Leo Tolstoy's "The Death of Ivan Ilyich" is considered a world classic, but is it deserving of its reputation? Critic Alex Sheremet goes through the book's structure, its themes, issues of translation (especially the so-called "stuffy" translations of Constance Garnett), Leo Tolstoy's characterization, reliance on cliches and re-treading old thematic territory, and more. To get the full discussion of this and other texts, join us on Patreon and get patron-only content: https://www.patreon.com/automachination Full discussion topics: Alex eats a spotted lantern fly; Vladimir Vysotsky's "Nerve"; song lyrics vs. poetry; the Soviet Union's trite obituary for Vysotsky; the faults of an official state critic; Bruce Ario -- "The Minneapolis Poet" -- using someone's poetry for your own purposes; more planning for our documentary; analyzing a few arios; how documentaries & artist biographies structure themselves; Mark Twain's "Puddn'head Wilson" -- Twain's caricature & characterization; how he allows characters to breathe; Mark Twain's details stick with you; some positive contrasts with Leo Tolstoy; the Werner Herzog connection; the meaning of Tom "getting sold down the river" Subscribe to the ArtiFact podcast on Spotify: https://spoti.fi/3xw2M4D Apple Podcasts: https://apple.co/3wLpqEV Google Podcasts: https://bit.ly/3dSQXxJ Amazon Music: https://amzn.to/2SVJIxB Podbean: https://bit.ly/3yzLuUo iHeartRadio: https://ihr.fm/3AK942L Read more from the automachination universe: https://automachination.com Read Alex Sheremet’s (archived) essays: https://alexsheremet.com Follow us on Twitter: https://twitter.com/automachination Tags: #russian #booktube #books ... https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=D_bqD0hnifE

Often considered the greatest of the Soviet and Russian bards, Vladimir Vysotsky (1938 – 1980) was an actor, poet, and singer-songwriter whose work was distributed via bootlegs in the USSR. Sometimes brushing against the law, Vladimir Vysotsky’s bard songs (бардовская песня) ranged from war tales, extended dialogues, fables, outlaw songs (блатная песня), literary experiments, rap-like song structures, and more. In “White Bath” (or “Bath In The White Style”), Vladimir Vysotsky uses the setting of Russian a bathhouse to explore deeper themes of history, memory, and guilt. Watch our translated playlist of the best Soviet bard music: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YqmUe_MeXGU Read our in-depth examination of Soviet bard music: https://www.automachination.com/russian-bard-soviet-poet-century-tradition/ If you found this video useful, support us on our Patreon page and get patron-only content: https://www.patreon.com/automachination Subscribe to the ArtiFact podcast on Spotify: https://spoti.fi/3xw2M4D Apple Podcasts: https://apple.co/3wLpqEV Google Podcasts: https://bit.ly/3dSQXxJ Amazon Music: https://amzn.to/2SVJIxB Podbean: https://bit.ly/3yzLuUo iHeartRadio: https://ihr.fm/3AK942L Read more from the automachination universe: https://automachination.com Read Alex Sheremet’s (archived) essays: https://alexsheremet.com Follow us on Twitter: https://twitter.com/automachination Background footage: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TU-UPQIEn7Y Tags: #russianmusic, #russian, #songlyrics Russian & English Lyrics: Протопи ты мне баньку по-белому Я от белого свету отвык Угорю я, и мне, угорелому Пар горячий развяжет язык Протопи, протопи, протопи ты мне баньку, хозяюшка Раскалю я себя, располю На полоке, у самого краюшка Я сомненья в себе истреблю Разомлею я до неприличности Ковш холодный - и всё позади И наколка времён культа личности Засинеет на левой груди Протопи, протопи, протопи ты мне баньку по-белому Я от белого свету отвык Угорю я, и мне, угорелому Пар горячий развяжет язык Сколько веры и лесу повалено Сколь изведано горя и трасс А на левой груди - профиль Сталина А на правой - Маринка анфас Эх, за веру мою беззаветную Сколько лет отдыхал я в раю! Променял я на жизнь беспросветную Несусветную глупость мою Протопи ты мне баньку по-белому Чтоб я к белому свету привык Угорю я, и мне, угорелому Пар горячий развяжет язык Вспоминаю, как утречком раненько Брату крикнуть успел: "Пособи!" И меня два красивых охранника Повезли из Сибири в Сибирь А потом на карьере ли, в топи ли Наглотавшись слезы и сырца Ближе к сердцу кололи мы профили Чтоб он слышал, как рвутся сердца Нетопи, нетопи, нетопи ты мне баньку по-белому Я от белого свету отвык Угорю я, и мне, угорелому Пар горячий развяжет язык Ох, знобит от рассказа нетошного Пар мне мысли прогнал от ума Из тумана холодного прошлого Окунаюсь в горячий туман Застучали мне мысли под темечком Получилось - я зря им клеймён И хлещу я берёзовым веничком По наследию мрачных времён Протопи, нетопи, протопи ты мне баньку по-белому Я от белого свету отвык Угорю я, и мне, угорелому Пар горячий, ковш холодный развяжет язык. Heat me a bath in the white style I'm no longer used to white light. I'll inhale the fumes, and, unable to think, Hot steam will untie the tongue. Heat, heat, heat me a bathhouse in white, dear landlady, I'll burn myself, spread myself out On the shelf, right at its very edge, I'll destroy the doubts within. I'll strip myself to indecency, A cold pitcher -- and all is behind, And a tattoo from the time of the cult of personality Shines blue on the left chest. Heat, heat, heat me a bathhouse in white I'm no longer used to white light. I'll inhale the fumes, and, unable to think, Hot steam will untie the tongue. How much faith and forest has been felled, How much grief, how many paths derived? And on the left chest: a profile of Stalin, And on the right: Marinka en face. Oh, on account of my selfless faith, How many years I rested in paradise! I exchanged for a hopeless life My sheer stupidity. I remember how, early one little day, I managed to shout to my brother: Help! And two handsome guards Took me from Siberia to Siberia. And then, at a quarry or smelter, Having swallowed tears and ore, We pricked the profiles closer to the heart So that he heard how the hearts tear. Don't heat me a bath in the white style I'm no longer used to white light. I'll inhale the fumes, and, unable to think, Hot steam will untie the tongue. Oh, I'm chilled from a vague story, Steam drove the thoughts out of my mind From the fog of the cold past I plunge into hot fog. My thoughts pound under my head: Turns out I'm branded with them in vain And I whip with a little birch Across the legacy of grim times. Heat (don't heat), heat (don't heat) Heat me a bath in the white style So that I can get used to white light. I'll inhale the fumes, and, unable to think, Hot steam and a cold pitcher will untie the tongue. Heat (don't heat), heat (don't heat), heat.. ... https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3zQLG_Nx6WY