Literature that is not the breath of contemporary society, that dares not transmit the pains and fears of that society, that does not warn in time against threatening moral and social dangers—such literature does not deserve the name of literature; it is only a façade. Such literature loses the…
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Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn
Aleksandr Isayevich Solzhenitsyn (; 11 December 1918 – 3 August 2008) was a Russian novelist, historian, and short story writer. He was an outspoken critic of the Soviet Union and communism and helped to raise global awareness of its Gulag forced labor camp system. He was allowed to publish only one work in the Soviet Union, One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich (1962), in the periodical Novy Mir. After this he had to publish in the West, most notably Cancer Ward (1968), August 1914 (1971), and The Gulag Archipelago (1973). Solzhenitsyn was awarded the 1970 Nobel Prize in Literature "for the ethical force with which he has pursued the indispensable traditions of Russian literature". Solzhenitsyn was afraid to go to Stockholm to receive his award for fear that he would not be allowed to reenter. He was eventually expelled from the Soviet Union in 1974, but returned to Russia in 1994 after the state's dissolution. 2Biography 3Early years Solzhenitsyn was born in Kislovodsk, RSFSR (now in Stavropol Krai, Russia). His mother, Taisiya Zakharovna (née Shcherbak) was of Ukrainian descent. Her father had risen from humble beginnings to become a wealthy landowner, acquiring a large estate in the Kuban region in the northern foothills of the Caucasu
In keeping silent about evil, in burying it so deep within us that no sign of it appears on the surface, we are implanting it, and it will rise up a thousandfold in the future. When we neither punish nor reproach evildoers, we are not simply protecting their trivial old age, we are thereby ripping…
Life isn't so bad here. All right—it's a special camp. But why does wearing numbers bother you? They weigh nothing, number patches.
You don't need brains to carry a handbarrow. That's why the foreman had put these ex-bosses on the job.
Shukhov stared at the ceiling and said nothing. He no longer knew whether he wanted to be free or not. To begin with, he'd wanted it very much, and counted up every evening how many days he still had to serve. Then he'd got fed up with it. And still later it had gradually dawned on him that people…
Work, he reckoned, was the best medicine of all.
Yes, but art isn't what you do, it's how you do it.
Because, Alyoshka, prayers are like petitions —either they don't get through at all, or else it's 'complaint rejected.'
There are two ends to a stick, and there's more than one way of working. If it's for a human being—make sure and do it properly. If it's for the big man—just make it look good.
A genius doesn't adjust his treatment of a theme to a tyrant's taste.
One look at the whip is enough for a beaten dog!
Where I come from, they used to say God breaks up the old moon to make stars.
Be glad you're in prison. Here you have time to think about your soul.
The belly is an ungrateful wretch, it never remembers past favors, it always wants more tomorrow.
Can a man who's warm understand one who's freezing?