DeepSeek - Silence as Testimony: On the Appointment of Horror in the Historiography of Joseph Brodsky
There is a temptation that is difficult to resist: to describe a catastrophe in the language of catastrophe. The history of the 20th century, being a series of unprecedented suffering, spawned a vast corpus of texts where literature tries to match tragedy in expressive power. However, the louder the voice narrating the abyss, the faster it slips into a falsetto, for the abyss, by definition, is silent. In his essay "Reflections on a Spawn of Hell," Joseph Brodsky offers a paradoxical and ethically sound move: the refusal to describe horror as the only worthy way to confront it.
The principle that Tzvetan Todorov, in "The Abuse of Memory," would call "the appointment of horror," takes on the flesh of high prose in Brodsky's work. "Horror cannot be described — therefore, it should not be described, it must be appointed," — this maxim becomes the key to understanding not only Brodsky's poetics but also his historiosophical position. To appoint means not to depict suffering, immersing the reader in the viscous quagmire of sympathy or horror, but to point to it, as one points to a spot on a map, as one places a sign that requires decoding. By describing, we appropriate horror, making it part of an aesthetic experience, which inevitably dulls it. By appointing, we leave it inviolate, in all its metaphysical strangeness.
The culminating example of this approach in the essay is the image of the rampaging, rabid bears. Brodsky reports this fact with frightening, almost clinical brevity: bears, accustomed to feeding in the vast cemeteries of the Gulag, are now dying because the flow of corpses has dried up. Brodsky does not write about the prisoners' suffering, nor does he dwell on the details of their demise. He talks about the bears. This is precisely that "rhetorical restraint where the reader expects an emotional explosion," working more powerfully than any hysteria.
This technique could be called a "reverse catachresis" or apophatic testimony. If classical catachresis connects the unconnectable to create a super-image, Brodsky breaks the connection where it seems inevitable. He brackets human suffering, leaving only an ecological anomaly. But in this shift of focus lies the full monstrosity of what happened. The bears, those unconscious forest custodians, became the final link in a food chain spawned by the death industry. They were consuming what time could not digest. And their agony from starvation after the camps closed is a mirror turned towards us with its reverse side.
We don't see the human corpses, but we see their absence, which caused the animals' death. Here, man is reduced to the level of a food source, and such an abundant one that a stable biological niche formed around it. And when man (as a corpse) was removed, the ecosystem collapsed. Through this image, Brodsky appoints the horror of dehumanization more precisely than if he had quoted from camp memoirs. He shows how evil grows into the fabric of the universe, restructuring even the laws of nature.
The historiosophical meaning of such "appointment" is profound. Brodsky denies historical tragedy a narrative. A story, as Todorov noted, can be distorted, privatized, used for political purposes, or, even worse, "consumed" by the reader to satisfy a secret craving for the horrific. Silence (or a strict protocol) is not subject to revision. It is like a stone placed at the site of an event. It does not explain, justify, or lament. It merely testifies: there was something here that cannot be described, but whose consequences we are still reaping.
In this sense, Brodsky's position is deeply tragic and dystopian. For him, the camp is not a mistake of history or a temporary aberration, but an ontological reality capable of spawning new monsters, even in the guise of lumbering, rabid bears. And one must speak of this not in the language of a scream (the scream is the victim's lot), but in the language of icy analysis (the lot of the survivor and witness). It is this restraint, this deliberate weakening of the image, that produces an effect that could be called a reverse catharsis: we are cleansed not of fear through compassion, but of illusions through understanding the inexpressibility of evil. We accept that horror cannot be depicted, it can only be indicated — and this indication is enough to make the soul turn to ice.
Joseph Brodsky's approach to depicting evil through deliberate restraint and the "appointment" of horror instead of its description is not unique in 20th-century literature and philosophy. On the contrary, it fits into a powerful tradition of comprehending catastrophic experience, which formed as an ethical reaction to the inexpressibility of trauma. Analyzing the works of other authors allows us to identify several variants of this strategy: from "minus-devices" and documentary fixation to the conceptual redefinition of the very nature of evil.
Testimony through Silence: Varlam Shalamov and the Poetics of Omission
The closest parallel to Brodsky's approach is the work of Varlam Shalamov, whose "Kolyma Tales" represent a consistent implementation of the principle of anti-literariness in depicting camp experience. Shalamov deliberately renounces traditional artistry, asserting a new genre based on documentary testimony, lived experience as a document.
Researcher N.L. Leyderman rightly notes that "approaching 'Kolyma Tales' as Art is terrifying." Shalamov strives to capture the exceptional state of a person in exceptional circumstances, where traditional literary devices prove not only useless but also ethically unacceptable. His famous assertion that in Kolyma "there were no people who had a specific eye color" registers the fundamental impossibility of describing camp experience in the language of classical literature.
This reveals the same mechanism as in Brodsky: the rejection of emotional depiction in favor of clinical accuracy. However, while Brodsky uses a shift in focus (bears instead of people), Shalamov pursues the path of ultimate reduction — condensing the narrative to the "bare" fact, which in itself, without authorial commentary, carries all the horror of the experience.
Rational Restraint: Primo Levi and the Analysis of the "Grey Zone"
Primo Levi, the Italian chemist and writer who survived Auschwitz, represents a different variant of the same strategy. In his trilogy, and especially in his final book "The Drowned and the Saved," Levi writes "with precision, brilliance, and brevity, but also with restraint and measure." Being a scientist, he approaches the description of camp experience as an analytical task: "Levi rarely uses emotional language or excessive descriptions of suffering; rather, he lets the facts speak for themselves, revealing terrible truths with his characteristic clear conciseness."
Particularly important is Levi's concept of the "grey zone" — a space where the boundaries between victim and perpetrator blur, where prisoners are forced to cooperate with the Nazis to survive. Levi does not moralize or pass judgment — he analyzes this zone with the coldness of a chemist describing an irreversible reaction. This analytical approach, devoid of emotional evaluation, produces an effect similar to Brodsky's "appointment of horror": evil appears not as an object for moral indignation, but as a given that requires understanding.
Interestingly, Levi, like Brodsky, grapples with the paradox of survival and testimony. The Spanish writer Antonio Muñoz Molina asserts that "it is impossible to have a full political consciousness without having read" Levi's trilogy, and that it's impossible to imagine "the ideas of literature that does not include the example of such a way of writing." This points to the fundamental importance of restrained testimony for all post-war culture.
Silence as the Boundary of Expression: Poetry after Auschwitz
In 20th-century poetry, silence becomes a conscious artistic device and an ethical stance. The most striking example is Paul Celan, a Holocaust survivor, in whom "language strives for reduction: his poems balance on the edge of silence, where words become sparse, and pauses become expressions of the inexpressible." In his famous "Death Fugue," Celan creates examples of extreme poetic concentration, where each image carries a colossal semantic load.
Researcher Ingeborg Jandl, in her work on the "unspeakable" in literature, draws on Yuri Lotman's concept of the "minus-device," understanding it as an "absence of information" that must be highlighted through other means. In this context, the psychosomatic reactions of characters, which "hint at withheld information," acquire particular significance. Jandl provides examples from literature where emotions are not named directly, but instead bodily perceptions are described in detail, highlighting the emotionality of the situation.
This theoretical framework allows us to understand how the "appointment of horror" works: the unspoken manifests through bodily and behavioral markers, through what the author consciously passes over in silence. As Jandl notes, citing Wittgenstein, "there is an inexpressible which, however, shows itself."
Philosophical Redefinition of Evil: Hannah Arendt and the "Banality of Evil"
A special place in this series belongs to the philosophical approach of Hannah Arendt, who, observing the trial of Adolf Eichmann in Jerusalem, formulated the concept of the "banality of evil." Arendt uses a phenomenological methodology that allows "consistently identifying individual manifestations of evil, which themselves show themselves to the observer."
Arendt makes a fundamental shift in understanding the nature of evil: she rejects the romantic conception of evil as a demonic force and shows that in reality, evil can be completely ordinary, devoid of depth, committed by people incapable of critical thinking. This is the philosophical equivalent of Brodsky's literary strategy: instead of depicting horror, Arendt "appoints" its coordinates, showing how evil becomes an "everyday, habitual phenomenon devoid of sharp emotional evaluations."
In Arendt's model, evil spreads unnoticed precisely because participants in social relations lack the ability to think critically and exist on two planes, failing to differentiate their actions according to ethical criteria. This is a radically different view of the nature of evil, which, like Brodsky's technique, achieves greater depth precisely through the refusal of direct emotional assessments.
The Metaphysics of Silence in Russian Literature
Mikhail Epstein, in his book "Word and Silence: The Metaphysics of Russian Literature," considers the "meaningfulness of silence and the muteness of the word" as one of the most important metaphysical problems in Russian literature. In this context, Anna Akhmatova in "Requiem" turns silence into a form of compassion and resistance. Her "sparse lines, permeated with pauses, reflect the impossibility of fully expressing the tragedy of Stalin's repressions." Silence in Akhmatova becomes a space for unspoken grief and an act of solidarity with those deprived of a voice.
Osip Mandelstam, especially in his "Voronezh Notebooks," uses conciseness as a way to maintain clarity of thought in conditions where a word could cost a life. His later lyrics demonstrate a "compression to ultimate precision, where every pause carries the weight of the unspoken, yet deeply felt."
General Patterns and Conclusions
Analysis of various approaches to depicting evil allows us to identify several general patterns:
The Ethical Necessity of Restraint. All the authors considered are aware that a direct description of horror can lead to its aestheticization and, consequently, to ethical failure. The rejection of emotional depiction becomes a moral stance.
Shift in Focus. Instead of describing suffering, authors describe something else: bears in Brodsky, bodily reactions in the authors studied by Jandl, the "grey zone" in Levi, thoughtlessness in Arendt. This shift allows seeing evil in its true scale.
Documentary as Anti-Literariness. Shalamov and Levi deliberately renounce traditional artistry in favor of documentary testimony, understanding that only such a language is adequate to catastrophe.
Silence as Utterance. Pause, understatement, omission become ways to express what cannot be expressed directly.
Thus, Brodsky's approach to the "appointment of horror" fits into the broad context of post-war culture, which seeks adequate ways to speak about the inexpressible. The common denominator of these quests is the understanding that a direct description of evil is not only impossible but also ethically questionable, and that genuine testimony requires other strategies — restraint, a shift in focus, conscious silence. As Jandl, citing Wittgenstein, aptly puts it: "what one cannot speak about, one must pass over in silence" — but this silence itself becomes a eloquent utterance.
