I cannot recall who or what pointed me in the direction of Ivan Turgenev. If I did, I could only express my sincerest thank you in return. From time to time, discussing literature, a friend will tell me that older books do not work for them. That they struggle to connect with their language, themes, or structure, preferring contemporary noveIs instead. I do hear the words, but my jaw drops, and amazement overtakes me, not letting them sink in.
Classical authors are like underwritten offerings. They stand on the shoulders of the passage of time. A judge not predisposed toward clemency. In those authors –starting with Cervantes–, I have found more pleasure than in fistfuls of more modern ones. Writers with whom I should supposedly have so much more in common, but who fail to impress in how they apply themselves to producing literature.
Turgenev is the latest such discovery. Isaiah Berlin was one of his many fans –Henry James or Joseph Conrad counted themselves in that select group too– and translated some of his work to English. One of the things that he appreciated most about the nineteenth century Russian novelist was that, of the problems he raised, he left the bigger part unanswered.
First Love is a delicious read. A stylistic triumph, with unquestionable –albeit ambiguous– moral relevance and memorable characters. A truly recommendable read, full of learned vitality. From an author who mocked the importance on the strenuous crafting of complex plots other national schools –like the English one– revered so unapologetically. Simply put, it is Russian literature at its best!