One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich: A Novel (FSG Classics)

One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich: A Novel (FSG Classics)

Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn, H. T. Willetts

Language: English

Pages: 208

ISBN: B00BMKMK3M

Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub


The only English translation authorized by Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn

First published in the Soviet journal Novy Mir in 1962, One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich stands as a classic of contemporary literature. The story of labor-camp inmate Ivan Denisovich Shukhov, it graphically describes his struggle to maintain his dignity in the face of communist oppression. An unforgettable portrait of the entire world of Stalin's forced work camps, One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich is one of the most extraordinary literary documents to have emerged from the Soviet Union and confirms Solzhenitsyn's stature as "a literary genius whose talent matches that of Dosotevsky, Turgenev, Tolstoy"--Harrison Salisbury

This unexpurgated 1991 translation by H. T. Willetts is the only authorized edition available and fully captures the power and beauty of the original Russian.

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by imagining that somebody else’s bit of the ration might be substituted for yours. Why, good friends quarreled about it, even to the point of fighting! But one day three prisoners escaped in a truck from the work site and took one of those cases of. bread with them. That brought the authorities to their senses—they chopped up all the boxes in the guardroom. Everyone carry his own hunk, they said. At this first search they also had to make sure that no one was wearing civvies under the camp

no good. “But what other interpretation could he have gotten away with?” “Gotten away with? Ugh! Then don’t call him a genius! Call him an ass-kisser, obeying a vicious dog’s order. Geniuses don’t adjust their interpretations to suit the taste of tyrants!” “Hm, hm!” Shukhov cleared his throat. He hadn’t the nerve to interrupt such a learned conversation. But there wasn’t any sense in standing there, either. Tsezar swung around and held out his hand for the bowl, not even looking at Shukhov, as

board a British cruiser. Had my own cabin. I was attached to a convoy as liaison officer. And imagine—after the war the British admiral—only the devil could have put the idea into his head—sent me a gift, a souvenir as ‘a token of gratitude,’ damn him! I was absolutely hor rifled. And now here we are, all lumped together. It’s pretty hard to take, being imprisoned here with Bendera’s men. . . .” Strange! Yes, a strange sight indeed: the naked steppe, the empty building site, the snow gleaming

C.E.D. to read newspapers. Who wants to go with him? And this fellow goes to have his boots mended, another to the drying shed, a third merely from one barracks to another (that’s forbidden more strictly than anything else)--how can you hold them all back? With that rule of his the commandant would have robbed them of their last shred of freedom, but it didn’t work out, much as he tried, the fat pig. Hurrying along the path, meeting a guard on the way and, to be on the safe side, taking off his

made of scraps of motor tires— “Chetezes” they called them, after the Cheiabinsk tractor works. Now the footwear situation seemed better; in October Shukhov had received (thanks to Pavlo, whom he trailed to the warehouse) a pair of ordinary, hard-wearing leather boots, big enough for a double thickness of rags inside. For a week he went about as though he’d been given a birthday present, kicking his new heels. Then in December the valenki arrived, and, oh, wasn’t life wonderful? But some devil in

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