Status Updates From The Death of Ivan Ilyich: A...

Averageness at its conflicting albeit coexistable state of affairs is the balancing act, a magnum opus mentality, of living a modest lifestyle - accepting available community and acknowledging earthly, frequently material attractions - and getting to the timestamp of dying in acceptance of such surface-level sentiments. Every average person is entitled to love and lash out at things howevet they so desire, averagely.

All prefacing and establishing abstract ethical grounds for their coming primary performance - The Death of Ivan Ilyich - the initial chapters and half are loyal and longing callbacks to the first pages’ discussion of bravery, lightening a nuanced narrative that lays down a belief system of being brave by knowing what is right and of utmost value to oneself than committing to a legacy through statistical sacrifice.

An unfolding legend of a village cry festival had devotedly crawled and managed out the marshes to be a dazzling, radiant promise that some good awaits, then lost the dark magic cloak off its slippery and snakish shoulders to show its true, soul-lurking and graphite-colored funnel into utterly wasted morality once, twice, a thousand repetitions more; regret and guilt of judgement imposed are what it truly is.

Friendly and akin to Harpman's hope-manufacturing factory of day-long tragic tellings, the pages proceeding this Russian life-death mentalizing montage's midpoint takes turns for the better, surprising stereotypical skeptics on the old prodigy's work reducing the opus to pessimistic ponderings. Here, a life of lies can factualize and gradually grow to a truthful one, where it dies deserving of flowers and pride.

A non-outshiningly typical reader with nationally median literacy cannot fight the feelings he was coerced to feel by Joyce's montages of city-caressing anecdotes in Dubliners, even while the emotions of Tolstoy have interlaced and mostly substituted the melancholy of his last read. The Death of Ivan Ilych's centerlining chapters pose the same curiosity, whether dying is the end all things or the start of others.

Previously materialized and sensorial - although never once synthetic, Leo (addressed by his first given name due to matured intimacy) has moved to the physicality of faces; not the mere simplicity of smiles and frowns, but them having their funeral, buried in palms and plain-colored hankerchiefs, the way mustaches and crow’s feet dancing grievously at the bass vibrations of the human owners’ tragic tunes.