Another book jot from April, 2021:

I just finished reading Virgin Soil (1877) by Ivan Turgenev, translated by Constance Garnett. It was the last novel he published. Right away, the characters feel almost like real people. It’s as if the reader is making new acquaintances and getting to know the kind of people they are. I find his writing to be so simple and graceful and fluid. Reading it is almost like drinking a glass of water or being outside on a spring day. The story takes place in the late 1860’s in Russia, during a time of social tension and the rumblings of revolution. Many of the characters are agitators and revolutionaries, and the book follows a sort of unfolding love story, as it traces various perceptions of, and commitments to, “the cause”. It’s a humane look at some of the ways in which political ideologies intersect with personal, interior lives.

One of the more minor personalities is especially sympathetic. His intermittent presence offers interesting insights into the questions posed. The novel is a wonderful balance of character, plot, and ideas, with seemingly effortless prose.

For we Russians are a queer lot, you know, we expect everything; someone or something is to come along one day and cure us all at once, heal all our wounds, extract all our diseases like an aching tooth. Who or what this panacea is to be — why, Darwinism, the village commune, Arhip Perepentyev, a foreign war, anything you please! Only, we must have our teeth pulled out for us! It’s all sluggishness, apathy, shallow thinking!”