A Contest in Which All of Us Lose

"The Death of Ivan Ilyich" teaches us that the body's death can give birth to the soul, but it seldom does.

"Ivan Ilyich is dead!" said Pyotr Ivanovich to the rest of Ivan's colleagues from the court of law. They wondered about the cause of death. Then, about who was replacing his position, how far the funeral's location was, and how happy they were not to be the one who died.

For almost every character in the novel, death is a concept no one can help you materialize. It is a higher truth with a concrete reality that lacks spiritual significance. Ivan knew humans die, but not that he could die, even while dying. He eventually accepts his mortality, but that doesn't make others do it. Pyotr fears death after learning that Ivan screamed during his last three days. Instead of meditating on death, he tells himself death couldn't happen to him. Praskovya Fyodorovna, Ivan's wife, dampens a clean cambric handkerchief before asking Pytor how to get money from the treasury. Ivan asks his doctor about the danger of his condition, and the doctor finds the question inappropriate. "It was not a question of Ivan Ilych’s life but an argument between a floating kidney and the appendix.” 

The characters know immortality isn't real, but in spirit, they act as if it were. Some care about Ivan's death. But they keep striving for material possessions because everyone else does.

We do it too. At least one-third of families argue as the death of a loved one creeps on them, and all eventually do. Siblings question how the Will is written with a marker if it doesn't favor them. They all want the lake house, but no one can afford to buy others' share. Women, debt letters, and flower arrangements knock on doors. Jimmy wonders if he will get enough for a PS5.

If you separate characters by what they embody, the novel has three characters until the last pages.

First, Tolstoy presents the Russian middle class striving for upward mobility. Pyotr, Praskovya, the doctor, Ivan. They want possessions to feel special, which sets them all on a path toward a meaningless, non-exciting, cliché death. 

Then we have Ivan's child. He isn't aware of the spiritual significance of Ivan's death but doesn't deny it. He could turn like the characters we discussed in our third one, Gerasim.

Gerasim, the butler's helper, embodies who we should be. He wore a clean canvas apron, the pleasant smell of boot tar, and a cotton shirt while helping Ivan go to the bathroom. Ivan apologizes for the task, and Gerasim responds,

"Why shouldn't I do it? It's a matter of you being sick."

He knows no one gets out alive. This "should be" is not a human who doesn't desire anything and lives to serve others. I read it as a human who accepts his mortality. 

Gerasim lives in those who share a meal, bed, or experience with others because they can and not because of the doors it could open. He is the dad who does not get mad at his son after denting the car because he understands this is a possibility, and the mother who accepts her daughter's hair dye because she did it, too. In the end, Ivan only wanted to be pitied, caressed, kissed, and wept over—only the person who accepted him as a dying man gave that to him.

The last pages give us a fourth character: a version of Ivan Ilych that acknowledges death. Before passing, Ivan wants to ask his wife and son for forgiveness for all the suffering he put them through before and during his illness. The words don't come out; he just tells them to leave the room so they don't see him die. Ivan Ilych repents his past selfishness, immediately losing his fear of death. He looks for it and only finds light—clarity over the natural aspect of his next stage. 

One interpretation of the ending is that the body's death can give birth to the soul. There is always a chance to welcome death.

The other comes from the chapter focusing on Ivan's funeral: you can see the light but not shine it on others. Ivan’s social circle and family predicted, heard, and saw Ivan's death yet followed in his footsteps of craving for more. We crave more, too. We keep pumping out essays, typing code, and holding metal bars as we head from one place to another. We read headlines about how most people regret their lives and, like Pyotr, replace the thought with something more joyful, such as whether we should get oat or almond milk for our Chai, swipe right on Katarina, or go out with Rita, and if Bali's monsoon season is as bad as they say. 

Some people connect with their inner Gerasim and quit their current path to pursue what they find meaningful. But the 20-year-olds reading The 4-Hour Workweek never quit, the founders pulling all-nighters never quit, and the retired person who never built a life beyond work never, ever quits. 

There is so little self-doubt about how safe we are from regretting our lives. We see each other in Zoom calls, retreats, cafés, airplanes, and funerals, and we question our lives, sometimes, but we go back to craving more. More. More. More. It is like a contest. It is a contest, but we all lose.