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14 of 14 people found the following review helpful:
5.0 out of 5 stars
Underrated Masterpiece, April 13, 2010
This review is from: Fathers and Sons (Oxford World's Classics) (Paperback)
There are multiple Fathers and Sons translations, and Richard Freeborn's is particularly controversial. It is certainly readable and does a remarkable job of conveying Turgenev's poetic prose. However, Freeborn tries to convey the character Bazarov's slangy speech by using Southern American dialect - a risky tactic that many will appreciate but some will loathe. Anyone looking for a worthy translation who is not bothered by this would do well to pick up Freeborn's version, but others are warned.
Now to the book itself. Though not Russian fiction's father in Nikolai Gogol's sense of adapting the language and producing its first notable fictional works, Ivan Turgenev is the direct antecedent of the psychological characterization and philosophical dramatization that is most closely associated with it and thus arguably its true father. Fathers and Sons, his most famous work and masterpiece, was the first Russian novel to attract Western praise, particularly winning over Henry James, who hailed it as a masterwork and championed Turgenev over the Russian writers who soon overshadowed him. One can debate Turgenev's merits relative to giants like Fyodor Dostoevsky and Leo Tolstoy, but he certainly provides an interesting contrast, and Fathers and Sons has long had an indisputable place alongside their great works in the world canon.
The book is of course most famous for Evgeny Vasilevich Bazarov, its protagonist, who is both painstakingly realistic and thoroughly symbolic. He typifies the young, European-influenced, middle-class liberal that Turgenev rightly thought was a rising Russian power. A self-proclaimed nihilist, he rejects religion, conventional morality, and nearly every other traditional Russian virtue. He claims to believe in nothing but has a great passion for science and seems to believe in a sort of self-reliance. Though influenced by archetypes like Alexander Pushkin's Eugene Onegin, he was an essentially original creation - Turgenev's most memorable and famous character. Anyone at all familiar with Russian literature can immediately see that he became a prototype, his most famous manifestation being Raskolnikov in Dostoevsky's Crime and Punishment a few years later. However, he is interesting enough in his own right, and his ambivalent depiction is fascinating. Though he is ostensibly a cautionary figure, a negative example, Turgenev was open-minded enough not to condemn him outright. His dark end is indeed a warning that pure nihilism is a dead end, but Turgenev at times seems as enthralled by Bazarov as anyone. This ambiguity was the main reason that the novel got very mixed reviews; it satisfied neither those who sympathized with Bazarov nor those who condemned him. Turgenev was stung and wrote less prolifically and enthusiastically from then on, but time has shown that the uncertain portrayal is exactly the book's greatest strength. Bazarov represents a path that Russia could have taken - or, if you will, one pole of human nature -, though admittedly an extreme one, and cannot be lauded or condemned outright. Turgenev was brave enough to give an honest portrayal, and the profoundly believable and insightful psychological portrait retains its power. Bazarov is one of the most interesting characters in a century full of great ones. He is hard to fully love or hate; he certainly has many despicable qualities, but only Pollyannas can deny some of his points, and the force with which he argues, in combination with his cynical apathy, has a certain perverse charm. We can debate him and what he stands for ad nauseum, but it is unlikely that anyone who reads the book will soon forget him.
There is of course far more to the novel, not least its vivid dramatization of the title's implied generation gap. Turgenev saw an ever-widening chasm between the liberals of his generation and the Bazarovs, dramatizing it with striking verisimilitude and stunning philosophical and psychological depth. His generation is represented by the brothers Nikolai and Pavel Petrovich Kirsanov. They have also embraced Europeanization but in ways that Bazarov finds contemptibly superficial: speaking French, wearing foreign clothes, etc. More fundamental is their continued clinging to traditional morality and institutions. Their interactions with Bazarov make clear that, religion and morality aside, the generation gap was to a great extent a class issue. The Kirsanovs are aristocrats, and Pavel Petrovich in particular resents the upstart Bazarov. Their clash soon culminates in a highly symbolic duel suggesting, especially in its aftermath, that while the Bazarovs may initially gain the upper hand, there is much to be said for the older generation, which should not be written off so quickly. Nikolai Petrovich is more moderate, abandoning tradition to the extent of taking a lower-class woman as a mistress and even having a child with her, yet aware enough to constantly worry about offending his brother. He can sympathize with Bazarov and is even willing to listen to his ideas but above all simply wants harmony. His son Arkady is at yet another place on the spectrum, respecting the elders but so naïve and joyous in his youthfulness that he becomes a Bazarov disciple almost without knowing.
These conflicts play out in various ways but primarily through Arkady, the only character who really changes. It can be assumed that he was squarely in familial tradition before college, where he nearly became a Bazarov clone, and he finally takes solace in love's redemptive power. There is no doubt that Turgenev thinks this last the right path - that we are supposed to think, as Arkady finally does, that Bazarovism leads only to wasteful self-destructiveness, making true happiness impossible and keeping us from doing the world any good. Some will of course disagree, but Arkady's progression is very plausibly written; it is hard not to sympathize and be glad for his eventual peace and bliss. The novel is thus among other things an excellent bildungsroman.
Perhaps the most remarkable thing about the book is how Turgenev dramatizes all this - and even makes his point clear - without heavy-handedness. Novels tackling such weighty issues often let didacticism overwhelm story, but Fathers and Sons is never guilty of this nearly always fatal sin. He is also a master stylist; his often lyrical prose encompasses not only dense philosophical speculation but also much sublime beauty. The last paragraph in particular is unforgettable in its precise beauty and profoundly moving sentiment - so well-written that even those who cynically disagree with the conclusion, and thus the book's overall message, cannot deny its immense power. Most notable of all is that Turgenev manages to do all this in under 250 pages. This is the greatest difference between him and the more famous Russian masters known for their thick tomes. Turgenev eschews their great attention to detail, lengthy dialogue, and long philosophical asides. Those who, like James, detested such "loose, baggy monsters" may join him in preferring Turgenev, and the differences are substantial enough that even those who dislike Tolstoy, Dostoevsky, and their ilk should not pass over Turgenev automatically on account of it. That said, he shares enough of their great elements - indeed, inspired many of them - that their fans should check him out. His remarkable conciseness is certainly less intimidating, and there are many benefits to reading the Russian greats chronologically. In short, the appeal of Fathers and Sons is so great and diverse that the book is a must for practically anyone who appreciates great literature.
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6 of 6 people found the following review helpful:
3.0 out of 5 stars
Not the best of the Russian classics but has its merits, February 27, 2010
This review is from: Fathers and Sons (Oxford World's Classics) (Paperback)
For many people in the West, especially in the US, nineteenth-century Russian literature means Tolstoy and Dostoevsky, and many reviewers note that this novel by Turgenev ain't like either of them. In fact, it feels a lot like what could be called `the rural English novel' --- that is, it poetically describes rural life, deals with the rise of new ideas and ways of life brought on by modernization, focuses on romantic desires, resolves characters into either death or marriage, etc.
This story here follows two younger men, Barazov, who is a self-proclaimed nihilist (much to the irritation of older men) and Arkady, who is his prodigy (who has a less committed, more exploratory approach to modern ideas). They are returning to their familial rural estates after time elsewhere. They move back and forth between these estates and one that has several women of interest. Much of the novel is a series of conversations, often about political change or high ideals. A lot happens in the novel, though it doesn't feel like it: the characters lead relatively privileged lives and we rarely even hear about them working, so it feels the novel is mostly about relaxing.
One of the main strengths of the novel is the depiction of the male characters. While the female characters seem to act the way they do to advance the plot without conveying a sense that the author understood their motivations, the two men, their fathers and the one uncle are vividly depicted. They evolve over the course of the novel (or are adamant in their refusal to do so). What I particularly like about the interactions of these men is that the generational conflict in tension with the blatant affection of the fathers for their sons. In so many novels, characters don't seem to really like each other (or we're told that they do but the novelist can't convey it). This seems especially true of serious novels about families. I'm hard pressed to think of any other novel in which fathers are so interested in the lives of their grown sons and so pained by the gulf between them.
There are also some unexpectedly powerful chapters. The chapter on the duel, for instance, comes out of nowhere, seems totally unmotivated --- to the point of being comic even though the situation could quickly become tragic --- and then only in its resolution becomes clear what motivated one man to issue the seemingly preposterous duel challenge. This way of telling the story could have been easy to botch but it comes off quite well and proves to be a rewarding way to have presented the situation.
In taken in its entirety, however, I was left with the feeling that the whole of the novel was somehow less than the sum of the parts. It's possible to point to specific faults, like the irritations of the translation that others have pointed out (e.g., the attempt to replicate Barazov's `hip' speaking by the use of modern slang), but it seems like the positive characteristics of the novel ought to outweigh them. For a reason I cannot explain, they somehow don't. If you're into nineteenth-century Russian literature, you're going to read this book regardless of any review --- and you'll find pleasures in it, just not consistently. This work might also appeal to people who like George Eliot or Thomas Hardy. They won't be bowled over, but they might enjoy a slightly exotic tinge to a kind of novel that they already know that they like. If you're just looking to try imperial Russian literature, however, you'll probably find that Dostoevsky or Tolstoy or Chekhov `speak to' you more.
I'd also recommend saving _Fathers and Sons_ for a time when you're going to have a long stretch to read it: the novel has a lot of characters for its length and taking breaks makes it harder to keep them straight. Likewise, this translation is faithful to the Russian etiquette of names, which can get confusing when the name used to describe a character's actions isn't the same as how other characters address them in dialogue. If this is a problem, there are some webpages that can be found by searching for `Russian naming conventions'.
It's gratuitous to the reading experience, but I have to say that this, like the other new Oxford World Classics, is a beautiful book. It has a very agreeable crispness to it. The cover, the binding, etc. all feel right. Even the font seems particularly sharp. I often read library or used copies of books, but in holding this for the first time I felt a sense of impeding loss: there are art forms that are going to be killed off by the now easy to predict replacement of paper books with electronic ones, just as downloadable music is the end of the album cover. (But also like the other new Oxford World Classics, the font size could be a point or two bigger. It would hurt their profit margin calculations, I'm sure, but my feeling is that easy to read fonts and the sensation of turning the page more frequently increase the enjoyment of reading.)
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2 of 2 people found the following review helpful:
4.0 out of 5 stars
Excellent snapshot of a changing Russia, April 25, 2011
This review is from: Fathers and Sons (Oxford World's Classics) (Paperback)
Turgenev is seldom recognized as one of Russia's literary heavy weights, but in "Fathers and Sons", he captures the ongoing struggle between the older, more conservative generation (the serf owners still clinging to class divisions and specific gender roles) and the nihilistic youth that would eventually issue in a new era in Russian history (a classless society in which traditional values would be abandoned for philosophical ideals).
The story centers around a serf-owning Father and his educated Son. The son returns home after years away and brings with him a young nihilist, a brash young man who dismisses and essentially laughs at the values of his friend's father. Much to his credit, the father does his best to understand the radical views of the nihilist, but through his honest attempt at understanding, he begins to see the flaws and contradictions in this unfamiliar philosophy. Much to his credit, Turgenev remains remarkably objective in his portrayal of the competing generations and their views, and it is only through the character's actions does the author show glimpses of what he may believe.
As the story progresses, the two young friends visit comrades and relatives, and in each encounter, their beliefs are pitted against the realities of every day life. When the nihilist begins to fall in love with a radical young woman, he is torn between rebelling against romance or denying the core of his beliefs. The father attempts to embrace some of the nihilist's views in his treatment of both his serfs and the much younger woman that he has made his bride, only to be confronted by his flamboyant brother who finds the hypocrisy in his every action; and when an unexpected duel pops up between the nihilist and another, Turgenev deals with it as if it were a nuisance, essentially painting it as the bygone of the past that it would soon become.
Without making any grand statements or arriving at any conclusions about what is right or wrong, Turgenev has created an engaging snapshot of one family and its internal turmoil over the decade long transition that Russia was undergoing. Understated, philosophical without being preachy or overbearing, "Fathers and Sons" captures the nineteenth century struggles of the Russian everyman and serves as an excellent complement to the more recognized works of Dostoevsky and Tolstoy.
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