Doctor Zhivago

Doctor Zhivago is, without a doubt, a masterpiece. That said, Boris Pasternak’s 1957 novel is less known than David Lean’s 1965 film. Indeed, I expect most people who’ve seen the film haven’t read the novel. That’s a pity.

I say this because until recently, I was one of those people. For shame. I’ve no excuse. Pasternak’s novel sat on my shelves for years, an old copy, bought at a fundraiser book sale, picked up then with every intention of experiencing Lean’s tale in its original form. Dissatisfied with the old copy, I bought it again, anew (as I often do), in its most recent translation by Richard Pevear and Larissa Volokhonsky, theirs being expectedly modern in its prose, as I found them to be with their Crime and Punishment.

I love the film. It’s epic, both in vision and scope, typically David Lean, and for a long time it was my gateway to understanding the Russian Revolution. It’s also what I expect of Lean, he who gave us The Bridge on the River Kwai and Lawrence of Arabia. I note that all his films I’m familiar with are adaptations: Oliver Twist, Great Expectations, Brief Encounter, Ryan’s Daughter, A Passage to India. All are excellent, in my opinion. So, it comes as no surprise that his version of Doctor Zhivago is, as well. I say “his version” because it is its own self. It is not the book. It hits all the salient plot points of the novel but, regardless how excellently it succeeds as a film, it is lesser than Pasternak’s book.

People who know me would nod sagely at this declaration and say, of course you’d say that, that the book is better than the film. I do, too; most of the time. I recall hearing somewhere that one can make a great film from a mediocre book, but that it is next to impossible to make a great film from a great book. There’s some truth in that. Perhaps there is a great deal of truth in that. But that is not always the case. Zhivago is one such case. So too most of Lean’s filmography. (I’m a Lean fan, obviously.) This does not mean that Lean’s film, however great, is the book’s equal. Lean’s film does an excellent job outlining Russian history concerning the period leading up to the Revolution and its civil war; it does an even better job romanticising Zhivago’s and Lara’s love affair. It fails, however, it charting Zhivago’s ideology, and his journey in becoming an inspired poet.

Lean’s film simplifies Zhivago’s life, insofar as it focuses on the love triangle as the core of its narrative. It glosses over the social commentary riven throughout, the privilege of the rich, the inequality of the poor and working classes, and the prior revolutions that ignited because of it; indeed, it even glosses over the Great War, the Revolution, and the years of civil war that followed. All are mere framework in preference of a story that would move American audiences: true love. Not cultural tidal forces, not muse.

Pasternak’s Zhivago has so much more depth. More formative characters (most largely excised in the film) who weave in and out of the story, each a necessary device to enlighten we readers who did not experience the events lived through, giving us firsthand accounts on how those who did endured the hardships and horrors. Certain characters, Komarovsky and Strelnikov, for instance, are far more nuanced, one more villainous, the other more empathetic. Both entail more in their effect than in page count. Honestly, I was surprised at how limited Lara’s presence is in the book, how much is inferred. Yet, she is his primary muse.

A note on names, just to muse on the novel’s depth, if only a little. Zhivago is not just Yuri’s surname. It is a metaphor for both his profession and his soul. Its Russian root is zhiv, meaning life. Larissa (Lara) is a Greek name meaning “bright, cheerful.” Komarovsky’s Russian root is komar, meaning mosquito. Yuriatin, where much of the story revolves around, is Russian for Yuri’s town. Strelnikov (Pavel Antipov), although a real surname, is shortened from Rasstrelnikov, meaning executioner.

The entire novel, if I may be so bold, is Yuri’s evolution into poet. It is why the novel carries on after his death, until his poems are collected and published. It is why his poems complete the novel, and are not scattered about within it. You don’t have to read them. Not really. Notes at the end of Richard Pevear and Larissa Volokhonsky’s translation inform me that they are more lyrical in their original Russian, that we miss out on their rhyming scheme, even their meter, that they focused more on meaning than on adhering as closely as possible to literal translation. Perhaps that’s a good thing. One would have to ask someone who reads Russian, and has an ear for poetry, to find out if artistry was lost in translation. One can only judge what one reads. I read them. I'm a completest.

One thing is true, at least to me, is that Pasternak’s Doctor Zhivago is a beautiful book, despite its themes of loneliness and disillusionment, perhaps because of them. It's sad. It's painful. It sometimes reads like a dream. The narrative frequently focusses on environment and emotion, on pathos, and not the epic struggles that herd the characters unto their ultimate fates. It follows observation and reflection and inspiration, not just cause and effect and aftermath. It does that, as well. But events are the lesser of the two, however poignant. All is seen through the eyes of an artist. A Poet.

Will it remain in print as long as Tolstoy and Dostoyevsky? I don’t know. Time will tell. It ought to, I believe. I hope. Pasternak, in my view, is their heir apparent in Russian literature. And that’s saying something.