"The Overcoat" (and more on The Namesake)

The Namesake (see previous post) makes multiple references to Nikolai Gogol’s short story “The Overcoat.” Professional scholars of literature have special terminology for such reference. “Allusion” is one term, but the other is “intertextuality,” the latter suggesting a closer relationship between the two texts besides one merely mentioning the other. Just as Beloved (see previous posts) can be understood in a larger context of mythological and Biblical traditions, so The Namesake can be read, not only in the context of the hero’s quest myth and coming of age stories, but also, given the significance that Nikolai Gogol plays in the narrative, in relationship to the Russian writer’s works.

Unlike Gogol in The Namesake, the main character of “The Overcoat” is the son of a native Russian family who lives and works in St. Petersburg. Gogol’s short story is not a multicultural one of immigration and assimilation, but it is a story of identity. Unlike Gogol in The Namesake, however, Akakiy Akakievitch does not have to struggle with multiple identities. Quite the opposite. He struggles to achieve any sense of identity at all.

Both narratives include a scene in which the main character receives his birth name, Gogol, after the Russian writer, and Akakiy, after his own father. In each case, the main character receives his name somewhat as an afterthought, without careful intention, though the name “Gogol” has special significance to Gogol’s father, whereas Akakiy receives his name more or less by default, other choices suggested by his godparents having been rejected by his mother. Gogol’s father is a major presence and influence in his life, but Akakiy’s father never appears in the story at all and is never referred to except in the naming scene.

We do know that Akakiy’s father was a government official, and Akakiy himself is a “perpetual titular councilor” in an unnamed government department who seems to live in complete isolation without family or friends. At work he is an object of derision when he is recognized at all. His job consists of copying documents, like a human Xerox machine. He is so devoted to his work that he takes it home with him, apparently having nothing else to live for. When asked to do anything slightly original, he begs to be given his copying tasks back. Other than an occasional pathetic outburst when the ridicule by his peers at work becomes too much, Akakiy is as nameless and faceless as the government bureaucracy in which he toils.

Only when Akakiy’s overcoat becomes so worn that it can no longer keep out the cold, does he begin to show an interest in anything outside of work. He bargains with the tailor to get a good price, scrimps, sacrifices, and goes without in order to save up enough money, and is eventually able to acquire a handsome new coat. His new attire brings unaccustomed attention, congratulations, and pleasantries from his coworkers. They insist the coat must be “christened” (as Akakiy was after his name was decided upon) and invite him to a party. This “christening” party offers symbolic hope that Akakiy might receive a new identity and a new life.

At the party, he is overwhelmed by the noise and sociability, drinks more than he is used to, and stays up well past his usual bedtime. On the way home through dark and deserted streets, he is accosted and robbed of his attractive new coat (his new identity?). He tries to assert himself, seeking help from the night watchman and the next night from the district of police and finally from a “certain prominent personage.” But they all rebuff him, insisting that he has not followed proper procedures or filled out the proper forms, and then, heading home in a snowstorm wearing his old coat, he catches a fever, grows delirious, and finally breathes his last.

At this point Gogol’s somewhat “realistic” story, though a bit bizarre, to say the least, turns into a gothic tale, for a dead man, resembling Akakiy, begins to be seen on the Kalinkin Bridge accosting passersby and stealing their coats. Eventually Akakiy takes his final revenge, as his ghost steals the coat of that “prominent personage” who had treated him so rudely, an event that somewhat humbles the behavior of that “prominent personage.” Meanwhile, the ghost disappears and is seen no more.

Symbolically, the ghost could be said to represent the regrets of all those who had abused Akakiy in life, including the “prominent personage,” who had felt some temporary remorse after mistreating the poor copyist in search of his overcoat. Or the ghost could function as a kind of revenge fantasy for all those nameless, faceless civil servants performing their mechanical tasks in their unknown bureaucratic departments, suffering daily slights and abuses from their superiors and coworkers alike. Or perhaps the ghost is poor Akakiy’s buried humanity, his only identity, finally asserting itself postmortem.

Unlike Gogol in The Namesake, on a quest for self-definition among competing identities, Akakiy seeks only to provide himself with the basic necessities of survival and to preserve some semblance of human dignity. By comparison, Gogol’s “identity crisis” seems like self-indulgence, a luxury afforded only to the fortunate.

Or, does the significance lie in the difference between the burdens bequeathed to them by their fathers: Gogol carrying the name of the Russian writer whose book, Gogol’s father believes, had once saved his life, and the legacy of his Bengali immigrant experience in the U.S.; Akakiy carrying the name of a silent, faceless, absent father with no legacy at all to pass on to his son? Better a complicated legacy from one’s past than none at all? Perhaps the intertextual relationship between the two works is one more of contrast than similarity.

Another major contrast is the style of the two works. The Namesake relates its story in an understated, matter-of-fact manner that makes the unusual multicultural experience of the Ganguli family seem ordinary. “The Overcoat,” on the other hand, for all Nikolai Gogol’s reputation as a realist, is exclamatory, melodramatic, and fantastic in style, making the unremarkable life of a minor Russian bureaucrat seem extraordinary.

Regardless of the contrasts, both stories dramatize the universal dilemma of identity, whether it be culturally complex or a matter of simple humanity.

"The Death of Ivan Ilych"

This long “short story” is considered a literary masterpiece and I think I know why. How do you render the psychology of dying without having experienced it yourself? Well, maybe you have to be an imaginative genius like Leo Tolstoy.

There is a long-standing theoretical debate about whether a successful artist relies more on experience or imagination, a foolish debate because of course a good artist relies heavily on both. But anyone who has had the experience of dying has yet to write about it, and any artist who takes up the challenge had better have a pretty reliable imagination.

Tolstoy paints, not only a compelling, credible, and painful portrait of the long process of Ivan Ilych’s death, he also relates the sad life story of a man who lived almost entirely by Russian middle class conventions and with barely a shred of authenticity.

Ivan’s bureaucratic legal career satisfies his ambition, his ego, and his material aspirations. His conspicuous consumption and social life satisfy his vanity. His marriage and children enable him to meet the expectations of middle class appearances. But the career becomes a dull routine and the socioeconomic success creates as many burdens as it does satisfactions. His family life deteriorates into a fractious marriage and disconnected parenthood. His primary pleasure in life seems to be his regular card games with friends and colleagues, whose lives are as superficial as his own.

As Ivan confronts his illness and finally his death, one hopes for a redemptive moment of self-knowledge and insight or of genuine connection with another human being. For his friends and colleagues, Ivan’s illness and death are mere troubling reminders of their own mortality, which they escape by seeking out another card game. For his family, they are inconveniences that interfere with social opportunities, including the impending marriage of his daughter. Except for one moment before his death, in which his wife and son seem to express genuine grief (more perhaps for themselves than for Ivan), Ivan is isolated and alone in his desperate hopes for a cure, his self-pity, and his despair.

The one exception is the peasant servant Gerasim, whose sunny disposition, quiet dispatch of his duties, and devoted attention to the relief of Ivan’s suffering offers an example for living that Ivan might have done well to emulate, if he could have taken his mind off himself for one moment. Gerasim accepts the conditions of his life without complaint, excels at the humble tasks of his work in the sickroom, and affirms the simplicity of life and the reality of death.

In the end, Ivan seems to come to terms with death, without ever having confronted the failures of his life, and appears to find “light” in death. But is this yet another falsehood in a long life of falsity, or is Ivan’s death ironically the most authentic moment of his life?

Sad as are Ivan’s illness, suffering, and death, the superficiality and falsity of his life are sadder still. If he did experience light and life in death, could that redeem the death-in-life of the years between his physical birth and death? Ivan’s ending is ambiguous, and the reader is left to decide if it is redemptive or tragic.