Solzhenitsyn has died
, and I suspect that we will all be up to our hips soon in crocodile tears from the chekistocrats seeking to reimpose tyranny in the Rodina
and from the Western lotus eaters who don’t like having their comfortable bubbles pricked about what a great man Solzhenitsyn was. The prophet, said Jesus of Nazareth, is not without honor save in his own country; Solzhenitsyn managed to be a prophet without honor in a good many countries. Speaking truth to power is a popular idea, especially in the West, where people can talk about how brave they were protesting this, that, or the other thing at cocktail parties while fully protected by the law and institutions they profess to disdain; but the people who actually put their necks on the line to do the speaking tend not to be as popular, since their brand of truth has the edge of ice-cold water on a raw nerve and most of us enjoy the truth so long as we are not discomfited by it. Solzhenitsyn knew that the truth makes you uncomfortable, whether you want it to or not.
Labels: death, Russia, Russian literature, Solzhenitsyn