a day in the life

I first picked up a day in the life of ivan denisovich in the 7th grade. there was something about it, that read so foreign and greyish-green compared with the smooth yellows and blues of early-century american literature, that it felt like everyone had been lying to me all those years. why weren't we reading this in english?

the cancer ward was next, and I reread that book until I could quote at length from it, making up reasons to if they didn't come naturally.

his books were the first that reached into some place in me I didn't have a name for, the place that drives me to look around at my world and work to leave an indelible mark in it, no matter how small.

and so, to a man who did leave his mark in it, smaller in some circles than in others. but indelible, definitely.

I love this photograph of him during his exile in vermont, he just looks like a communist:

alexander solzhenitsyn, 1975

ps: deacs, he died, in case you're wondering what this post is about.