As I awake here on this curb, I recall the night that has just passed, spent in the company of a young lamb who I encountered in a neighboring east village bar. She still dozes, her head cradled on her denim jacket, like an angel from Narcissusís glorious heaven above. No doubt sheíll soon leap up and run off into the jungle of this city, as they all do. She will prefer, as have all the others, to face the wrath of her dorm monitor than to continue to drink of the wandering, vagrant life I would share with her. I no longer ask them to stay. I prefer to make my way from the narrow ethnic montage of Mulberry Street to the expansive, opulent corridors of Fifth Avenue hotels ‚ and back again - in contemplative solitude. Alone, I can truly revel in the vast possibilities of this great isle of Manhattan. Were I to have company I would inevitably be cajoled to enter into some sort of gainful employment, contrary to my disposition. I have come far enough already from the virtuous life of learning I once believed to be my destiny in the cloister. I now yearn only for sex, women (or, as is todayís case, girls) independence, and adventure. Perhaps I shall meander toward that mecca of youth and expression not so far distant from here, under the arch of Washington Square. Perhaps I should not leave this young miss sleeping here, unaware of her surroundings. Ah, it is regrettable, but I am unable to force myself neither to interfere in her life through waking her, nor to contain my urge to move on, so I will reluctantly surrender her to whatever fate should befall her here. Goodbye, my little dove. Thank you for the experience of your limbs and for sparing me any words or sentiment.

This novel takes place entirely in one day, from the pre-dawn hours of the waking camp to the belated ending of the lights-out inspection, in a Soviet forced labor camp populated with dissidents and political criminals. The alleged crimes of most prisoners were not illegal at the time they were committed, but nonetheless, all are serving terms of 10 years, 25 years, and as yet no one has been released. Combined with degrading living conditions, overwork in extreme weather conditions, lack of adequate nourishment, and daily injustices enacted upon them by fellow prisoners, miserable guards, and faceless administrators, the open-ended sentences have forced the men into a particular relationship with the passage of time.

They are not unaware of its occurrence; they constantly reference events in the past, old ways, and changes in policy and procedure within the camp. For instance, "Last winter there hadnít been any drying room for their felt boots in this camp and they had to keep them in the barracks all night. They were chased outside anywhere up to four times for a recount. So they didnít bother getting dressed even ‚ they went out with their blankets around them. This year theyíd put up drying rooms but they werenít big enough for everybody, so each gang could dry out their boots only two nights out of three. And now when they had recounts they let you stay inside and just chased you from one half of the barracks to the other." (page 193). Often they seek to understand how some new development will impact them the following day, or perhaps week, but never do they venture to foresee beyond the forthcoming few days.

In a sense they have adopted the campís concept of ënegotiableí sentences, though of course they are not truly negotiable as they can only increase. In a rare mention of progress against a sentence, "Shukhov sort of liked the way they pointed at him ‚ the lucky guy nearly through with his sentence. But he didnít really believe it. Take the fellows who shouldíve been let our in the war. They were all kept in till forty-six ‚ "till further notice." And then those with three years whoíd gotten five more slapped on. They twisted the law any way they wanted. You finished a ten-year stretch and they gave you another one. Or if not, they still wouldnít let you go home.

But sometimes you got a kind of funny feeling inside. Maybe your number really would come up one day. God, just to think you might walk out and go home!

So you just went on living like this, with your eyes on the ground, and you had no time to think about how you got in and when youíd get out."(page 75).

Unlike criminal prisoners serving a fixed period of time in a prison, never do the prisoners of this camp allow their thoughts, and certainly not their words, to settle on any concept of freedom, of returning home, or of anything pertaining to the end of their sentence. They know that even upon release they will not be allowed to return home, but rather forced to live nearby as ëfree workersí in the employment of the camps.

Upon conclusion of his day, contemplating the events of simultaneously trivial and monumental importance (an extra bowl of gruel, a cigarette, a smuggled piece of steel), Shukhov terms the day fortunate, but refuses to state its place amongst the three thousand six hundred and fifty-three that make up his sentence. He will not recognize progress against the total, but does seek to improve each day as it happens.

Emerging from this sea of small concerns that consume their days, are the characteristics that define each man in the camp. Some are ruthless and cowardly, and there are ample opportunities to practice their tendencies. Others are loyal.

Some can afford to be generous with food and tobacco, such as Kilgas, who receives packages and shares them with certain members of the gang. Still others cannot afford it, but occasionally find a way to do so nonetheless.

The protagonist, Shukhov, takes pride and finds an escape in his workmanship at whatever job he should be assigned. He will expend precious energy to do a job right, even risking reprisal for staying too long to finish up.

One example that showcases loyalty, workanship, courage:

"Come on, come on," Senka said over his shoulder.

"You go ahead. Iím coming," Shukhov said and waved his hand. And he went back inside. He couldnít leave his trowel just like that. Maybe he wouldnít be on the job tomorrow. Or maybe theyíd put the gang on the Socialist Community Development and they wouldnít be here for another six months. Heíd never see his trowel again. So he had to stash it away. Both stoves had gone out. It was dark and he felt sort of scared. He wasnít scared about the dark itself but because he was here alone. And heíd be missed at the checkout and the guards might beat him up.

All the same he took a close look around till he found a rock in the corner. He rolled it back, put the trowel under it, and covered it up. Now everything was okay!

July 13, 2000

Anais Nin weaves an intricate web of passion in the obsessive composition of her journal. She drinks in the world as though it were a humble wine, delicious in itís very crudeness. She touches and tastes all that surrounds her, and brings it forth to life on every page with such imaginative skill that one may find himself captured by the interludes she describes. As she enters the private and confessional relationship with her diary, her own kind of God and the only sort she truly worships, she whisks her vicarious witnesses over and under the tumultuous heights and depths of her emotional landscape. One would have to be entirely insensitive to avoid sharing in her experiences of exaltation, so sensually is it rendered. She also conveys and shares her deepest desperation. There is no time but the current time. I admire her immersion in her immediate surroundings. She seeks to ignore the past and future of which she is a product.

July 16, 2000

The many worlds created by Alan Lightman in Einsteinís Dreams are non-sensical playthings of the authorís imagination. I find it difficult to reflect upon the human life as a product of such varying perspectives. There are certain immutable truths of the human condition and tendency, of religious law, of lust and sex, of art and learning, that need not be questioned. A man will find that the events of his life will fall into place in an orderly fashion, as God and destiny decide, and should seek only to realize his true nature in the context of that reality. If, for instance, he is an artist, he should seek to fulfill himself with mastery of his form of expression. Or, should he be a peaceful soul seeking knowledge, he must dedicate himself to learning and perhaps priesthood in order to be content. What is the use of endless debate regarding how a single event should take on varying importance in a manís life depending on its relationship with time? A passionate kiss, for instance, is by all accounts a splendid suspension of time and its consequences, a moment apart for which the world is nothing but pleasure. You need not exaggerate to such an extent in order to find its place. My years of practice in search of artistic learning, the honing of my skills, and the execution of my best work merge into a single occurrence. The are distinct moments of experienceÖan injury to my hand, a task completed, a skill learning, a feature craftedÖand a cohesive event at the same time. Simultaneously one and many happenings.

July 21, 2000

Solzehnitzyn depicts his experience in intense, laborious detail. He assaults my understanding of the human spirit with the mundane occurrences that serve to profoundly define the individuals in the labor camp. He spares no vulgar or banal moment of revelation. Amidst this barrage of information is a constant divulgence of the calculating, ruminating brain of the prisoner. It should seem a great deal more favorable to my way of thinking to create a more fantastic version of his life; to allow himself some sort of respite from the glaring realities of being surrounded by soulless, self-serving, desperate individuals. I would prefer to drown myself in the thin gruel than to scheme unendingly to obtain slightly more of it. I do appreciate the intensity with which Shukov indulges in the rare pleasure of food, or even a smoke.

Though I donít pretend to while away much time in self-contemplation, I do feel that I would strive to realize my purest and most disciplined self in such a setting. Just as I once believed that I was to become a priest, so too would I, in a situation such a the one in which Shukov finds himself, be without a choice other than to turn to religious and spiritual pursuits.

July 24, 2000

It is difficult to understand the deliberate, meticulous planning, and accompanying guilty, internal struggle, of Humbert in pursuit of his young lady love. He would, Iím sure, be envious of the wandererís life. He would be delightfully surprised to find himself, upon discovering a lonely farmhouse, with a lonely farmerís wife, receiving her beautiful gifts of strength and softness. In such a life there is no need for painstaking planning and unending effort to conceal, except perhaps a single nightís pleasure that must be hidden from an unresponsive husband. On the other hand, perhaps Mr. Humbert would struggle to find his desire without the restriction of virtuousness.

July 29, 2000

August 3, 2000

August 6, 2000