We often think of death as something distant. But in The Death of Ivan Ilyich, we are drawn into the thoughts of a dying man, an uncomfortable experience that forces us to confront what most of us avoid.
Life is fleeting, and death is inevitable. There are times when I think about death, how I will die and how my loved ones will feel. But mostly, I think about whether my death will leave a mess behind for those I love, or whether I will go quietly and cleanly.
We often think of death as something distant. But in The Death of Ivan Ilyich, we are taken into the thoughts of a dying man. It is uncomfortable, but it forces you to sit with something most of us avoid.
First published in 1886, the novella remains one of the most powerful explorations of mortality. Tolstoy does not offer comfort. He holds a mirror to the life we live and the assumptions we carry about what it means to live well.
The novella opens with a group of colleagues at the law court learning of Ivan Ilyich’s death. Their first reaction is calculation. A vacancy. The dead man is barely gone, and already the living are rearranging themselves around his absence.
Not one of them pauses to consider the family that has just lost a husband and father. What rises instead is relief: it is he who is dead, not I.
On the surface, Ivan Ilyich’s life is what one might call successful. A respected civil servant, a wife from a good family, two children, a comfortable home. By every measure, he has done right.
But beneath that surface, something is missing. Ivan does not live for himself. He lives for approval. His choices, his ambitions, even his home are based on what is considered proper.
His childhood is no different. Well-behaved and agreeable. The enthusiasms of youth pass without leaving much trace. He experiences life, but always within limits.
That certainty begins to unravel when he falls ill.
Ivan succumbs to an incurable illness that alters the course of his life. Faced with his own mortality, he begins to ask questions he has never allowed himself to ask. What was all of this for?
As far as Ivan understands it, he has lived correctly. And yet here he is, in pain, isolated, and afraid. But life offers no such assurance. Doing everything “right” does not protect you from suffering.
Those around him comfort him with lies. They tell him he will recover. Ivan knows it is not true. But no one says it.
Even now, he remains proper. Unable to confront the falsehood around him. The performance continues.
It is only then that Ivan begins to see more clearly. Those around him keep their distance. All except one.
Gerasim, the young servant, is the only one who does not pretend. He does not offer false comfort or hide from death. He sits with Ivan. Holds his legs to ease the pain. “We shall all of us die, so why should I grudge a little trouble?” he tells Ivan, who feels embarrassed to ask for help.
Towards the end, Ivan is forced to face questions that have no easy answers. What has his life been like? What remains of it now?
At the very end, Ivan confronts the questions he has spent his whole life avoiding. What will remain of him when he is gone? Where will he be when he is no longer here? He has lived by society's rules, and yet none of it follows him into this room, into this pain, into this darkness.
Perhaps the saddest moment in the book is when Ivan finally accepts his death, and weeps anyway: "He wept on account of his helplessness, his terrible loneliness, the cruelty of man, the cruelty of God and the absence of God."
As I reached the end, I found myself reflecting on my life. I thought about my own life, whether the things I am building, the paths I am following, are truly mine, or simply what is expected of me. Ivan's dying mind kept returning to his childhood, to the brief window before the world told him who to be, when he lived, however fleetingly, according to his own feeling. That detail stayed with me long after I finished reading.
What is the point of life? Who gets to decide what a well-lived life looks like? Tolstoy does not answer these questions directly, but Ivan's suffering makes the argument quietly and devastatingly. Perhaps a well-lived life is simply one that is genuinely yours. One that, in the end, you do not have to mourn as a stranger.
The Death of Ivan Ilyich is a sad read, but an important one. It holds up a mirror and asks you whether the life you are living is your own, or merely the one the world expects you to live.
Jane Shussa is a digital communication specialist with a love for books, coffee, nature, and travel. She can be reached at [email protected].
