Soviet/Russian INFJ Maxim Gorky's The Life of Klim Samgin (VOLUME TWO)

In Spivak's recounting of the exhibition and the fair, Klim Samgin became aware that the tenderness he had once felt survived solely in his memory, having vanished as an emotion. He knew that what he was saying wasn't interesting. He was embarrassed by his desire to establish his own line between the exaggerated adoration of some newspapers and the grumbling cynicism of others, and besides, he feared falling into the rude and mocking tone of Inokov's satirical pieces.

Even for Fedosova, it was difficult for him to come up with the grandiloquent phrases he had hoped to use to talk about her, and when he uttered them, he realized they sounded dry and uninspired. Nevertheless, it worked out in such a way that the most powerful impression at the exhibition of All-Russian labor was elicited in him by a lopsided elderly woman. It was uncomfortable for him to remember the expectations connected to a young man, who left behind nothing in his memory but an apologetic smile.

"An insignificant person -- the ministers shoved and dragged him wherever they needed, like an adolescent," he said, and was somewhat taken aback by the intensity of the vengeful, personal emotion he had put into those words. They sat in the garden, beneath the cherry trees, whose branches were heavy with fruits like strings of amethyst beads. It was evening, the stifling heat foretold a storm; in the sky, the color of skimmed milk, grayish tufts of clouds were frothing; shadows were gliding through the garden, and it was strange to see that the foliage was still. Spivak, propping herself against the round table embedded in the earth, holding her cheeks in her palms, watched a little red beetle crawling about senselessly on the table. Her husband, in a state of partial undress, was lying on the carpet beneath the window, letting out a dry cough as he moved the baby carriage back and forth; inside the carriage, a large-headed child stirred, gazing peacefully at the sky with dark eyes.

Disillusionment and the Fragility of Perception in Klim Samgin's Reflection

In this passage (from the beginning of the second volume of Maxim Gorky's The Life of Klim Samgin), Klim Samgin's reflections on the exhibition and the fair reveal a profound disillusionment -- not only with the event itself but with his own emotional capacity. His realization that his past tenderness now exists only in memory signals a broader theme of emotional desiccation, a loss of spontaneity and authenticity in human feeling. The struggle to articulate meaningful ideas, the tension between ideological extremes, and the encounter with figures who leave only ephemeral impressions all contribute to an overarching sense of alienation. The scene that follows, set in a garden under the heavy stillness of an impending storm, visually mirrors this psychological state, presenting a tableau of stagnation, weariness, and muted intensity.

At the heart of Samgin's crisis is the recognition that his emotions no longer arise naturally but must be reconstructed through memory. The tenderness he once felt is not an active force but a lingering shadow, a residue of sentiment rather than a living experience. His self-awareness is acute -- he knows that his words fail to captivate, and this knowledge embarrasses him. His attempt to define his own stance between the polarities of exaggerated praise and bitter cynicism is not just a political or journalistic exercise; it is an existential struggle. He fears falling into the crude satire of Inokov, yet he is also wary of empty grandiloquence, as demonstrated in his faltering attempt to find the right words for Fedosova. Language, which should serve as a conduit for meaning, becomes a burden, betraying him with its dryness and artificiality.

Amidst this frustration, the figure that leaves the strongest impression on him is neither a political leader nor a celebrated intellectual but a "lopsided elderly woman." Her image -- unglamorous, unremarkable -- stands in stark contrast to the loftier ideals and expectations Samgin might have associated with the exhibition. Her impact suggests an unconscious rejection of the grand narratives that surround him. While he struggles to manufacture meaning through rhetoric, the true weight of experience is found in something unassuming, something that does not attempt to impress. This inversion -- where the least significant figure becomes the most memorable -- exposes the emptiness of the ideological spectacle and the hollowness of Samgin's own aspirations.

The passage takes on a more personal tone when Samgin recalls his expectations of a young man who left behind nothing but an "apologetic smile." The phrase encapsulates disappointment and the failure of promise. The youth, once a figure of potential, is reduced to a fleeting expression of regret. This moment foreshadows the line that follows, where Samgin's bitter remark about the ministers treating the young man as an "insignificant person" is imbued with an unexpectedly personal, vengeful emotion. His own reaction unsettles him -- why does he feel such resentment? The intensity of his feeling suggests that his disappointment is not merely about the young man's fate but about his own. The desire to find meaning in a world that reduces individuals to insignificance collides with his growing realization that he, too, is being shaped and maneuvered by forces beyond his control.

The shift to the garden setting deepens the atmosphere of unease. The cherry trees, heavy with fruit "like strings of amethyst beads," evoke an almost decadent stillness, a ripeness that borders on overabundance. The air is thick with heat, the sky froths with storm clouds, and yet the foliage remains motionless -- an unnatural pause before an inevitable rupture. This oppressive stillness mirrors the emotional stagnation in the characters.

Spivak's passive observation of the red beetle crawling "senselessly" across the table reinforces this mood. The beetle's aimless motion parallels the wandering thoughts of the characters, their conversations that go nowhere, their words that fail to ignite genuine feeling. Her posture -- propping herself up, resting her cheeks in her palms -- suggests a kind of weary resignation. Meanwhile, her husband, "in a state of partial undress," lies on the carpet, coughing dryly while rocking a baby carriage. The image is one of vulnerability, decay, and mechanical repetition. The large-headed child, the only figure who seems undisturbed, gazes at the sky with dark eyes -- perhaps with the quiet curiosity of innocence, or perhaps with the same passive resignation that grips the adults.

The scene, suffused with an oppressive atmosphere, encapsulates the overarching theme of exhaustion, both physical and ideological. The world of rhetoric and politics, of exhibitions and newspapers, is revealed as empty, yet the private world of domesticity offers no refuge either. Samgin's dissatisfaction is mirrored in every detail: the heat that does not break, the storm that does not arrive, the beetle that crawls without purpose, the baby that stirs but does not cry. In this stillness, the weight of disillusionment settles over everything. The passage ultimately suggests that the crisis Samgin faces is not just political or intellectual but deeply existential -- a confrontation with the realization that the grand narratives that once shaped his world are no longer capable of sustaining genuine feeling.