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If you're into war novels, you should enjoy this book. Basically, it's a long tale of the depravities of war, treachery infidelity, misfortune and atrocity. There is no way that the reader can retain a romanticised image of war after slogging through this. The horrors of war are made that bit more tragic by the fact that this was a civil war - towns, villages and even families were divided. Loyalties to the White Russians and to the Red Army were themselves ambiguous and mutable.
Sholokhov interrupts his narrative frequently with descriptions of the flora and fauna, and the seasonal changes in the Don area, as if to say that whatever humans get up to, Mother Nature just continues her work. I got the message Sholokhov was trying to impart about the insignificance of human obsessions quite early on, and found that the repeated descriptions of nature in the novel became more contrived and lost their effect as a result.
I think that the problem I had with the novel was its very bleakness. I have no problem with depicting war as it is rather than dressing it up in romantic verbiage, but as this story slogged its way on from one battle description and tale of inhumanity to the next, I struggled to keep going. There's no redeeming character in the whole novel - you feel that as unfortunate as all the characters were, their faults made you unsympathetic with their fates (the only possible exception is Gregor's wife, Natalia Melekhova, and as a whole the men are depicted far less sympathetically than the women - women's place in society made them greater victims).
I found myself torn between being depressed at Sholokhov's pessimistic vision of humanity, and thinking that in a civil war situation, such a conclusion would be almost inevitable. In all, the novel hardly an uplifting read: perhaps, with present world events, I was in need of something more optimistic.
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The subject of collectivisation in the rural Soviet Union will no doubt be as dry as old bones to many readers - that was my reaction too as I started the book. However, the Sholokhov explores many complicated issues:
* the view that all property is theft versus the inviolability of private property rights;
* do oppressive landowners deserve any loyalty from their workers?
* the conflict of essentially modernising forces (personified by Davidov, whose background is industrial-urban) with backward "traditional" rural Russia (personified by the locals); and even
* the catastrophic effects of contradictory dictats issued from the centre.
Sholokhov's position (I thought) was esssentialy pro-collectivisation, although he does not spare the reader the real problems associated with it. What does let the book down somewhat is that it's very uneven - there are long passages in which the characters tell anecdotes from their past, some meant to be humerous, others poignant. I thought most of these did not work well and were a distraction. Of course, it's fundamentally a bleak novel - the subject matter makes this almost inevitable. Luckily enough, I seemed to be in the mood!
Sholokhov continues many of the themes he explored in "Virgin Soil Upturned", and the characters are mainly the same. However, I found "Harvest of the Don" a less satisfying read. It's difficult to say why, because all the elements which made "Virgin Soil Upturned" interesting are there in this novel. The main problem, I thought, was that Sholokhov got the mixture of themes wrong, falling into the trap of recounting rural anecdotes and other humerous stories at considerable length. The result is that my attention was diverted from what should have been the main themes of the novel, and I found that the pace of the narrative was very uneven.
I thought that at the end, Sholokhov in part recognised this "fault" by attempting to quicken the pace of the novel and provide a dramatic end. It did not make up for the rest of the writing though. This is a pity - while not actually disliking this novel, I was disappointed.
But like all other great minds, Sholokhov is an aberration: despite being a true blue card-carrying member of the Central Committee and despite the seemingly boring subject, he is genuinely a first-class talent that to me is truly superior to Pasternak and Solzhenitsyn, and approaches the likes of Turgenev and Gogol.
The pacing and humour of his narrative is similar to Dostoevsky -- fast and interesting, unlike Tolstoy who can be boring and didactic. Characterization and local color however is Tolstoyan: you can really recognize even the individual horses and the dogs, and the description of the peasantry and the countryside reminds one of the pastoral passages in Tolstoy.
The gritty and unflinching realism is very honest and peculiarly modern, but always in the best tradition of grand Russian novels: sweeping, panoramic, and places the reader right in the center of the whirlwind of events and emotions.
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The others were indeed memorable, but 'the Don' is burned into my mind's eye.
It paints a searing portrait of a vast, unforgiving steppe--then tears across it on horseback, leaving great waves of ethnic, political and personal upheaval in its wake.
I still smell the wheatfields in the wind and taste the black dust on my lips from the opening chapter.
I see villagers storm the home of one of their own and destroy his outlander wife for her foreignness.
I see an unhorsed cavalryman struggling to remove his bright blue Cossack breeches before capture in one of the Great War's opening battles with Austria, only to be plucked from danger at the last moment by the young Cossack who had stolen his wife before the war.
I hear the stolen woman, now become a fiery mistress, sobbing her heart out when the man whose child she bore leaves her at last for his own wife.
And after the firing squad's last volley in the closing chapter, I see a proud, condemned Cossack biting fiercely into his own shoulder, to make no sound as his blood pours out and stains the black steppe red.
In a quarter of a century, I still have not read a more powerful novel.