My post on Dr. Zhivago has been incredibly delayed, because I have been trying to remove myself from the text in order to comment in a thoughtful, profound, and purposeful manner. However, I do not think that I will be successful in this goal.
Perhaps it is because my parents revere the film, Dr. Zhivago, however, I had a hard time getting into the text. At first, I blamed my inability to connect on the fact that I am not completely clear on my Russian history, especially in their own revolutionary periods. Sure, I am familiar with their role in World War II, but it has been a very long time since I have taken a course in world history, and even when I did in my sophomore year of high school, Russia was not exactly a priority.
After actually doing some reasearch on the different revolutions (thank you, Wikipedia!), I have decided that the state of the country at this time was not even clear to the locals, so it can't be disorientation based on my historical ignorance. Then, I decided it was the very formal, distant Russian diction that turned me away. Is it really necessary to refer to characters by name and patronymic? Although the inclusion of the patronymic is very helpful to remember who is related to who, the tendency to switch between the characters' formal titles and affectionate nicknames certainly confused me.
Finally, after coming to terms with all possible pet peeves regarding the text, I have finally decided that it is the character Yuri Zhivago that bothers me most. His poetry, included in the end of the text, is beautiful and really captures my mental image of Moscow or Russian countryside. However, this is supposed to be a novel of passion, and his ability to remain loyal to one woman, each of whom love him to the ends of their soul, somewhat discourages me. First, he is married to his childhood friend, at the deathbed of her mother. This relationship works well; she supports his career, and even indulges his dream of living off the land, and bears his children. When he is captured and forced to serve as a doctor in the revolutionary army, she fears for him and does her best to hold the family together despite his absence.
In this time, he reunites with a woman he spied through a candle-lit window one night on the streets of Moscow. The passion he shares for this character seems genuine and long lasting, and she returns that affection, even if both are married. When her husband meets Yuri and commits suicide, it seems as if they were fated for each other; in a sick and twisted way, her former husband has almost given Yuri permission to take his place. However, their separation introduces a third, much younger woman while Yuri is in the twilight of his life, and no longer practicing medicine.
My point is, any of his relationships with these women would have been acceptable; they all have different traits of the perfect mate: the childhood sweetheart, the passionate and reserved beauty, or the young, sweet, and doting wife. Maybe this is a portrait of how Russian women should behave for their husbands, but Yuri is offering them no peace of mind as incentive. The lack of respect for the women in the novel, despite the brilliance and evolution of a politically tied plot, really lowers the standards of the text in my opinion.
My next book is Streetcar named Desire, as "W" was the letter from the random text generator. I've read this play in the past, and I'm really looking forward to exploring it on a deeper level.
