(Source : The Namesake by Jhumpa Lahiri)
The real life story of 'Nikolai Gogol' made warmth spread from the back of Gogol's neck to his cheeks and his ears. Each time the name was uttered, he quietly winced. His parents had never told him any of this. He looked at his classmates, but they seemed indifferent, obediently copying down the information as Mr. Lawson continued to speak, looking over one shoulder, his sloppy handwriting filling up the board. He felt angry at Mr. Lawson suddenly. Somehow he felt betrayed.
"Gogol's literary career spanned a period of about eleven years, after which he was more or less paralyzed by writer's block. The last years of his life were marked by physical deterioration and emotional torment," Mr. Lawson said. :Desperate to restore his health and creative inspiration, Gogol sought refuge in a series of spas and sanatoriums. In 1848 he made a pilgrimage to Palestine. Eventually he returned to Russia. In 1852, in Moscow, disillusioned and convinced of his failure as a writer, he renounced all literary activity and burned the manuscript to the second volume of Dead Souls. He then pronounced a death sentence on himself, and proceeded to commit slow suicide by starvation."
"Gross," someone said from the back of the classroom. "Why would someone want to do that to himself ?"
A few people glanced at Emily Gardener, rumored to have anorexia.
Mr. Lawson, holding up a finger, went on. "In attempts to revive him on the day before his death, doctors immersed him in a bath of broth while ice water was poured over his head, and then affixed seven leeches to his nose. His hands were pinned down so that he could not tear the worms away."
The class, all but one, began to moan in unison, so that Mr. Lawson had to raise his voice considerably in order to be heard. Gogol stared at his desk, seeing nothing. He was convinced that the entire school was listening to Mr. Lawson's lecture. That it was on the PA. He lowered his head over his desk, discretely pressed his hands against his ears. It was not enough to block out Mr. Lawson : "By the following evening he was no longer fully conscious, and so wasted that his spine could be felt through his stomach." Gogol shut his eyes. Please, stop, he wished he could say to Mr. Lawson. Please stop, he said, mouthing the words. And then, suddenly, there was silence. Gogol looked up, saw Mr. Lawson dropped his chalk on the blackboard ledge.
"I'll be right back," he said, and disappeared to have a cigarette. The students, accustomed to this routine, began talking among themselves. They complained about the story, saying that it's too long. They complained that it was hard to get through. There was talk of the difficulty of Russian names, students confessing merely to skimming them. Gogol said nothing. He had not read the story himself. He had never touched the Gogol book his father gave him on his fourteenth birthday. And yesterday, after class, he'd shoved the short story anthology deep into his locker, refusing to bring it home. To read the story, he believed, would mean paying tribute to his namesake, accepting it somehow. Still, listening to his classmates complain, he felt perversely responsible, as if his own work were being attacked.
Mr. Lawson returned, sitting once more on his desk. Gogol hoped that perhaps the biographical portion of the lecture was over. What else could he possibly had left to say ? But Mr. Lawson picked up Divided Soul. "here is an account of his final moments," he said, and, turning toward the end of the book, he read :
"His feet were icy. Tarasenkov slid a hot-water bottle into the bed, but it had no effect ; he was shievering. Cold sweat covered his emaciated face. Blue circles appeared under his eyes. At midnight Dr. Klimentov relieved Dr. Tarasenkov. To ease the dying man, he administered a dose of calomel and placed loaves of hot bread around his body. Gogol began to moan again. His mind wandered, quietly, all night long. "Go on !" he whispered. "Rise up, charge, charge the mill !" Then he became still weaker, his face hollowed and darkened, his breathing became imperceptible. He seemed to grow calm ; at least he was no longer suffering. At eight in the morning of February 21, 1852, he breathed his last. He was not yet forty-three years old."
No comments:
Post a Comment