One noteworthy portion of the collection consists of works—thirty in all—by Russian and foreign theoreticians of the Social Democratic movement, as well as prominent Bolsheviks: Aleksandr Bogdanov, Georgy Plekhanov, Bukharin, Karl Kautsky, and Trotsky, among others. Stalin also appears to have closely studied the nineteen issues of the prerevolutionary underground Bolshevik theoretical journal
Prosveshchenie
(Enlightenment) kept in his library. The rest of the items in which he made notations largely consisted of propagandistic and educational literature written while he was in power, twenty-five of which he wrote himself. Overall, the classics of Marxism-Leninism (including his own works) and works by their propagandists comprise the vast majority of the nearly four hundred books in which Stalin made notations.
Among the remaining books, one category that deserves mention is historical works, including several courses on Russian history published before the revolution. Stalin loved history and constantly used historical examples and analogies in his articles, speeches, and conversation. He arranged for new history textbooks to be written and encouraged the production of numerous historical books and films. As is well known, he felt a particular affinity for two Russian tsars: Peter the Great and Ivan the Terrible. They consolidated and enlarged Russia, built up its military might, and fought mercilessly against internal enemies. For Stalin, history was a means of legitimizing his own policies. He was not particularly interested in scholarly discussions and actual historical evidence, choosing instead to adapt the facts to his preferred narrative. Ivan the Terrible was proclaimed a stalwart defender against the forces pulling Russia apart, saving it from a second Tatar yoke. His brutal repression, as Stalin saw it, was necessary, and if anything, it did not go far enough: “It should have been done even more decisively.” During the Cold War, Stalin praised Tsar Ivan for adopting “a national perspective and not allowing foreigners into his country, shielding the country from the intrusion of foreign influence.” He condemned his otherwise beloved Peter the Great for taking a liberal attitude toward foreigners.
8
Even more, he molded Soviet history to justify his own policies. The falsification and rewriting of the party’s history culminated in the creation of an ideological bible of the regime produced with Stalin’s active participation, the
History of the All-Union Communist Party (Bolsheviks): Short Course.
Appearing in 1938, at the height of the Great Terror, this work proclaimed Stalin to be equal to Lenin as a leader of Bolshevism and the revolution. Utter fictions were inserted into many episodes of Bolshevik history; other episodes were distorted beyond recognition. The opposition leaders, who had by then been killed, were portrayed as inveterate enemies.
Military problems particularly attracted Stalin’s interest. In addition to books of military regulations, he made notations in several books on the history and theory of war, such as works by the Prussian military theorist Carl von Clausewitz and the Russian theorist Aleksandr Svechin.
The few books of non-Marxist philosophy contained in the collection include Plato and a philosophical treatise by Anatole France,
The Last Pages: Dialogues under the Rose.
The small number of books on economics is dominated by Soviet works on political economics. As for literary fiction, the collection contains only a few literary journals and works by Lev Tolstoy (the novel
Resurrection
), Mikhail Saltykov-Shchedrin, Maxim Gorky, and a few Soviet writers.
9
Of course this particular collection does not tell the whole story. We know from other sources that Stalin often read literature by contemporary Soviet authors. He offered advice on plays and screenplays and made decisions about the awarding of prizes. He had his likes and dislikes, and the latter, however talented, were often targeted for repression. Even Soviet literary lions faced ideological tongue-lashings. All were made aware of their vulnerability and utter dependence on the government’s favor. Yet despite his politically slanted tastes, Stalin did have a certain ability to distinguish good writing from bad. Perhaps this is why he tolerated and even protected certain talented writers who were not helpful or were even harmful to the regime, such as Mikhail Bulgakov.
10
Still, the censors kept such writers on meager rations, just barely surviving and under constant threat of arrest. Literature and dramaturgy interested the dictator primarily as ideological tools, a means of social manipulation and brainwashing. Officially permitted writers were part of the state’s vast propaganda apparatus. Amalgamated into state corporations, writers, artists, and composers were completely dependent on the state. Like state-run factories, these corporations were not very effective. They encouraged bureaucratization and mediocrity and suffocated talent. “The time is long overdue for us to focus attention on … the irresponsible activities of the three thousand people brought together by the Writers’ Union, out of which two thousand—at least—hardly belong in literature,” Maxim Gorky, Stalin’s choice to lead Soviet writers, lamented in a 1936 letter.
11
Stalin knew of Gorky’s feelings (he kept this letter in his personal files), but he was hardly troubled by literary mediocrity. He lived and breathed political power, so works of art and literature were to be judged according to their ideological and propagandistic usefulness. “Simplicity” and “accessibility” were key literary virtues. He welcomed readability and straightforward political edification free of highbrow devices. The “creative intelligentsia” was called on to depict a reality that was idealized (“correct,” “socialist”) rather than objective. It was to bring to the masses not that which was but that which should be, while distracting them from hardships and extolling the virtue of placing the party and the state above self-interest.
The record of conversations that took place during screenings in the Kremlin movie theater offers an interesting window onto Stalin’s taste.
12
He critiqued the films shown exclusively from the standpoint of political utility, which, he believed, called for the production of edifying and entertaining films “that are exciting, cheerful, and fun.” “Just don’t drive everyone into depression, into a labyrinth of psychology. There’s no need for people to engage in pointless philosophizing,” he said during one screening. He fully approved of the rollicking musical
Jolly Fellows,
the Soviet answer to Hollywood comedies. The film was not profound and politically pointed, but, as Stalin put it, it gave people “interesting and engaging relaxation.” His running commentaries treated what was happening on screen as if it were real life. A few favorites were viewed over and over.
Chapaev,
about the Civil War hero of that name, for example, was viewed thirty-eight times between late 1934 and early 1936.
Stalin’s taste in theater and music were equally conservative. He condemned the stage director Vsevolod Meyerhold, known for provocative experimentation, for “clownishness” and “gimcrackery.”
13
The
vozhd
himself initiated a campaign against new musical forms, such as those being created by the great composer Dmitry Shostakovich.
14
Such innovations were given the derogatory term “formalism.” A regular theatergoer, Stalin preferred classical drama, opera, and ballet. Countless official receptions at the Kremlin were accompanied by concerts featuring a strictly traditional repertoire.
15
There may have been a relationship between Stalin’s literary tastes and his manner of writing. It has often been noted that he was not a gifted orator, a judgment that can easily be confirmed by listening to recordings of his speeches. But his written texts are much more coherent than his impromptu speeches. As a writer, he strove for a clarity and conciseness that bordered on oversimplification. He liked to drive a point home through numerous repetitions, as if he were hammering an idea into his audience’s heads. Lacking the gift (possessed by many other Bolsheviks and writers) for brilliant public speaking, Stalin simply ignored this art. His texts are dull but easily understood. He was a master of slogans and clichés. In a society where education was achieving breadth but not depth, especially in the humanities, such a public speaking style was rather effective.
As a child, Stalin used only Georgian, the language in which he composed verse and revolutionary articles in his youth. He occasionally used Georgian later in life as well. At the age of eight or nine, the future dictator began to study Russian and was able to achieve a high level of proficiency, almost to the point of making it a second native language. But until the end of his life, he spoke with a strong accent. This “accent” can also be felt in his written texts. Stalin’s writing in Russian is grammatically correct and expressive, but he occasionally let slip jarring stylistic infelicities and mangled idioms. Students of Stalin’s language have been able to assemble quite a few examples from his published works.
16
Such examples are also found in his day-to-day writings not intended for publication. As general secretary of the Central Committee, Stalin reviewed Politburo resolutions before they were finalized and often made changes to them. In a number of cases, the fact that he was not a native Russian speaker led to errors and ambiguities.
17
There is scant information concerning Stalin’s knowledge of other languages. He traveled abroad several times before the revolution (to Berlin, Stockholm, London, Vienna, and Krakow), but it is unlikely that he had either the time or the need for serious study of the languages spoken in those cities. These trips were made on party business, and his time was spent mainly with party comrades. His 1913 work on the nationalities question, which made use of sources in German, was written in Vienna with the help of someone who knew that language. While in exile in Turukhansky Krai in 1913–1917, he demonstrated a desire to improve his knowledge of languages. He asked to be sent books by German authors (although it is not clear whether he was asking for the originals or translations). In February 1914 he wrote to a society in Paris that assisted Russian exiles, requesting a French-Russian dictionary and some English newspapers. A May 1914 letter that he wrote to Zinoviev urged him to send “some sort of (civic) English journal (old, new, it doesn’t matter—for reading, since here there’s nothing in English and I’m afraid that without practice I’ll lose what English I’ve learned).” In November 1915 he again wrote to his comrades: “I don’t suppose you could send something interesting in French or English?”
18
In 1930, while vacationing in the south, he asked his wife to send him a textbook for learning English.
19
How serious was Stalin’s intention to study languages? How far did he advance? We cannot answer these questions. As far as we know, he never tried to demonstrate a knowledge of languages during any of his countless meetings with foreigners.
In the end, Stalin’s self-education, political experience, and character formed a mind that was in many ways repellant but ideally suited to holding onto power. His oversimplification of reality, in which phenomena were explained in terms of a historic standoff—between classes, between capitalism and socialism—outlived his system. Whatever the sources of this simplistic worldview—his religious education, his adherence to Lenin’s version of Marxism—its unidimensionality simplified the dictator’s life. A model of the world based on the principle of class struggle permitted him to ignore complexity and despise his victims. It allowed the regime’s most heinous crimes to be seen as a natural expression of historical laws and innocent mistakes to be seen as crimes. It allowed criminal intentions and actions to be attributed to people who intended and committed no crimes. In a relatively uneducated country, simplification was an excellent tool of social manipulation.
Stalin’s theoretical model of the world was in fact tottering and unreliable. Excessively simple and ineffective, it gave rise to abundant contradictions and failures. Yet he saw any adjustments to the ideological system that might have benefited the country as threatening to the stability of his regime. So he responded to life’s demands with rigid ideological and political dogmatism and agreed to limited changes only as a last resort, when crises reached a breaking point. Shielding himself from reality, he retreated—and tried to bring others with him—to the thickets of ideological scholasticism. The contents of his personal archive, which reflect what he thought was worthy of being kept close at hand, are almost completely devoid of documents that represent any sort of outside, expert perspective. Meanwhile, a huge country was engaged in the earnest study of Stalin’s “expert” opinions on fields as diverse as linguistics and political economy. It followed his dictates in crushing “formalists” and “cosmopolitans.” Fearing change and the pernicious influence of the West, Stalin rejected a number of scientific advances, such as genetics.
20
He believed only in what “you could touch with your hands,” what he understood and felt to be politically safe.
This dogmatism and rejection of the complex posed serious impediments to the country’s development. Yet even as his life came to an end, Stalin had no intention of changing the political system that had brought him power, a system that he methodically forged throughout the 1930s.
3 HIS REVOLUTION
By the end of 1928, the crushing of the “left opposition” had been transformed into Stalin’s personal victory. Cohesion among the Politburo majority, which had been easy to maintain during the fight against Trotsky and Zinoviev, began to deteriorate. The growing socioeconomic crisis was paralleled by a crisis at the upper echelons of power, a volatile mix that put the system of government in peril. This political kindling was finally ignited by the state’s failure to collect sufficient grain supplies in 1927, one of many signals that the NEP was not working.