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


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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twenty minutes and the working day—curtailed because it was winter—didn’t end till six, everyone felt already they’d had a rare stroke of luck—now evening didn’t seem so far off. “Damn it, it’s a long time since we had a snow storm,” said Kilgas, a plump, red-faced Lett, gesturing. “Not one snowstorm all winter. What sort of winter do you call this?” “Yes . . . .. a snowstorm . . . . . a snowstorm,” the squad sighed in response. When there was a snowstorm in those parts no one was taken out to

row. “Here we have three rows of four, all nice and neat. Count them.” “Hasn’t your squad come?” the cook asked, looking suspiciously around the small segment of the canteen he could see through the window—it had been kept narrow to prevent anyone looking into the kitchen and seeing how much was left in the kettle. “No, none of ‘em are here yet,” said Pavlo, shaking his head. “Then why the hell are you taking bowls when the squad’s not here?” “Here they come,” yelled Shukhov. And everyone heard

close to the top step, and waited. Some of his pals who were already there gave him a hand. The mess chief walked to the door and looked back. “Come on, Limper, send in two more squads.” “One hundred and fourth,” shouted the Limper. “Where d’you think you’re crawling, shit?” He slammed a man from another squad on the back of the neck with his stick. “One hundred and fourth,” shouted Pavlo, leading in his men. “Whew!” gasped Shukhov in the mess hall. And, without waiting for Pavlo’s instructions,

numb hands he carried the dripping bucket back to the guardroom and plunged his hands into the water. It felt warm. The Tartar was no longer there. The guards—there were four now—stood in a group. They’d given up their checkers and their nap and were arguing about how much cereal they were going to get in January (food was in short supply at the settlement, and although rationing had long since come to an end, certain articles were sold to them, at a discount, which were not available to the

he’d been taken with a smashed jaw, and then—what a dope he wasi—volunteered for the front again, though he could have lain there in bed for five days. And now here he was dreaming of being ill for two or three weeks, not dangerously ill, of course, not so bad that they’d have to operate, yet bad enough to go to the hospital and lie in bed for three weeks without stirring; and let them feed him on nothing but that clear soup of theirs, he wouldn’t mind. But, he recalled, now they didn’t let you

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