About Dr. Zhivago

Post 1956:

Dr. Zhivago is a lovely movie. I’ve seen it probably ten times. It’s epic and romantic and sad and really beautiful. The book took me a long time. I wouldn’t call it lovely, but I felt like my soul got a little boost every single time I sat down to read it.

It’s a challenging read. The narrative is loose and the hardest part is dealing with the Russian names. Apparently if you have one name that means you have ten names. You gotta pay attention, no doubt.

Zhivago is an interesting character. It’s like he somehow manages to float through hell, falling in love with two great women, drifting through the war and the insane aftermath.

If you don’t know, this deals with the Russian Revolution and the Communist’s takeover. We go to Siberia and back and there are some major diversions. You got the Whites and the Reds and the Partisans and they’re all a bunch of inhuman jerks and it gets to where you are so confused that it’s tempting to put the book down.

I pushed through, mainly for one reason. Every so often, there is a section, paragraph or sentence that Is brilliantly profound. The beauty of nature and the stubborn way love guides our hearts is described dang near singularly in this bad boy. Also, the complete and total stupidity and insanity of war is captured in drama and truth.

The Soviet Union was a bad idea. Being a gentle doctor-poet in the Soviet Union is whole other deal. Zhivago is a strange guy. I don’t think I understand him all the time, but when I do it’s amazing.

It’s a reminder that words can be magical, even when the story gets a little slow. It’s a reminder of how good things are and how bad things can get. I’d say you can’t read this and not grow in some way. That’s high praise. Just don’t expect a lot of laughs. Break out the violins! Cheers and see you after.