Halfway through The Death of Ivan Ilych. Not to be confused with One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich, though honestly, Russian literature does love an Ivan in crisis. I used to binge on it – more Dostoyevsky than Tolstoy, if we’re keeping score – but there’s something about the philosophical dread that still hits like a cold slap.
Ivan’s recently been promoted and is busy feathering his little bourgeois nest:
“In reality it was just what is usually seen in the houses of people of moderate means who want to appear rich, and therefore succeed only in resembling others like themselves…”
Damask. Polished bronze. Pretentious plants. It’s all there in Chapter 3—a catalogue of aspirational mediocrity. And here’s the kicker: he thinks it’s exceptional. That’s the tragicomic punchline of late capitalism, isn’t it? Everyone desperate to be unique by copying the same IKEA showroom.
The wallpaper may change, but the existential wallpaper paste remains the same. Conformity with delusions of grandeur.
Ridley Park 