This excerpt is from Alexander Solzhenitsyn’s acceptance speech for the 1970 Nobel Prize for Literature. Like many other Soviet writers and intellectuals, Solzhenitsyn spent years in the brutal forced labor prison camp in the Gulag Archipelago. In the excerpt he talks about the effect on his country of the deaths of thousands political dissidents and other intellectuals who were imprisoned for their beliefs and who did not survive imprisonment.
I was fated to survive, but others, perhaps more talented, stronger than I perished. I myself met but few of them in the Gulag Archipelago, a multitude of scattered island fragments. Indeed, under the millstone of surveillance and mistrust, I did not talk to just any man; of some I only heard; and of others l only guessed. Those with a name in literature who vanished into that abyss are, at least, know many were unrecognized, never once publicly mentioned? And s almost no one ever managed to return. A whole national literature is there buried without a coffin, without even underwear, naked, a number tagged on its toe. Not for a moment did Russian literature cease, yet from outside it seem a wasteland. Where a harmonious forest could have grown, were left, after all the cutting, two or three accidentally overlooked.
This excerpt is from Alexander Solzhenitsyn’s acceptance speech for the 1970 Nobel Prize for Literature. Like many other Soviet writers and intellectuals, Solzhenitsyn spent years in the brutal forced labor prison camp in the Gulag Archipelago. In the excerpt he talks about the effect on his country of the deaths of thousands political dissidents and other intellectuals who were imprisoned for their beliefs and who did not survive imprisonment.I was fated to survive, but others, perhaps more talented, stronger than I perished. I myself met but few of them in the Gulag Archipelago, a multitude of scattered island fragments. Indeed, under the millstone of surveillance and mistrust, I did not talk to just any man; of some I only heard; and of others l only guessed. Those with a name in literature who vanished into that abyss are, at least, know many were unrecognized, never once publicly mentioned? And s almost no one ever managed to return. A whole national literature is there buried without a coffin, without even underwear, naked, a number tagged on its toe. Not for a moment did Russian literature cease, yet from outside it seem a wasteland. Where a harmonious forest could have grown, were left, after all the cutting, two or three accidentally overlooked.
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