soldier screaming, “Babushka! Hurry up! We have work to do.”
The story sums up a lot about the Russian soul.
Then there is the suffering Russians are able to endure. We in the west have no conception of how Russians suffered, especially in WW2. It’s central to their beliefs and soul now. It is calculated that the life span of a Russian soldier was 3 days once on the front. An officer perhaps a week or more. That’s all. Millions died.
In my time discussing the Russian soul, the concept of power is central to it. Power, honor … it all boils down to a kind of Russian version of the mafia. There is a code people operate by - and you really do have to be Russian to “get it”.
When I lived in Kyiv, weekly, politicians or rich businessmen died. It was always the same MO. Car accident. But not your ordinary accident. Always the politician’s or businessman’s convoy was hit by a vehicle crossing in front, always a heavy truck. Basically, the truck was a missle and it gave deniability. Always behind the wheel of the truck was an elderly drunk man, paid well for his death or injuries.
It’s how they do it. Mafia style. Keeping up appearances but behind the scenes, acting with brute force. The Russian soul is a kind of improved Machiavellianism.
A stiff fatalism.
Russian women. I’m told that they are the most devoted and faithful women possible. But should you cross them, you’ll be lucky to escape alive. The Russian soul, it swings between romantic, hyper-spiritualism and primitive, dog eat dogism. There is a saying - may you be cursed with a Russian wife.
Prigozhin symbolized the Russian soul more than any intellectual like Aleksandr Dugin could ever. The Russian soul at its core, despite its pretences, detests the intellectual. It champions tragedy and men of swath and calculation. A real life chess champion.
One of the best movies ever made is Mikhalkov’s - The Tired Sun. (In English - titled badly titled - Burnt By The Sun). It’s a masterpiece of Chekovian dimensions and General Kotov a kind of Prigozhin. An Academy Award winner. It is a great entry into the topic of the Russian soul. It’s free on YouTube. Get some popcorn and watch. Perhaps only Ivan in The Brothers Karazamov, shines a better light onto this enigma - the Russkaya Dusha.
To Sergei Esenin
But tell me, you crooks and cripples wheezy,
which great ones ever choose- where and when?
a path already trodden smooth and easy?
The word - in the C-in-C of human powers.
Forward march! That time may whistle by as rockets flare.
So the wind shall carry to the past of ours
only the ruffling of our hair.
Our planet is poorly equipped for delight.
One must snatch gladness from the days that are.
In this life
it's not difficult to die.
To make life
is more difficult by far.
Vladimir Vladimirovich Mayakovsky - Read the full poem.
Pусская душа, Russkaya dusha