"Shukhov went to sleep fully content. He'd had many strokes of luck that day: they hadn't put him in the cells; they hadn't sent the team to the settlement; he'd pinched a bowl of kasha at dinner; the team-leader had fixed the rates well; he'd built a wall and enjoyed doing it; he'd smuggled that bit of hacksaw-blade through; he'd earned something from Tsezar in the evening; he'd bought that tobacco. And he hadn't fallen ill. He'd got over it.
A day without a dark cloud. Almost a happy day." Solzhenitsyn, One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich.
Human brutality knows no bounds. The capacity to really do evil (harm, hurt each other without reason) is inexhaustible - instead it feeds upon itself and grows ever bigger.
This is only one perspective - Shukhov's, who'd done his outmost to survive a day in the 'Special Camp'. But his actions drawn from basic instincts of self-preservation undoubtedly precipitated events which hurt others around him. Who can blame him? When does stealing become virtuous? Like taking a couple of pens from a stationary cupboard at work for your friend.
Perhaps when you believe that you're struggling against "the system" - the machinery of society - the network of abominable interactions. Why is it that all of us forget the embarrassing moment that our very actions not only created it, but feed its existence. I guess this is because an individual realisation is not enough. It is not enough for a single person to gain 'enlightenment' of this fact, but that this liberating thought must permeate the collective consciousness. Only then can the fabric of a society be rewoven. But this is like asking an exothermic reaction to reverse itself. And perhaps in the end 'we get what we deserve'.
"Ivan went to sleep fully content. He'd had many strokes of luck that day: he had two new prisoners in the cells; he finally filled the quota for teams sent to live the "Socialist way of Life"; he'd beaten some lazy scum zek who complained that he didn't have any dinner; he'd arranged to get the largest shipment of flour and oats through for the camp; he'd fixed up his tommy and he enjoyed doing it; he'd smuggled a pint of vodka through; he'd earned something from Pavel in the evening; he'd bought that sheep skin hat. And he hadn't fallen ill. He'd got over it.
A day without a dark cloud. Almost a happy day."
A day without a dark cloud. Almost a happy day." Solzhenitsyn, One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich.
Human brutality knows no bounds. The capacity to really do evil (harm, hurt each other without reason) is inexhaustible - instead it feeds upon itself and grows ever bigger.
This is only one perspective - Shukhov's, who'd done his outmost to survive a day in the 'Special Camp'. But his actions drawn from basic instincts of self-preservation undoubtedly precipitated events which hurt others around him. Who can blame him? When does stealing become virtuous? Like taking a couple of pens from a stationary cupboard at work for your friend.
Perhaps when you believe that you're struggling against "the system" - the machinery of society - the network of abominable interactions. Why is it that all of us forget the embarrassing moment that our very actions not only created it, but feed its existence. I guess this is because an individual realisation is not enough. It is not enough for a single person to gain 'enlightenment' of this fact, but that this liberating thought must permeate the collective consciousness. Only then can the fabric of a society be rewoven. But this is like asking an exothermic reaction to reverse itself. And perhaps in the end 'we get what we deserve'.
"Ivan went to sleep fully content. He'd had many strokes of luck that day: he had two new prisoners in the cells; he finally filled the quota for teams sent to live the "Socialist way of Life"; he'd beaten some lazy scum zek who complained that he didn't have any dinner; he'd arranged to get the largest shipment of flour and oats through for the camp; he'd fixed up his tommy and he enjoyed doing it; he'd smuggled a pint of vodka through; he'd earned something from Pavel in the evening; he'd bought that sheep skin hat. And he hadn't fallen ill. He'd got over it.
A day without a dark cloud. Almost a happy day."
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