Foreword

In submitting this book to the American public the translator has this to say.

In presenting this book to American readers, the translator has the following to say.

The artistic and psychological sides of the novel are hardly to be discussed in a preface. Great as the art of a writer may be and profound as his psychology may seem to one, the impression is largely a matter of individual variations, and this side must naturally be left to each individual’s judgment and sensibilities.

A preface is hardly the place to discuss the novel’s artistic and psychological qualities. However great a writer’s art may be, and however deep his psychological insight may seem, impressions depend largely on individual differences. So judgments about these qualities must naturally be left to each reader’s judgment and sensibilities.

There is, however, one side of the matter which deserves particular mention and motivated emphasis.

However, one aspect of the matter deserves special mention and emphasis, and for good reason.

It is perhaps for the first time in the history of the last few decades that a Russian book, inspired by Russian life, written in Russia and in the Russian language, should see its first light not in Russia but abroad, and not in the language it was originally written but translated into a foreign tongue. During the darkest years of Russian history, in the ’forties, ’sixties, ’eighties and ’nineties of the last century, many Russian writers were forced by oppression and reaction to live abroad and to write abroad, yet their writings would reach Russia, as they were intended primarily for the Russian reader and Russian life. Most of Turgeniev’s novels were written while he was in France, and with the exception of his last short story which he dictated on his deathbed, all his novels and stories were written in Russian. Hertzen, Kropotkin, and at one time Dostoyevski, were similarly obliged to write while away from their native land.

Perhaps no Russian book in the last few decades has had a first publication like this one. Inspired by Russian life and written in Russia, in Russian, the book is appearing first abroad. And instead of appearing in its original language, it is appearing in a foreign translation. During the darkest years of Russian history, in the 1840s, 1860s, 1880s, and 1890s, oppression and reaction forced many Russian writers abroad. These writers had to live and write abroad, yet their work still reached Russia. After all, their work was intended primarily for Russian readers and Russian life. Most of Turgeniev’s novels were written while he was in France. All his novels and stories were written in Russian, except his last short story, dictated on his deathbed. Hertzen, Kropotkin, and, at one time, Dostoyevski were also forced to write while away from their native land.

Here is a book written by an artist who lived and still lives in Russia, and whose intimate love for Russia and her suffering is so great that he finds it impossible to leave Russia even in these days of stress and sorrow. But his book may not appear in the country where it was written. It is a great tragedy—this spiritual loneliness of the artist who cannot speak to his own people. In bringing out this book in English, the author tries to address himself to the world without having the opportunity of being heard by his own people. This situation, however, is to a great extent symbolic of the spiritual mission of Zamiatin, for no matter what the language in which he originally writes, and no matter how typically national his artistic perception and intuition, he is essentially universal and his vision transcends the boundaries of a purely national art. Moreover, is it not true that the more genuinely national a man’s art, and the more sincerely national his personality, the more is he universal? Abraham Lincoln is more than an American national figure, and I doubt if the appeal Lincoln’s personality makes would be universal as it is if he were not so typically American. It is difficult to find personalities more national than Tolstoi or Dostoyevski, and this is perhaps the reason why they stand out as two of the most typically universal minds with a universal appeal that the nineteenth century gave us.

Here is a book by an artist who has lived in Russia and still lives there. His deep love for Russia and its suffering is so great that he finds it impossible to leave. He feels this way even in these days of hardship and sorrow. But his book may not be published in the country where he wrote it. The spiritual loneliness of an artist who cannot speak to his own people is a great tragedy. By publishing this book in English, the author tries to speak to the world. Yet he has no opportunity to be heard by his own people. Still, his situation largely symbolizes Zamiatin’s spiritual mission. Whatever language he writes in, and however distinctly national his artistic perception and intuition, he is essentially universal. His vision reaches beyond the limits of a purely national art. Moreover, isn’t an artist more universal the more genuinely national his art and the more sincerely national his personality? Abraham Lincoln is more than an American national figure. I doubt Lincoln’s personality would have such universal appeal if he were not so typically American. It is difficult to find personalities more distinctly national than Tolstoi or Dostoyevski. Perhaps that is why they stand out among the nineteenth century’s most truly universal minds, with an appeal to everyone.

Zamiatin is not so great as the men referred to above, but despite his youth, he already proves to be the bearer of that quality of greatness which characterizes a personality with a universal appeal.

Zamiatin is not as great as the men mentioned above. But despite his youth, he already shows the quality of greatness found in people with universal appeal.

We is, as Zamiatin himself calls it, the most jocular and the most earnest thing he has thus far written. It is a novel that puts most poignantly and earnestly before every thoughtful reader the most difficult problem that exists today in the civilized world,—the problem of preservation of the independent original creative personality. Our civilization today depends upon the energetic movement of great masses of people. Wars, revolutions, general strikes—all these phenomena involve great masses, large groups, enormous mobs. Despite the fact that there is hardly a corner in the world today where the average man does not make the trite complaint, “What we need is leadership,” the world today seems for a time at least to have lost its capacity for producing real leaders. For our great successes in mechanical civilization, our exceptional efforts in efficiency, tend to bring into play large numbers rather than great individualities. What under these conditions is the lot of a creative individuality? What the tragedy of an independent spirit under present conditions is, is pointed out in an unique way in We. The problem of creative individuality versus mob is today not a mere Russian problem. It is as poignant under Bolshevist dictatorship as it is in Ford’s factory.

We is, as Zamiatin himself says, both the funniest and the most serious work he has written so far. The novel powerfully and earnestly confronts every thoughtful reader with the most difficult problem in today’s civilized world. That problem is how to preserve the independent, original, creative individual. Our civilization today depends on the energetic movement of vast numbers of people. Wars, revolutions, general strikes, all involve great masses, large groups, enormous crowds. Hardly anywhere in the world today does the average person fail to repeat the familiar complaint, “What we need is leadership.” Yet the world today seems, at least for a time, to have lost its ability to produce real leaders. Our great advances in mechanized civilization and our extraordinary efforts to improve efficiency tend to mobilize large numbers, not exceptional individuals. Under these conditions, what happens to a creative individual? We shows in a unique way the tragedy of an independent spirit under present conditions. The conflict between creative individuality and the mob is not merely a Russian problem today. The conflict is as painful under Bolshevist dictatorship as in Ford’s factory.

Of course the sincere, honest and frank treatment of this problem seems offensive to anyone who prefers to be a member of a mob or keep this or that part of humanity in the state of a mob. That is why We could not see light in Russia, and will probably be disliked by those whose spiritual activities are reduced to the mechanical standards of a mechanical civilization which is devoid of original creative effort.

Of course, this sincere, honest, and frank treatment of the problem seems offensive to anyone who prefers belonging to a mob. It also seems offensive to anyone who wants to keep any part of humanity in a mob-like state. That is why We could not be published in Russia. It will probably also be disliked by people whose inner lives follow the mechanical standards of a mechanical civilization. That civilization lacks any original creative effort.

A few words about the method by which Zamiatin tries to drive home to the reader his main ideas. It is the method of “Laughter through tears,” to use an old expression of Gogol. It is the form which is dictated by profound love for humanity, mixed with pity and hatred of those factors which are the cause of the disindividualization of man today. It is the old emotion of the ancient Catul: “Odi et amo.” Zamiatin laughs in order to hide his tears, hence amusing as We may seem and really is, it barely conceals a profound human tragedy which is universal today.

A few words about how Zamiatin tries to bring his main ideas home to the reader. His method is “Laughter through tears,” to use an old expression of Gogol. This approach comes from a deep love for humanity, mixed with pity. It also comes from hatred of the forces that strip people of their individuality today. This is the ancient emotion expressed by Catul: “Odi et amo.” Zamiatin laughs to hide his tears. So, although We may seem funny and truly is, the book barely conceals a deep human tragedy, universal today.

The reader may be interested in knowing something about Zamiatin himself. Zamiatin does not like to tell about himself and the translator does not think he has the right to tell more than to quote Zamiatin’s own answer to a request addressed to him a couple of years ago to write his autobiography:

The reader may be interested in learning something about Zamiatin himself. Zamiatin does not like to talk about himself. The translator feels he has no right to say more than to quote Zamiatin’s own response. A couple of years ago, Zamiatin was asked to write his autobiography. Here is his answer:

“I see you want my autobiography by all means, but I assure you that you will have to limit yourself only to an outside inspection and get but a glimpse, perhaps, into the dark windows. I seldom ask anybody to enter.

“I see you're determined to get my autobiography. But I assure you, you'll have to settle for a look from the outside. Perhaps you'll catch just a glimpse through the dark windows. I rarely invite anyone in.

“As to the outside, you will see a lonely child without playmates, lying on a Turkish divan, hind-side up, reading a book, or under the grand piano while his mother plays Chopin. Two steps away from Chopin, just outside the window with the geraniums, in the middle of the street, there is a small pig tied to a stake and hens fluttering in the dust.

“As for the outside, you will see a lonely child with no playmates, lying on a Turkish divan. He is reading a book with his bottom in the air. Or he is under the grand piano while his mother plays Chopin. Two steps away from Chopin, just outside the window with the geraniums, a small pig stands tied to a stake. The pig is in the middle of the street, with hens fluttering in the dust.

“If you are interested in the geography, here it is—Lebedyan, in the most Russian Tambov province about which Tolstoi and Turgeniev wrote so much. Chronology?—The end of the ’eighties and early ’nineties, then Voronesh, the Gymnasium pension, boredom and rabid dogs on Main Street. One of these dogs got me by the leg. At that time I loved to make different experiments on myself, and I decided to wait and see whether I would or would not get the rabies and what is most important, I was very curious: What would I feel when the time would come for the rabies (about two weeks after the bite)? I felt a great many things, but two weeks later I did not get the rabies, therefore I announced to the inspector in the school that I got the rabies and must go at once to Moscow for vaccination.

“If you’re interested in the geography, here it is: Lebedyan, in the thoroughly Russian province of Tambov. Tolstoi and Turgeniev wrote so much about the province. The dates? The late 1880s and early 1890s. Then Voronesh, the Gymnasium boarding house, boredom, and rabid dogs on Main Street. One of those dogs bit me on the leg. At the time, I loved trying different experiments on myself. I decided to wait and see whether I would get rabies. Most importantly, I was very curious: What would I feel when the time came for rabies to develop? That would be about two weeks after the bite. I felt a great many things, but two weeks later I hadn’t developed rabies. So I told the school inspector that I had rabies and had to go to Moscow immediately for vaccination.

“In the Gymnasium I would get A plus for composition and was not always on good terms with mathematics. Perhaps because of that (sheer stubbornness) I chose the most mathematical career—the ship-building department of the Petrograd Polytech.

“In the Gymnasium, I would get an A plus for writing. I didn't always get along with mathematics. Perhaps because of my difficulties with mathematics, I chose the most mathematical career out of sheer stubbornness: the ship-building department of the Petrograd Polytech.

“Thirteen years ago in the month of May—and that May was remarkable in that the snow covered the flowers—I simultaneously finished my work for my diploma and my first short story. The short story was published in the old Obrazovanye.

“Thirteen years ago, in May, snow covered the flowers, making that May remarkable. That month, I finished my diploma work and my first short story at the same time. The short story was published in the old Obrazovanye.

“Well, what else do you want? That meant that I was going to write short stories and was going to publish them. Therefore for the following three years I wrote about nothing but ice cutters, steam engines, refillers and ‘The Theoretical Exploration of the Works of Floating Steam Shovels.’ I couldn’t help myself. I was attached to the chair of Ship Architecture and busied myself with teaching in the ship-building faculty, where I teach until now.

“Well, what else do you want? That meant I was going to write short stories and publish them. So for the next three years, I wrote about nothing but ice cutters, steam engines, refillers and ‘The Theoretical Exploration of the Works of Floating Steam Shovels.’ I couldn’t help myself. I was assigned to the Ship Architecture department and spent my time teaching in the ship-building faculty. I still teach there today.

“If I mean anything in Russian Literature, I owe this completely to the Petrograd Secret Service. In 1911 this service exiled me from Petrograd and I was forced to spend two years in a non-populated place in Lachta. There, in the midst of the white winter silence and the green summer silence, I wrote my Provincial. After that the late Ismaylov expressed in print his belief that I wore very high boots and was a long-haired provincial type, carrying a heavy stick, and he was later very much surprised that I ‘didn’t look a bit like that.’ Incidentally, ‘not a bit like that’ I became in England where, during the War, I spent about two years, building ships and visiting the ruins of ancient castles. I listened to the banging of the German Zeppelin bombs and wrote a short novel The Islanders.

“If I matter at all in Russian Literature, I owe it entirely to the Petrograd Secret Service. In 1911, the service exiled me from Petrograd. I was forced to spend two years in an uninhabited part of Lachta. There, amid the white silence of winter and the green silence of summer, I wrote my Provincial. Afterward, the late Ismaylov wrote that he thought I wore very high boots. He pictured me as a long-haired provincial type carrying a heavy stick. He was later very surprised that I ‘didn’t look a bit like that.’ Incidentally, I became ‘not a bit like that’ in England. During the War, I spent about two years there, building ships and visiting the ruins of ancient castles. I listened to the blasts of German Zeppelin bombs and wrote a short novel, The Islanders.

“I regret immensely that I did not witness the Russian Revolution in February and know only the October Revolution, because it was in October, a life preserver around my body and all the lights out, passing German submarines, that I returned to Petrograd. Because of this I felt like one who never having been in love gets up one morning and finds himself married about ten years.

“I deeply regret missing the Russian Revolution in February and knowing only the October Revolution. That was because I returned to Petrograd in October, wearing a life preserver, with all the lights out, passing German submarines. So I felt like someone who has never been in love and wakes up one morning married for about ten years.

“Now I write little, perhaps because my requirements towards myself become greater. Three new volumes are in the hands of the publisher and begin to be published only now. The fourth will be my novel We, the funniest and most earnest thing I have written. However, the most serious and most interesting novels I never wrote. They happened to me in my life.”

“I write little now, perhaps because I expect more of myself. Three new volumes are with the publisher and are only now starting to appear. The fourth will be my novel We, the funniest and most earnest thing I have written. But I never wrote the most serious and most interesting novels. Those novels happened to me in my life.”

Zamiatin continues to live in Russia and continues to live with Russia, but such is the sarcasm of Fate that the first Russian novel giving a real synthesis of the Russian revolution and its greater universal meaning, this novel written by Zamiatin, should remain unknown to the Russians in Russia.

Zamiatin still lives in Russia and continues to share in Russia’s life. But Fate has played an ironic trick. Zamiatin’s novel is the first Russian novel to offer a true synthesis of the Russian revolution and its broader, universal meaning. Yet the novel remains unknown to Russians in Russia.