Reflecting on the Nobel laureate’s complex legacy for Russian culture
Twenty-nine years ago, the Russian poet Joseph Aleksandrovich Brodsky passed away in his apartment on Morton Street, New York City. Though this is not a milestone anniversary, the occasion still invites reflection on his life and legacy.
Brodsky’s life embodied what he once described as the “alcohol and cigarette culture” — a blend of intellectualism, melancholy, and resilience. In many ways, his death was a result of this lifestyle. He was an incessant smoker, a habit he picked up from his idol, W.H. Auden. Even after surviving a heart attack and undergoing heart surgery, Brodsky continued to smoke strong cigarettes. To speak more abstractly, a poet of his stature may well have died from inexhaustible longing or because, as some might say, God called him home.
Brodsky’s funeral has become the stuff of legend. Stories abound, some credible and others less so. One claim, made by the poet Ilya Kutik, suggests that two weeks before his death, Brodsky sent letters to his friends asking them not to discuss his personal life until 2020. Whether these letters existed or not, few have honored such a promise. As a result, we know quite a bit about Brodsky the man. However, there’s reason to question some accounts, as not all who speak of him knew him well — or at all.
Peter Weil, a close friend of Brodsky, attended the funeral and shared that it coincided with the visit of Russian Prime Minister Viktor Chernomyrdin to New York. According to one version of events, Brodsky’s widow, Maria Sozzani-Brodsky, prohibited photography during the ceremony to prevent Chernomyrdin from using the Nobel laureate’s funeral as a publicity opportunity. Another version humorously claims that Chernomyrdin’s limousine inadvertently caused confusion with Italian law enforcement, who were burying one of their own in a neighboring farewell hall.
This mix of tragedy and absurdity mirrors Brodsky’s own nature. His life — marked by exile, poverty, and relentless surveillance — was both a testament to human resilience and a theater of irony. Soviet authorities who came to search his home often sent him vodka, exemplifying the peculiarities of his persecution. Brodsky navigated these contradictions without splitting himself into opposing personas. He was simultaneously accessible and abrasive, which led to contrasting perceptions of his character.
Some call him a “liberal” as an insult, citing his emigration and acceptance of the Nobel Prize. Others label him an “imperialist” with disdain, pointing to his controversial poem, “On Ukrainian Independence,” and his old-fashioned masculinity. These critiques, though opposite, share a misunderstanding of Brodsky’s complexity.
What’s so wrong with emigration? Brodsky lived where he was allowed to, not necessarily where he wanted. Before his 1972 expulsion, he wrote to Soviet leader Leonid Brezhnev, offering to serve his homeland and contribute to Russian culture. It was a naive gesture, but what more can we expect from a poet than a touch of innocence in the face of power? Despite his exile, Brodsky’s contributions to Russian culture remained immense, and his Nobel Prize was a recognition of that legacy — politics notwithstanding.
Was Brodsky an imperialist? Artistically, perhaps. Like many greats, he saw himself as an heir to the classical tradition. For Brodsky, antiquity and empire were intertwined. Empires may fight and falter, but their grandeur persists in art, which he believed should reflect human resilience and the primacy of force. Brodsky balanced this with a profound respect for the ordinary, writing poignantly about the private lives of individuals, as in his line about “the province by the sea.”
Brodsky’s legacy transcends his persona. He has become a phenomenon greater than the man himself. Books like Solomon Volkov’s Conversations with Joseph Brodsky and Ellendea Proffer’s Brodsky Among Us, as well as documentaries by Nikolay Kartozia and Anton Zhelnov, explore his multifaceted identity. They reveal a poet who was at once paradoxical and magnetic: a man of corduroy jackets, cigarettes, ironic humor, and enduring vitality.
Brodsky’s poetry captures this ambiguity. His 1972 work, “A Song of Innocence, Also of Experience,” juxtaposes mutually exclusive ideas in adjacent stanzas. This paradoxical style reflects life itself, with its blend of tragedy and absurdity. As we remember Brodsky, perhaps the best way to honor him is through his own words:
“Old age we shall meet in a comfy armchair, grandchildren around us, merry and fair. And if there are none, then with the neighbors over drinks we’ll enjoy the fruits of our labors.
…
That’s no solemn assembly convened by the bell! The dark that awaits us we cannot dispel. We roll down the flag and retreat to the keg. Let us have a last drink and a draw on the fag.”
Brodsky remains an enigma, a figure who resisted easy categorization. He was a liberal and an imperialist, a dreamer and a realist, a man who lived through exile and still managed to create a lasting legacy. In his poetry and his life, Brodsky embodied the contradictions of his time, reminding us of the complexity of the human spirit.
This article was first published by the online newspaper Gazeta.ru and was translated and edited by the RT team
