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A review by millennial_dandy
The House of the Dead by Fyodor Dostoevsky
4.0
How much youth lay uselessly buried within those walls, what mighty powers were wasted here in vain! [...] Perhaps they were the most gifted, the strongest of our people. But their mighty energies were vainly wasted, wasted abnormally, unjustly, hopelessly. And who was to blame, whose fault was it? That's just it, who was to blame?" p.351
Dostoevsky's 'House of the Dead', his largely autobiographical account of his ten year incarceration in a Siberian prison, isn't so much a traditional novel as a series of vignettes, each covering a different element of prison life and recounting the convicts and officers that populate the prison.
It largely takes place during his first year in prison, though he does often skate around in time, so the timeline is somewhat murky, and ends with his release. I say 'his' to mean Dostoevsky, though he does give the protagonist a different name and reason for being in prison: murdering his wife. This is not particularly relevant to what the book is actually about, however, so don't expect that piece of information to be followed up in great detail.
That being said, this is Dostoevsky at his most astute, and a wonderful highlight of his ability to see a person and know just what about them makes them unique and interesting, both in terms of appearance and personality. There are so many of them that even though there are a few recurring characters, he doesn't seem to expect you to keep track of them all, often either saying: 'we'll come back to him later,' and then when that later comes, acknowledging it with a 'I've spoken of him before.'
The novel concerns itself principally with two things: one, culminating in a biting critique of the prison system and (one of my favorite themes in fiction) why survival on its own is insufficient.
He has many a sideways tangent, but ultimately, even those circle back around to fitting into one of those categories.
In a particularly poignant chapter, he speaks of the fetters the convicts are required to wear the entire length of their tenure in prison, remarking that they have to keep them on even while in the hospital, not because they actually prevent the convicts from escaping, but to never let them forget that that's what they are: prisoners.
This sentiment rolls back around many times: that by having all these constant reminders of their social status as convicts, they are slowly stripped of their individuality and eventually of their personhood. In one chapter, he writes of the convicts being taken to bathe at a local sauna, the description of which is nothing short of nauseating; all the convicts being squashed into this cramped, dark space, crawling over each other, slipping in their own filth like farmyard pigs.
And then there is the sheer monotony of repeating much the same day over and over again for years on end performing menial labor tasks meant (so it seems) just to keep the prison operating since all of their work goes back into the prison. Moreover, he speaks of how this wasting of time leads to hopelessness, and brings out the worst in those convicts who can find no creative outlet or goal to strive for:
"When he has lost all hope, all object in life, man often becomes a monster in his misery." (p.302)
However, there are a few shining moments where, when not deprived of participating in consuming or producing art, when they are able to find goals, the prisoners become human again. In a touching scene near the beginning, 'not-Dostoevsky' teaches one of his bedfellows to read using the Bible (the only book they're granted access to), and later on, for Christmas, the convicts are allowed to put on a play:
On the flipside, he also talks about the prison staff and how working in this environment makes monsters of them too: "Tyranny is a habit; it may develop at last into a disease. I maintain that the very best of men may be coarsened and hardened into a brute by habit." (p.240-41)
And make no mistake, though he implores the reader to empathize with the convicts, he doesn't shy away from the dark reality that everyone at the prison is one bad day away from snapping and that everyone living there is a thief, even to their friends. And yet, though it is oftentimes toxic, it is a culture that he notes everyone there agrees to: they all steal from each other, but no one takes it personally. Convicts of the 'gentlemen' class can never be accepted by convicts that are not, and though this makes 'not-Dostoevsky' feel initially incredibly lonely, he comes to accept this too. Finally, there is a sense of agreement among all of the convicts that freedom is the only thing worth having, even if freedom (for most of them) wouldn't really offer much of a better quality of life. And this is where the title of the novel comes from: the idea that to convicts, their life in prison, no matter how long the sentence, isn't real because life without liberty is like death. That prison is a liminal space, and only after they leave life can resume.
This is a novel that is drenched in melancholy, but also in humanity. And those moments of connection between men at the prison feel all the more precious because, as he has let us know, they are fleeting and far between. Fairly early on he writes of his feelings for a young man named Aley:
He doesn't write of all of the men he meets in prison with such romance, but always with the same depth of feeling: 'I see you,' he seems to say in his many vignettes.
It's not going to be everyone's cup of tea, and I won't pretend I didn't struggle to finish it at times, but it's the only work of his I've read thus far (and this makes seven) that I could see myself re-reading and thinking about. Definitely a must-read for those wanting to know where the planted seeds that would later become some of his most famous novels came from.
Of the land surrounding the prison, he wrote: “There was something poignant and heart-rending in this wild desolate landscape.” (p.133) but I would say that, in short, it describes ‘House of the Dead’ as well.
Dostoevsky's 'House of the Dead', his largely autobiographical account of his ten year incarceration in a Siberian prison, isn't so much a traditional novel as a series of vignettes, each covering a different element of prison life and recounting the convicts and officers that populate the prison.
It largely takes place during his first year in prison, though he does often skate around in time, so the timeline is somewhat murky, and ends with his release. I say 'his' to mean Dostoevsky, though he does give the protagonist a different name and reason for being in prison: murdering his wife. This is not particularly relevant to what the book is actually about, however, so don't expect that piece of information to be followed up in great detail.
That being said, this is Dostoevsky at his most astute, and a wonderful highlight of his ability to see a person and know just what about them makes them unique and interesting, both in terms of appearance and personality. There are so many of them that even though there are a few recurring characters, he doesn't seem to expect you to keep track of them all, often either saying: 'we'll come back to him later,' and then when that later comes, acknowledging it with a 'I've spoken of him before.'
The novel concerns itself principally with two things: one, culminating in a biting critique of the prison system and (one of my favorite themes in fiction) why survival on its own is insufficient.
He has many a sideways tangent, but ultimately, even those circle back around to fitting into one of those categories.
In a particularly poignant chapter, he speaks of the fetters the convicts are required to wear the entire length of their tenure in prison, remarking that they have to keep them on even while in the hospital, not because they actually prevent the convicts from escaping, but to never let them forget that that's what they are: prisoners.
This sentiment rolls back around many times: that by having all these constant reminders of their social status as convicts, they are slowly stripped of their individuality and eventually of their personhood. In one chapter, he writes of the convicts being taken to bathe at a local sauna, the description of which is nothing short of nauseating; all the convicts being squashed into this cramped, dark space, crawling over each other, slipping in their own filth like farmyard pigs.
And then there is the sheer monotony of repeating much the same day over and over again for years on end performing menial labor tasks meant (so it seems) just to keep the prison operating since all of their work goes back into the prison. Moreover, he speaks of how this wasting of time leads to hopelessness, and brings out the worst in those convicts who can find no creative outlet or goal to strive for:
"When he has lost all hope, all object in life, man often becomes a monster in his misery." (p.302)
However, there are a few shining moments where, when not deprived of participating in consuming or producing art, when they are able to find goals, the prisoners become human again. In a touching scene near the beginning, 'not-Dostoevsky' teaches one of his bedfellows to read using the Bible (the only book they're granted access to), and later on, for Christmas, the convicts are allowed to put on a play:
Imagine prison, fetters, bondage, the vista of melancholy years ahead, the life of days as monotonous as the drip of water on a dull autumn day, and suddenly all those oppressed and outcast are allowed for one short hour to relax, to rejoice, to forget the weary dream, to create a complete 'theatre', and to create it to the pride and astonishment of the whole town -- to show 'what fellows we convicts are.'" (p.196)
On the flipside, he also talks about the prison staff and how working in this environment makes monsters of them too: "Tyranny is a habit; it may develop at last into a disease. I maintain that the very best of men may be coarsened and hardened into a brute by habit." (p.240-41)
And make no mistake, though he implores the reader to empathize with the convicts, he doesn't shy away from the dark reality that everyone at the prison is one bad day away from snapping and that everyone living there is a thief, even to their friends. And yet, though it is oftentimes toxic, it is a culture that he notes everyone there agrees to: they all steal from each other, but no one takes it personally. Convicts of the 'gentlemen' class can never be accepted by convicts that are not, and though this makes 'not-Dostoevsky' feel initially incredibly lonely, he comes to accept this too. Finally, there is a sense of agreement among all of the convicts that freedom is the only thing worth having, even if freedom (for most of them) wouldn't really offer much of a better quality of life. And this is where the title of the novel comes from: the idea that to convicts, their life in prison, no matter how long the sentence, isn't real because life without liberty is like death. That prison is a liminal space, and only after they leave life can resume.
Whatever the convict may be and whatever may be the term of his sentence, he is instinctively unable to accept his lot as something positive, final, as part of real life. Every convict feels, so to speak, that he is not at home, but on a visit. He looks at twenty years as though they were two, and is fully convinced that when he leaves prison at fifty-five he will be as full of life and energy as he is at thirty-five. 'I've still life before me,' he thinks and resolutely drives away all doubts and other vexatious ideas."(p.131)
This is a novel that is drenched in melancholy, but also in humanity. And those moments of connection between men at the prison feel all the more precious because, as he has let us know, they are fleeting and far between. Fairly early on he writes of his feelings for a young man named Aley:
"Aley was not more than two-and-twenty and looked even younger. His place on the bed was next to me. His handsome, open, and at the same time good-naturedly simple face won my heart from the first minute. I was so thankful that fate had sent me him as a neighbor rather than any other. His whole soul was apparent in his handsome, one might even say beautiful face. His smile was so confiding, so childishly trustful, his big black eyes were so soft, so caressing that I always found a particular pleasure in looking at him, even a consolation in my misery and depression." (p.92)
He doesn't write of all of the men he meets in prison with such romance, but always with the same depth of feeling: 'I see you,' he seems to say in his many vignettes.
It's not going to be everyone's cup of tea, and I won't pretend I didn't struggle to finish it at times, but it's the only work of his I've read thus far (and this makes seven) that I could see myself re-reading and thinking about. Definitely a must-read for those wanting to know where the planted seeds that would later become some of his most famous novels came from.
Of the land surrounding the prison, he wrote: “There was something poignant and heart-rending in this wild desolate landscape.” (p.133) but I would say that, in short, it describes ‘House of the Dead’ as well.