The Death of Ivan Ilyich
Tolstoy’s short story depicts a man in his final days, dying slowly of a painful disease. Ivan has lived his whole life respectably, but merely so; seeking out amusement and mostly going about life in a decent but somewhat fake way. He married out of inertia, answering a “why not” instead of a “why”. He went about work seeking the approval of well-regarded people, and went about doing his job with a narcissistic, self-given gravitas. He measured his social standing by how well-regarded his society friends were. Finally, now on his deathbed, Ivan realizes that these well-regarded people are nowhere to be found, that his amusements were vain, and that he had no one that truly cared for him just as he cared for no one. More despairingly, his family and society friends lived their estranged life just as he did, the only difference was that they didn’t face imminent death. A timeless memento mori, it was difficult to read and difficult to digest; Tolstoy paints beautifully a subject most ugly and horrifying.
One quote about alienation is at the core of the whole story: “In [the people around him] he saw himself, all that he had lived by, and saw clearly that it was all not right, that it was a terrible, vast deception concealing both life and death”. The part about concealing death is easier to interpret, since in most of those people they lived fearing death, never examining their own mortality, and pushed the idea out of their mind whenever it arose. The part about concealing life, though, to me is the most poignant part of the story: that because Ivan hasn’t loved anyone and lived only for his own pleasure and benefit, he didn’t live a right life, or rather, he denied himself a life of love because he thought it was too hard or too annoying or not worth it to give it to others. This is the case in his relationship with his estranged wife: when his wife brought him pleasure and joy, he would be grateful, but when she was annoying to deal with and required him to spend effort and be there for her, Ivan shut her out of his life and instead focused on his work or playing cards. There’s also an aspect of concealing life in his fakery around society, and though some good amount of artifice is unavoidable and perhaps necessary to exist socially. But for Ivan, the fault was he took society seriously as if it were life, rather than just a game. Life concealed itself from Ivan not because he acted superficially around superficial friends as we all do, but rather he had no one he genuinely gave effort and attention and love to, and therefore received none in return. The only one who showed him some love in his final days was his butler who would give him some comforting physical touch that he craved, but couldn’t admit to his wife or family because he couldn’t embrace life and be vulnerable to them. I’ve recently reflected on what it means to be real and to give, and to do more of it to a certain few friends and family I really respect. It’s hard, knowing even the realest, life-affirming relationships may change, or even break, but personally I’ve been doing more and giving more than I’ve ever been.
% grep -i "the death of ivan ilyich" quotes.txt6 matches
on want
“There were moments, after prolonged suffering, where Ivan Ilyich wanted most of all, however embarrassed he would have been to admit it, to be pitied by someone like a sick child. He wanted to be caressed, kissed, wept over, as children are caressed and comforted… Ivan Ilyich wanted to weep, wanted to be caressed and wept over, and then comes his colleague, the judge Shebek, and instead of weeping and caressing, Ivan Ilyich makes a serious, stern, profoundly thoughtful face and, by inertia, gives his opinion on the significance of a decision of the appeals court and stubbornly insists on it. This lie around and within him poisoned most of all the last days of Ivan Ilyich’s life”
— Leo Tolstoy, The Death of Ivan Ilyich
on regret
“It occurred to him that those barely noticeable impulses he had felt to fight against what highly placed people considered good, barely noticeable impulses which he had immediately driven away - that they might have been the real thing, and all the rest might have been not right… In the morning, when he saw the footman, then his wife, then his daughter, then the doctor - their every movement, their every word confirmed the terrible truth revealed to him that night. In them he saw himself, all that he had lived by, and saw clearly that it was all not right, that it was a terrible, vast deception concealing both life and death”
— Leo Tolstoy, The Death of Ivan Ilyich
on death
“‘Death. Yes, death. And none of them knows, or wants to know, or feel pity. They’re playing. It makes no difference to them, but they’ll also die. Fools. For me sooner, for them later; but it will be the same for them. Yet they make merry. Brutes!’”
— (Ivan Ilyich), Leo Tolstoy, The Death of Ivan Ilyich
on death
“The lie [that he was merely ill and not dying], this lie, perpetrated upon him on the eve of his death, the lie that must needs reduce the dreadful, solemn act of his death to the level of all their visits, curtains, sturgeon dinners… was terribly tormenting for Ivan Ilyich”
— Leo Tolstoy, The Death of Ivan Ilyich
on death
“The dreadful, terrible act of his dying, he saw, was reduced by all those around him to the level of an accidental unpleasantness, partly an indecency (something like dealing with a man who comes into a drawing room spreading a bad smell), and in the name of that very ‘decency’ he had served all his life; he saw that no one would feel sore for him, because no one even wanted to understand his situation”
— Leo Tolstoy, The Death of Ivan Ilyich
on death
“Apart from the reflections this death called up in each of them about the transfers and possible changes at work that might result from it, the very fact of the death of a close acquaintance called up in all those who heard of it, as always, a feeling of joy that it was he who was dead and not I”
— Leo Tolstoy, The Death of Ivan Ilyich