I’ve read and re-read this book. Listened to it as an audiobook more times than I can count. At least once a month for past 10 years. Lately I’ve been getting to the last sentence and then I re-start the book, and listen to it like one might listen to a favourite piece of music.
I’ve wondered why, though.
Like noticing a limp when I walk.
And I think I now have seen a hint, a glimmer of what might be the reason:
Shukhov went to sleep fully content. He’d had many strokes of luck that day: they hadn’t put him in the cells; they hadn’t sent his squad to the settlement; he’d swiped a bowl of kasha at dinner; the squad leader had fixed the rates well; he’d built a wall and enjoyed doing it; he’d smuggled that bit of hacksaw blade through; he’d earned a favor from Tsezar that evening; he’d bought that tobacco. And he hadn’t fallen ill. He’d got over it.
A day without a dark cloud. Almost a happy day.
There were three thousand six hundred and fifty-three days like that in his stretch. From the first clang of the rail to the last clang of the rail.
Three thousand six hundred and fifty-three days.
The three extra days were for leap years.
. . . and I know you’ll have to listen as many times, perhaps, to connect just why that might be.
Running Down Vimy 