Daniel Zhavoronkin – Death of Ivan Ilyich (second reader response)

Last year during winter break, I had a terrible flu. Leaving my bed would make me feel weary and dizzy, let alone making food for myself was a much bigger challenge. I asked my roommate, Bidyuth, to make me something that he’s familiar with as he’s very adamant about Bangladeshi cuisine. He made me a healthy portion of butter chicken with garlic naan, and insisted we eat it with our fingers. I was always curious about this etiquette, and when I asked he told me that this creates an additional connection to the food; the ability to feel its texture and warmth. He taught me that in his culture, that the purpose of food is not only to feed oneself, but to have a spiritual connection with the experience of eating. This was a revalation to me, as I have been cooking through middle and high school with the sole purpose of not letting myself go hungry. Bid was always critical of the fact that I wolfed down my food whenever we went out, and ever since I have been taking the time to enjoy the flavors of what I eat from day to day. In the uncertain times of a pandemic, Tolstoy’s work reminds us how the awareness of death is a catalyst for one to reflect over the patterns of one’s life. Ivan Ilyich has a stable job and surrounds himself with aesthetically pleasing things, and through the eyes of others is a successful man. But when faced with illness, the illusion of satisfaction with his own life crumbles, as well as his relations with others. The seconds, or even the days that pass by in our lives aren’t always the subject of thought until our mortality comes into question. The text itself is very slow and descriptive, and I felt Ivan’s ‘loneliness in the midst of a populous town and surrounded by numerous acquaintances’, as I am currently locked up in an apartment on the third floor of a nearly vacant building in Manhattan. The only person who went out of his way to help Ivan on his deathbed was the butler’s assistant Gerasim who helped move him to a more comfortable position. It is in these trying times that we realize who really matters. The closest friend of mine, Ethan who moved to Paris to study chemistry has been reaching out to me frequently and we talk for hours on end to make sure we are both okay and don’t lose our minds over an indefinite isolation. I’d say Tolstoy’s ability to narrate a man’s experience of such a harsh and earth-shattering subject makes this a great work.