Oblomov by Ivan Goncharov | Full Version | AudioBook Classic
The novel evolved and expanded from an 1849 short story or sketch entitled "Oblomov's Dream". The novel focuses on the midlife crisis of the main character, Ilya Ilyich Oblomov, an upper middle class son of a member of Russia's nineteenth century landed gentry. Oblomov's distinguishing characteristic is his slothful attitude towards life. While a common negative characteristic, Oblomov raises this trait to an art form, conducting his little daily business apathetically from his bed.
While clearly comedic, the novel also seriously examines many critical issues that faced Russian society in the nineteenth century. Some of these problems included the uselessness of landowners and gentry in a feudal society that did not encourage innovation or reform, the complex relations between members of different classes of society such as Oblomov's relationship with his servant Zakhar, and courtship and matrimony by the elite.
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I know I’m not going to do Oblomov justice: this is what happens when I’m in awe. I’m much better really at slagging books off. Masterpieces leave me ‘I’m not worthy’ tongue-tied.
Oblomov is so big he’s become a word in Russian: ‘oblomovschina’. As in, the Russian dictionary. To mean ‘Godot-ism’ or an existential couch-potato. The man is wedded to his couch: life bubbles all around him at super sonic speed, but Oblomov: well, he....reclines. He lays about 24/7, and then he dies. The end.
But. And yet. There are so many layers to this, the proverbial onion can but weep. A helicopter view lays bare a man too lazy and apathetic to emulate a Hamlet simulacra. If the latter debates the merit of ‘going on’, the former is merely ‘getting on’. Its not a question of ‘why live’, but one of getting the whole business of living over and done with. Oblomov is simply waiting to die: whether he realises it or not. Zoom in closer and Oblomov is a metaphor, a gynormous symbol. Here is what of:
How many times have I cradled a pint and reminisced with ‘auld acquaintance’ on the ‘what ifs’ of life. People locked into the mundane, informed of socially accepted barriers which separate them from a degree of greatness: the children, the mortgage, ailing parents they need to care for, health constraints, money woes; all of this and more is why they tread the hamster wheel and live the groundhog day and notch one same old after another. We clink glasses and toast and encourage each other in attaining even greater average-ness, for the sake of A’ that. Goncharev, as I see it, lays bare this lie, and promulgates Oblamov: who doesn’t have any of the above or other worries, but simply succumbs to the utilitarian without any excuse whatsoever.
Self limiting, inauspicious, unambitious, unadventurous, dispassionate, locked in analysis paralysis, passive, call it ,sister: because thats what the bulk of us are, sheep! No, it wasn’t your momma what did it, nor the groping catholic priest, nor daddy whos sick in bed, nor the lack of moolah: its YOU. No excuses. One just wants movement in life, or one doesn’t. There is no point blaming circumstances in how we turn out: this is very much a nature over nurture battle-cry.
Oblomov, wallowing in utmost sloth, inability to act or live, in full knowledge of his dire circumstances, has this to say: ‘Yet no life but this do I wish, or have it in my power, to live’. Quite a brave introspection. Bottom line: we are all, EXACTLY, where we want to be. Regardless of what excuses we heap on our life-shit pile, we’re ultimately living the life we want. That this is so is intuitive: if we didn’t want our shit lives, we would do something about it. What we really mean is: ‘I ‘m living my life exactly how I want it, but this isn’t socially acceptable. Therefore, I’m going to conjure up a whole load of stock-pile excuses as to why I’m doing this’.
Oblamov is also a bit more than a dissection of individual human psyche. Goncharev also tackles ‘the Russian zeitgeist’. And how. In exploring the collective consciousness of Russia, he does something which I love, love, love, for personal reasons, being a multi-cultural product myself. He’s quick to spot the extreme backwardness and childishness and inutility of the apathetic, superstitious milieu, and he’s not afraid to show it. But. Yet. In vivisecting and laying bare the dross of Russian trope, he wields the scalpel with infinite care and love. Underlying his condemnation is a profound and unrevokable love for his motherland, a generous tolerance despite his misgivings, an acknowledgement that no matter how deep the scalpel delves, the body is still worth preserving. I adore that kind dichotomy. We are none of us so big for our britches that we can swipe away the qualia of our entire birth nation. Really, there can be no true negation by a native: he will always be a product. Goncharev knows this.