The Heretic of Dystopia: Evgeny Zamyatin and the Price of Imagination.

Censored for its Criticism: How Zamyatin’s Novel “We” Fearlessly Mocked the Soviet System”.

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While dystopian fiction now dominates mainstream narratives, few modern readers recognize the Russian writer who pioneered this genre - Evgeny Zamyatin. Despite profoundly influencing iconic novels like Brave New World and 1984, Zamyatin's brilliant novel We and polemical essays remain obscure beyond literary circles.

In my creative nonfiction piece "The Heretic of Dystopia," I seek to resurrect Zamyatin's legacy by dramatizing his inner turmoil during exile after Soviet censorship. His steadfast commitment to truth-telling and individual conscience, even under authoritarian threat, epitomizes the Vedantic concept of dharma. As the Bhagavad Gita states:

"It is better to perish following one's dharma than to prosper following another's dharma."

By imagining Zamyatin’s sacrifices to preserve artistic integrity against collective conformity, I explore the immense tension between inner freedom and outer repression. His plight strikingly mirrors freedom's paradoxical nature within Vedanta, as described in the Kaṭha Upanishad:

"The Self-Existent pierced the openings of the senses so that they turn outward, not inward towards the Self. Wise men, seeking immortality, turn their senses inward and see the inner Self."

Like the wise beings who seek spiritual liberation amidst illusion, Zamyatin’s vision pierces technological utopia’s façade to reveal its denial of creative life energy and truth. Through his defiant imagination, meaning freedom from mental servitude, he manifests the Self’s emancipating power despite extreme efforts to condition thoughts.

By spotlighting this relatively unknown dissident’s struggle, I demonstrate the eternal conflict between individual dharma and societal anti-dharma forces, incarnate in state censors and propagandists. Creative minds who push moral boundaries threaten corrupt structures by envisioning emancipatory alternatives anchored in higher wisdom.

Zamyatin’s ultimate defeat and exile illustrates authoritarianism’s terrible efficacy at manipulating collective consciousness against visionaries. Yet his willingness to lose security for integrity remains powerfully instructive to Vedantists seeking alignment with one’s inner sovereign voice. Containing profound teachings about authority’s lust to dominate human interiority, Zamyatin's legacy stands ripe for rediscovery amongst wise minds who already grasp freedom’s elusive essence.

The Heretic of Dystopia: Evgeny Zamyatin and the Price of Imagination.

“They’ve banned it, Mikhail. Banned my novel We!” I pound my fist on the table, rattling the teacups.

Mikhail Zoshchenko sighs deeply, kneading his temples. “I was afraid of this, Evgeny. The censors have become rabid as of late, quick to stamp out any whisper of dissent.” Mikhail’s veins throb in his neck like the blue lines of the Volga River on a map. His leg bounces nervously. “This is not good, my friend,” Mikhail says, wiping his brow with a shaking hand. “The walls have ears nowadays. We must be careful with our words.”

I shake my head in frustration. “It’s fiction, not seditious propaganda! Do they truly think my novel will foment rebellion against the state? If we do not speak, who will?” “Should we allow their tyranny to erase imagination itself?”,

“They see spectres of treason everywhere now,” Mikhail replies grimly. “Any work that shows cracks in the utopian mirage they’ve constructed is deemed a threat.”

Leaning forward, I grasp his arm pleadingly. “I cannot stay silent as they suffocate truth and art, Mikhail. I won’t.”

He looks at me with pity in his eyes. “My friend, I understand, but you are venturing into dangerous territory with this novel. Without even examining the substantive content, certain stylistic decisions you’ve made could be viewed as…inflammatory.”

I furrow my brow. “You refer to the characters being identified by numbers rather than names?”

Mikhail nods solemnly. “Just so. By reducing members of this ‘utopia’ to numerical designations, you strip them of individuality, of their essential humanity.”

“That was precisely my intent,” I reply. “To illustrate how totalitarian regimes obscure people’s identities, reducing them to faceless cogs in the machinery of the state.”

“I understand your artistic purpose,” Mikhail says. “But this technique could be construed as dangerous commentary, given the current climate. The censors may see it as an implicit critique of our glorified state.”

I nod reluctantly. “You raise a fair point. By depicting the perils of excessive conformity, I sail close to the winds of dissent. But these questions must be explored, even at personal risk.”

Mikhail smiles sadly. “Ever the devoted visionary. But know that powerful forces stand ready to twist your words against you. For your safety, take care.”

“No!” I interject forcefully. “I’ll not kneel before tyrants who cloak themselves in pretensions of order and civility. The questions my book raises are more vital now than ever.”

Mikhail nods reluctantly as I continue. “What is this ‘order’ they so revere worth if it comes at the cost of our very souls? I aimed to awaken readers to the dangers of blind conformity, of bartering away freedom for security.”

My voice drops to a pained whisper. “What remains of our humanity when imagination and passion are stripped away? When love is reduced to biological function, and life to mathematical precision?”

I stare out the smudged café window at the faceless crowds shuffling by, offenders of no crime but individuality.

“Perhaps I erred in hoping to stir men’s slumbering spirits,” I say softly. “But I cannot unwrite what has been written. These questions haunt me, Mikhail. I had to give them a voice.”

He places a hand on my shoulder in solidarity. “Your words have power, Evgeny. The accusations of heresy only prove it. Any regime built on dogma and suppression is right to fear those who think freely.”

Downing the dregs of my tea, I nod firmly. “So be it then. Let them add ‘enemy of the state’ to the list of labels they’ve pinned on me. It changes nothing.”

As we step out into the crisp evening air, Mikhail turns to me, eyes glinting.

“Evgeny, there is a passage from your novel that I feel captures the essence of our predicament.”

He pauses, then recites solemnly:

“‘There is nothing more beautiful than freedom. There is nothing more terrible than freedom. Freedom is a double-edged sword that cuts both the tyrant and the slave. Freedom is the supreme good, and the supreme evil.’”

I nod slowly, struck by his selection. “Go on, my friend,” I urge.

Mikhail continues with fervour:

“Here you illuminate the paradoxical nature of freedom. It is humanity’s most sublime aspiration, yet also our heaviest burden. True liberty of thought and spirit is electrifying, but demands constant vigilance.”

I clasp his shoulder. “Exactly, Mikhail. We cannot take freedom for granted. And when liberty is threatened, we must defend it, whatever the cost.”

“The state brands you heretic for posing such challenges,” he replies, “but your words are a clarion call, awakening us from complacency.”

I squeeze his hand tightly, immensely moved.

“We must heed that call, Mikhail. Though the forces of repression close in, we must hold fast to the whispering voice inside that prizes truth above all else. That is where hope resides.”

Mikhail nods firmly, a fire in his eyes. Side by side, we stride into the cool evening, spirits buoyed. Our road is uncertain, but we walk it without fear. For as long as truth rings in hearts like ours, freedom’s light can never be extinguished.

As Mikhail and I sit immersed in the solemn discussion, a scene plays out around us that chillingly mirrors the dark turns of our conversation.

A scrawny tabby cat stalks along the alley adjacent to the cafe, eyes locked on a plump grey mouse nibbling crumbs near the back door. The mouse’s nose twitches as it catches the predator’s scent, seconds too late.

The cat pounces, a flash of claws and fur. The mouse attempts to escape, scurrying under a rotted wooden crate. But the cat is quicker, batting a paw under the edge and dragging the rodent out by its tail. I wince as feline teeth sink into soft flesh.

The initial bite wounds the mouse, staining its fur crimson. It squeaks piteously and struggles to flee, but its efforts only further enrage the cat. The cruel game continues — another swipe of claws, another agonized squeal.

The cat seems to relish torturing its prey, knowing ultimate victory is assured. With an almost humanoid smugness, it toys with the terrified mouse, inflicting increasing damage until the creature lies stained and gasping.

Image by Author.

Finally, the cat clenches its jaws on the mouse’s throat for the killing blow. My stomach turns as the writhing body goes limp, eyes glazed and dull.

Victorious, the cat lifts its mangled prize and locks eyes with me, as if acknowledging the grisly parallels to my plight. Blood drips from its mouth as it slinks away into the shadows, leaving only echoes of anguish in its wake.

I turn back to Mikhail, shaken. We speak of liberty and suppression in abstract philosophies, but the natural world harbours no such pretensions. There the boots of tyrants tread in blood, as the voices of dissenters are methodically muffled.

Head high, I steel myself for the struggle ahead. The cat has his mouse, but the ideas that slip free from their jaws cannot be recaptured. For those, oppressors can only exact a more terrible price.

I nervously bite into a piece of medovik, the delicious taste of the flaky pastry and honey cream momentarily loosening the hard grip of my jaws. For an instant, the jovial face of my grandmother, Marija Aleksandrovna Zamyatina, appears in my memory, as she used to make this sweet for me, which I have always adored. Then, mockingly, a poisonous thought worms its way into my brief, childlike reverie: I eat the medovik, a symbol since always of celebration and hospitality in my country, precisely when I, who was once a welcome guest in my motherland, am no longer…

“My friend, what will become of us if we continue down this dangerous road?”

My voice falters as doubt clouds my mind. I clasp Mikhail’s hand tightly, drawing strength from his unyielding faith.

Mikhail: “Evgeny, look at me.”

He grips my shoulder firmly and meets my gaze. His eyes blaze with defiant hope.

“The future is unwritten. It is for us to fill the blank pages with courage and conviction. Stay true to your vision — that is how we prevail.”

I nod, determination rising within me. My path forward may be uncertain, but I will walk it with my head held high. With Mikhail beside me, I know I do not stand alone.

“You speak the truth, brother. Onward we go — into the unknown, with imagination to light the way.”

Butterflies.

“Extra, extra! Read all about the glorious Five-Year Plan! Soviet industry exploding under wise leadership! Socialist paradise accelerating under Comrade Stalin! 1931 is shaping up to be a year of historic triumphs!”

The newspaper barker’s amplified shouts pierce the din, waving his stacks of papers overhead manically. Eyes slide over him, dismissive, just another droning voice crying out prescribed slogans and statistics.

Image by Author.

The sharp scent of ink assaults my nostrils as I pass the frenetic newsstand, my eyes involuntarily drawn to the bold headlines. “Record Steel Production!” “Collectivization Yielding Bountiful Harvests!” The papers overflow with fabricated feats, endless achievements of our so-called workers’ paradise.

Under the stand’s awning, gaunt faces waver in and out of shadow, blackened fingertips counting out kopeks for single sheets of paper. Their eyes scan the propaganda ravenously, devouring the hollow words, desperate for shards of hope.

I turn away, bile rising in my throat. The lies now come so easily, each myth building a false utopia on the foundations of fear and intimidation. How long can this paper edifice stand before the winds of truth erode its weakened base? The whispered discontent simmers beneath the surface, waiting to ignite.

I board the train, the rhythmic clickity-clack of wheels underscoring my uneasy anticipation. I find my cramped cabin, the sagging bunk emitting a mouldy smell as I stow my meagre belongings with a heavy heart. The weight of a lifetime’s worth of memories, dreams, and failures presses down upon me. I sink onto the lumpy mattress, head in hand, unable to look through the grimy-curtained window at the receding homeland one last time.

The locomotive lurches forward with a pained hiss of steam. We are off, slowly gathering speed as we chug westward under ponderous grey clouds. I light a cigarette with shaking hands, welcoming the harsh bite of acrid smoke in my lungs. The sprawling cities gradually give way to snow-blanketed wilderness unfolding endlessly beyond the rattling glass pane. Despite myself, I become mesmerized by the stark beauty passing by in a blur.

A flash of vibrant orange catches my eye — a butterfly dances outside the frosted window. It hovers gracefully, vivid wings fluttering a silent farewell. The delicate wings pump slowly, wafting the creature along in looping swirls and spirals. Flashes of colour trace swirling patterns against the glass, small explosions of life and vibrance. It pirouettes and dips as if performing to lift my spirits.

A gruff man abruptly leans over and swats it from the air with his newspaper. My heart sinks as its radiance is crushed in an instant. “Sir, why did you do that?” I ask, bile rising in my throat. He grunts dismissively, eyes on his paper. “Nuisance bug.”

I lean forward angrily. “No life is trivial! That butterfly was a unique work of natural art, thoughtlessly destroyed on a cruel whim.” My rising voice draws curious eyes. Eyes that remind me of “The Last Judgment” by Michelangelo, the grandiose fresco that covers the back wall of the Sistine Chapel in the Vatican. Among the numerous figures that populate the scene, stand out the terrified or hopeful eyes of the damned and the blessed.

“There are two types of people — the alive-alive and the dead-alive. The alive-alive are those who are constantly in error, in search, in question, and torment. They have an individual conscience, a fantasy, and a passion.”

A man coughs wetly, but I press on. A little child with marvellous golden ringlets begs her mother to take her in her arms.

“The dead-alive, on the other hand, are those who write, walk, speak, and act without making mistakes. But only machines do not make mistakes, and they only produce dead things. The alive-alive are the creators of true literature, while the dead-alive are the diligent and reliable officials who follow the established norms.”

Someone whistles mockingly from the back of the train car. I raise my voice further.

“The alive-alive embrace uncertainty and change. The dead-alive fear what they cannot control. I know which camp I belong to, and which spirit I carry within me. You must each search your souls and decide where you stand.”

I meet the eyes of the other passengers blazing with conviction.

“Tell me, sir, do you consider yourself one of the alive-alive or the dead-alive?” I ask the butterfly killer pointedly.

He glares at me silently, refusing to dignify the question with a response.

Undeterred, I raise my voice to address the entire train car. “The alive-alive embrace uncertainty, change. While the dead-alive fear what they cannot control. I know which camp I belong to. You must each search your souls and decide where you stand.”

The butterfly killer’s face hardens, but he remains stubbornly mute.

Another butterfly comes dancing by, electric blue tracing its black wings. The man’s arm tenses, but I firmly open the window and usher it through to freedom. As we roll onward I glimpse it fluttering against the clouds, a symbol of endangered beauty escaping despite the odds. The man refuses to meet my knowing smile.

The wheels sing on, stretching the miles between me and the grasping claws of tyrants. Though I have lost a home, never my humanity. However far the rails lead, I will sow seeds of truth in my wake. Walls will be built to block the light, but the human spirit always seeks out cracks through which to flutter free.

Mine but one small voice, easily silenced. But a lone butterfly’s wings can stir up storms sweeping oceans. If I can kindle fires of thought in just one weary pair of eyes, hope remains.

The Heretic of Dystopia.

Evgenij Ivanovič Zamjatin remains best known for his trailblazing dystopian work “We”, a novel which would presage classics like “Brave New World” and “1984”. But Zamyatin’s talents extended to provocative literary criticism as well, including his seminal essay On Literature, Revolution, Entropy and Other Matters. The novel “We” was published for the first time in English in 1924, after being rejected by Soviet censorship. The first Russian edition came out only in 1952, in a literary magazine in New York.

In “We”, Zamyatin crafts a chilling totalitarian world where individuals have been stripped of freedom and reduced to cyphers designed to serve the technocratic “One State”. The former dissident D-503 initially extols the “mathematically infallible happiness” of this highly ordered society. But a fateful encounter with the rebel I-330 awakens a dormant inner life D-503 can barely comprehend.

As their passion grows, I-330 exposes D-503 to the hidden underbelly of the One State, awakening his long-suppressed imagination through secret writing and clandestine meetings. But the forces of conformity eventually crush the uprising, reimposing logical order through the forcible removal of the invention via lobotomy.

We channel Evgenij Ivanovič Zamjatin’s struggles under early Soviet repression. The book escaped outright banning in Zamyatin's homeland only through covert translation and publication in the West. Its searing indictment of authoritarian collectivism foreshadowed the crushing of liberty under Stalin.

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Zamyatin’s essay “On Literature, Revolution, Entropy and Other Matters” (1923) encapsulates his belief in the power of artistic rebellion. He draws on the concept of entropy, wherein closed systems tend toward disorder over time, to argue that art and life require similar chaotic disruption of conformity to flourish.

For Zamyatin, the force of entropy represents liberation — the fertility of imagination let loose, the explosive diversity of uncontrolled expression, and the endless quest for new horizons. Its absence fosters the deadening effect of orthodoxy and dogma, against which revolution must be waged perpetually.

Just as entropy acts within physics, so too must literature embrace permanent revolution. Zamyatin scorns the myth of progress’s perfect endpoint, insisting no final utopia awaits. Our revels must remain unending, lest they stagnate into despotism.

True art can only emerge through the unpredictable collision of radical visions. It demands what Zamyatin terms “alive-alive” creators — those unbroken by conformity, driven by an inner voice, and comfortable amidst uncertainty. Alive-alive art challenges expectations, subverts convention, and evolves eternally.

The antithesis of the alive-alive are the “dead-alive” — those whose work reflects the sterile copying of established forms. These dogmatists produce literature that is static, predictable, crushed of imagination and a threat to orthodoxy. Their art is an empty vessel for ideology, not inner truth.

For Evgenij Ivanovič Zamjatin, alive-alive creation remains necessarily heretical. His essay extols literary rebels like Gogol, Bely, and Remizov — writings filled with idiosyncrasy and disorder. Their embrace of imagination fuels entropy’s permanent revolution against the forces of rigidity and death.

Zamyatin was part of the Serapion Brothers, an association of Russian writers formed in 1921 that drew inspiration from the German Romantic Sturm und Drang movement. Fellow Serapion Brothers close to Zamyatin included Mikhail Zoshchenko, Konstantin Fedin, Vsevolod Ivanov, and Nikolai Tikhonov. They shared Zamyatin’s view of literature as an expression of individual freedom and creative diversity, in contrast to the Socialist Realism imposed by the Soviet regime.

This impassioned call for artistic rebellion inspired dissidents long after Zamyatin’s death. The ideas first articulated in “We” and his essays helped seed future resistance against totalitarianism. By celebrating the liberating force of human creativity, Zamyatin’s legacy remains alive-alive to this day.

This story is based on real events and characters but includes fictionalized dialogue, details and narrative elements. I have sought to capture the spirit and emotional truth of this historical period, using the freedom of storytelling to fill in gaps left by the sources and bring the protagonists closer to today’s readers. While fictionalizing some aspects, I have respected established historical facts, to preserve the authenticity of the events and figures involved. The fiction serves here to convey truths difficult to transmit through chronicle alone, in the hope of keeping the memory alive in an engaging yet truthful way.

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