Post by vulcan13 on Jun 26, 2010 17:30:02 GMT -8
This is the essay i wrote for the common application. It got me into college, so it can't be too bad.
“It doesn’t seem like something I would enjoy,” I proclaimed doubtfully as I held the slim, bright orange volume in my hands. “How do you say the author’s name again?”
“Solzhenitsyn,” my father pronounced for my benefit. “Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn.” I looked resentfully at the book titled One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich, which my father had just pulled down from one of our high and overcrowded bookshelves. As I listened to my parents’ brief summary of the novel, I concluded that it seemed about as interesting as War and Peace.
“I’ll try and get around to it,” I said, not meeting my mother’s eyes. We both knew I was trying to figure out how I could “accidentally” leave the worn paperback behind.
“You don’t have to read it,” my mother said with a shrug of her shoulders. “But it’s a good book.” With that said, my parents retreated into their bedroom to pack for our trip to the beach.
I stared unenthusiastically at the battered paperback before stuffing it into my messenger bag and continuing with my own packing. In truth, I knew very little about the book, or the mysterious Ivan Denisovich it chronicled. I had been completely unaware of its very existence until the day before. My parents suggested I read it after Dad took a break from stacking wood to announce the death of Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn. Now, less than twenty-four hours later, I was heading off to the beach with a book totally unlike my usual choices of fantasy and science fiction.
Once we arrived at the beach, I spent three days pointedly avoiding the book that sat quietly beside my bed waiting for me to break down and read it. On the third night, after four sleepless hours staring at the ceiling, I rolled over and picked up the book I was sure I would not like. If nothing else it would put me to sleep.
An hour later, my eyelids were heavy with exhaustion, but I had to stay awake. The only other option was to tear my eyes away from the yellowing pages and sleep, but that was hardly an option at all. I was completely enraptured. From that moment on Ivan was my constant companion. I read in the beach house, on the porch, and in the car. I even read on the beach despite the slight guilt I felt about sunning on the beach while poor Ivan Denisovich froze. By the time we got home, I had read One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich twice, cover to cover.
I was in love with the book. The subtle joys and victories which accompanied the overwhelming despair touched me in a way no other book had before. As much as the book touched my soul it also touched my curiosity. It brought to mind questions I could not answer. If his name is Ivan Denisovich, why does everyone call him Shukov? If his name is Ivan Shukov, what is Denisovich? What purpose would it serve to build a town in Siberia? What must the Soviet Union have been like if it sent people to these camps?
The only way to answer these questions was to research, and I did. I began by looking up Russian names, and instantly I was drawn to the subtle system of patronymics and diminutives. From there I investigated the Russian language and discovered that I was already familiar with its grammar because it has a system of declensions very similar to Latin. With this in mind I set off on my quest to learn to speak Russian. Before too long, my bookshelf was stacked with books on how to speak Russian, my iPod was full of Russian applications and podcasts, and my living room was labeled with yellow Cyrillic stickers. It took several months for my vocabulary to grow large enough to be useful, but after careful study I could finally order lunch.
While I set out upon my independent studies of Russian, I also began reading other works of Russian literature, absorbing the pathos which sits heavily on the shoulders of the Russian people. I began to read Russian history, especially the Cold War. The propaganda of the Cold War and the culture of spies and paranoia which resulted, captured my interest and imagination. I began reading Robert Ludlum and John Le Carre. For my independent research project at the Governor’s School of Southside Virginia, I chose to do a study of Cold War movies. Soon there was not a single aspect of my life, from the fiction I wrote to the tea that I drank, into which my fascination with Russia had not seeped.
One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich did not simply entertain me; it introduced me to Russia, with its heavy past and deep history. That interest has influenced how I see history, culture, and the world at large. I no longer watch a movie and take it merely at face value. Now I look deeper into the plot to see the politics of the film. The days when I could trust the objectivity of history books are gone; each event must now be analyzed from both sides. Our every American custom and freedom can be compared and contrasted with the far away world of Soviet Russia and made all the more dear by the comparison.
As I gaze down at the beaten paperback in my hands, totally unremarkable except for its florescent orange cover, I cannot help but marvel at the contrast between its boring appearance and the powerful story it holds. Maybe I should tackle War and Peace next.
Reluctantly Reading Russian
“It doesn’t seem like something I would enjoy,” I proclaimed doubtfully as I held the slim, bright orange volume in my hands. “How do you say the author’s name again?”
“Solzhenitsyn,” my father pronounced for my benefit. “Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn.” I looked resentfully at the book titled One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich, which my father had just pulled down from one of our high and overcrowded bookshelves. As I listened to my parents’ brief summary of the novel, I concluded that it seemed about as interesting as War and Peace.
“I’ll try and get around to it,” I said, not meeting my mother’s eyes. We both knew I was trying to figure out how I could “accidentally” leave the worn paperback behind.
“You don’t have to read it,” my mother said with a shrug of her shoulders. “But it’s a good book.” With that said, my parents retreated into their bedroom to pack for our trip to the beach.
I stared unenthusiastically at the battered paperback before stuffing it into my messenger bag and continuing with my own packing. In truth, I knew very little about the book, or the mysterious Ivan Denisovich it chronicled. I had been completely unaware of its very existence until the day before. My parents suggested I read it after Dad took a break from stacking wood to announce the death of Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn. Now, less than twenty-four hours later, I was heading off to the beach with a book totally unlike my usual choices of fantasy and science fiction.
Once we arrived at the beach, I spent three days pointedly avoiding the book that sat quietly beside my bed waiting for me to break down and read it. On the third night, after four sleepless hours staring at the ceiling, I rolled over and picked up the book I was sure I would not like. If nothing else it would put me to sleep.
An hour later, my eyelids were heavy with exhaustion, but I had to stay awake. The only other option was to tear my eyes away from the yellowing pages and sleep, but that was hardly an option at all. I was completely enraptured. From that moment on Ivan was my constant companion. I read in the beach house, on the porch, and in the car. I even read on the beach despite the slight guilt I felt about sunning on the beach while poor Ivan Denisovich froze. By the time we got home, I had read One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich twice, cover to cover.
I was in love with the book. The subtle joys and victories which accompanied the overwhelming despair touched me in a way no other book had before. As much as the book touched my soul it also touched my curiosity. It brought to mind questions I could not answer. If his name is Ivan Denisovich, why does everyone call him Shukov? If his name is Ivan Shukov, what is Denisovich? What purpose would it serve to build a town in Siberia? What must the Soviet Union have been like if it sent people to these camps?
The only way to answer these questions was to research, and I did. I began by looking up Russian names, and instantly I was drawn to the subtle system of patronymics and diminutives. From there I investigated the Russian language and discovered that I was already familiar with its grammar because it has a system of declensions very similar to Latin. With this in mind I set off on my quest to learn to speak Russian. Before too long, my bookshelf was stacked with books on how to speak Russian, my iPod was full of Russian applications and podcasts, and my living room was labeled with yellow Cyrillic stickers. It took several months for my vocabulary to grow large enough to be useful, but after careful study I could finally order lunch.
While I set out upon my independent studies of Russian, I also began reading other works of Russian literature, absorbing the pathos which sits heavily on the shoulders of the Russian people. I began to read Russian history, especially the Cold War. The propaganda of the Cold War and the culture of spies and paranoia which resulted, captured my interest and imagination. I began reading Robert Ludlum and John Le Carre. For my independent research project at the Governor’s School of Southside Virginia, I chose to do a study of Cold War movies. Soon there was not a single aspect of my life, from the fiction I wrote to the tea that I drank, into which my fascination with Russia had not seeped.
One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich did not simply entertain me; it introduced me to Russia, with its heavy past and deep history. That interest has influenced how I see history, culture, and the world at large. I no longer watch a movie and take it merely at face value. Now I look deeper into the plot to see the politics of the film. The days when I could trust the objectivity of history books are gone; each event must now be analyzed from both sides. Our every American custom and freedom can be compared and contrasted with the far away world of Soviet Russia and made all the more dear by the comparison.
As I gaze down at the beaten paperback in my hands, totally unremarkable except for its florescent orange cover, I cannot help but marvel at the contrast between its boring appearance and the powerful story it holds. Maybe I should tackle War and Peace next.
