Book: Alexander Yanov “The Russian Idea: From Nicholas I to Putin”

In recent years I’ve often come across discussions about what exactly the “Russian idea” is — what Russia’s mission is supposed to be. And with the start of the war in Ukraine, this question began sounding from absolutely everywhere. And suddenly it turned out that there is a major scholarly work by Alexander Yanov devoted specifically to this topic — an attempt to explain what this “Russian idea” actually is, what it consists of, and how it has shaped and continues to shape Russian history.

First, a few words about who Alexander Yanov was. Alexander Lvovich Yanov was a Soviet and later American historian, political scientist, and publicist. Having received a history degree in 1953, he simultaneously began working as a journalist, traveling around the country and writing for many magazines, including Novy Mir, Molodoy Kommunist, and others.

He was deeply interested in Slavophilism, defended a dissertation on it, and later wrote a monumental work on the history of Russian opposition. By his own account, he was essentially pushed out of the USSR, and in 1975 he emigrated to the United States, where he continued developing his favorite subject while teaching at various universities.

For decades he debated (often in magazine columns) many prominent figures — for example, Alexander Solzhenitsyn and Alexander Dugin. Many of those polemical texts later became parts of his books.

So the history of the Russian idea, and Slavophilism more broadly, was his core topic for many decades.
Between 2014 and 2016, the publishing house Novy Khronograf released his four-volume work The Russian Idea: From Nicholas I to Putin, in which he set out to explain how the very concept of the Russian idea emerged, how it evolved, how it clashed with alternative views, and how all of this influenced the history of the Russian state — and even its neighbors. In the later volumes he increasingly reflected on where the current regime was heading, essentially describing and explaining why Russia rejects the idea of an independent Ukraine.

Yanov died on February 18, 2022 — one week before Russia invaded Ukraine.

But what can be said about the book itself? According to the author’s framework, before the reign of Ivan the Terrible, the future Russia was not yet an autocracy: it oscillated between Europe and Asia, while still preserving — albeit in modest form — certain mechanisms that constrained the sovereign’s absolute power. Only Ivan the Terrible dismantled those remnants of ancient freedoms, fully usurping all branches of authority and elevating the person of the tsar to the level of a divinely chosen, infallible ruler. And from that moment on, in Yanov’s view, Russian history was constantly torn between Europe and a supposed “special Russian mission.”

He divides the entire history of the Russian state into periods of “turning toward Europe” and periods of dark Slavophile revival. Ivan the Terrible represents the Slavophile turn; Peter the Great marks a shift toward Europe; and so on. And although he shows that no matter how fiercely one current fought against the other, even under harsh autocratic rule the seeds of opposition always managed to survive — only to sprout again later. Of course, while describing the country’s potential European path — without which neither he nor the much-revered Chaadayev saw any future for the Russian people — Alexander Yanov nonetheless places the main emphasis of his book on Slavophilism, the “Russian idea.” Here he relies on the works of Vladimir Sergeyevich Solovyov, whom he quotes extensively throughout the four volumes. Solovyov’s central thesis, which Yanov repeatedly brings to the forefront, is that Russian nationalism will ultimately lead the country to ruin:

“National self-awareness,” he wrote, “is a great thing — but when self-awareness turns into self-satisfaction, and self-satisfaction into self-deification, its natural end can only be self-destruction.”

Apart from this spiral between Slavophilism and European orientation, Yanov constantly mentions another pattern he believes he has identified: that after a revolution, countries tend to fall into an even harsher dictatorship, and only after that do they begin to recover. At first glance, a few examples seem convincing — but later you realize that the author is being selective and forcing the pieces to fit his preferred theory. First, the historical cycle he describes — a revolution followed by a dictatorship and then recovery — spans only two or three centuries, which is not that long in the scope of human history. Second, he consistently cites examples that fit neatly into this framework while “forgetting” those where no dictatorship followed at all — or where the dictatorship lasted for several generations.

Still, his examination of the “Russian idea” itself — breaking it down into its components and showing how, century after century, nationalism slips back into the same dark postulates, often contradicting one another — is done very well. Moreover, many of the quotations he cites, written decades or even centuries ago, feel strikingly relevant today:

…Let us recall Georgy Petrovich Fedotov’s dictum: ‘Hatred of the other — not love for one’s own — is what constitutes the pathos of modern nationalism.’

In other words, put simply, a patriot — in this logic — is not someone who loves their homeland, but someone who hates its enemies.

However, despite the sheer scale of the work (a full four volumes), Alexander Yanov’s project has plenty of flaws.

The first volume is devoted precisely to examining the struggle between these two ideological currents from 1825 up to the Bolshevik October Revolution. Reformers would gain the upper hand during the reign of Alexander II, only to be replaced by fierce Slavophiles under Alexander III. And it was exactly during this period that the key ideas were articulated and the core theories of the “Russian idea” were formulated — the very theories to which everyone later kept referring.

It’s an interesting historical tour, but the language makes the book quite difficult to read. Beyond the huge, very heavy sentences, the author constantly wanders off into topics that have little relevance to his main argument, which makes the line of thought lose its clarity and the text its readability. Alexander Yanov often jumps from idea to idea even within a single paragraph — as if saying, “oh, and here’s another thought, almost forgot.” At the same time, he frequently refers to facts that are supposedly “common knowledge,” yet never actually states them. Something like: “and how perfectly this echoes the words of the unforgettable N.” And that’s it. He neither quotes N nor ever returns to him again. What was the point?

On top of that, the book contains far too much of the author himself — far too much “I.” If you’re writing about a subject, then explore the subject; don’t keep saying things like “I have too little space to convey even a fraction of…” and so on. Yes, an author may offer his own viewpoint, but there’s no need to constantly draw attention back to himself. The same goes for the recurring winks at the reader: “Have I convinced you of this, my dear reader?” At some point in the four-volume set, these “little conversations with the reader” almost outnumber the actual historical facts being discussed.

Already by the end of the first volume you realize: this isn’t an impartial scholarly work — it’s a very emotional, very personal one. Including some rather unseemly attacks on historical figures who, of course, can no longer respond. They may have been wrong, they may have said complete nonsense in the author’s view — but a good researcher does not stoop to direct, personal jabs.

The second volume covers the Soviet era almost up to its collapse, ending in 1990 — a year before the USSR formally ceased to exist. But in this volume Yanov devotes far less attention to the Russian idea itself. Here he shows how it transformed under Soviet rule, and how its proponents were, for a time, pushed to the margins — disconnected not only from society at large, but even from the very social strata they believed themselves to represent.

For Alexander Yanov this is a painful period — and you can feel it. These were the years when he was born, grew up, became a journalist, first turned to the subject of the Russian idea, and ultimately found himself an outcast in his own country, effectively forced into emigration.

And against the backdrop of this unhealed wound, the self-admiration, the belief in his own brilliance and infallibility — views he had already voiced in his Soviet-era articles — only grow stronger in this volume. At the same time, the presentation of the material remains just as chaotic as before. He constantly discusses people and articles the reader is supposedly meant to know in advance. Which leaves you wondering what exactly the author is arguing against if he never really explains anything clearly.

Quote:

But still, as I’ve already said, I’ll have to retell most of Shimanov’s text in my own words. In our Twitter age, not every reader will manage to fight their way through his florid tirades.

In my opinion, the exact same thing can be said about Alexander Yanov himself.

The third volume covers the final decade of the 20th century — the end of Communist Party rule and the years of Boris Yeltsin. And this volume clearly stands above the second (and even the first), because here Yanov spends a great deal of time discussing the historical events of 1991 and 1993: why the coups happened, why there was an armed seizure of television, and why the White House was shelled. Yes, he views all of this through the prism of the Russian idea, but this time he is writing much more about actual history. In another chapter the author argues with other “historians,” and not even from the Slavophile or “Russian idea” camp. For example, he defends Yegor Gaidar.

Alexander Yanov, overall, evaluates Boris Yeltsin’s policies and the reforms he initiated quite positively. And he tries to understand how everything suddenly led to the rise of a completely unknown Vladimir Putin. Because, in Yanov’s view, Russia already had a reform-minded candidate — Sergei Stepashin. And had he not been abruptly replaced by Putin, Yanov believes Russia might have turned out very differently.

In the third volume, yet another layer of author-only subtext appears. Out of nowhere, he starts taking aim at Nevzorov and constantly pretending to “address” him. Why was he suddenly chosen as the target? Yes, Nevzorov is an unusual figure, but still…

In fact, this becomes a pattern throughout the entire cycle: Alexander Yanov casually name-drops a great many contemporaries — and just as casually spits in their direction. Whatever views they may hold, this habit does not reflect well on Yanov himself.

Structurally, the text often gives the impression that the book — and really the entire cycle — lacks a coherent framework. It feels like a collection of separate essays loosely stitched together and labeled as chapters. Beyond the structural issues, there are constant repetitions, even down to identical quotations, as if each “little chapter” had been written independently and at very different times. Chapter 11 reads almost like a second run-through of Chapter 9 — the same points, the same people, the same quotes.

In the fourth volume, Yanov is ostensibly supposed to be discussing Vladimir Putin’s rule and the modern defenders of the Russian Idea. And they are there: Alexander Dugin, Alexander Prokhanov, the entire Izborsk Club. But the book ends up feeling more like a collection of articles or polemical pieces aimed at other authors. Here Yanov doesn’t even seem to attempt building any sort of clear, consistent narrative at all.

Here is the translation with natural English idioms instead of literal wording, but preserving the tone and the meaning (including the self-ironic roughness of the original, without using slurs that don’t work in English):

And the constant winking at the reader — all those “I can’t and won’t do this, but they leave me no choice…” — it’s pure drama-queen behavior. Overall, the mood is very much “I’m the only D’Artagnan here, and everyone else is an idiot” (to quote the well-known line). Yes, he occasionally elevates a few people to the rank of Athos, Porthos, and Aramis, but mostly everyone around is treated as “the fools.”

And then he starts doing things unbecoming of a historian: in some passages he either makes mistakes or deliberately twists the facts.

Да ещё начинает делать неприличные для историка вещи: в некоторых фрагментах он допускает то ли ошибочно, то ли намеренно передёргивания.

Didn’t the world have a good laugh back in February 1986, during the very first ‘citizen-to-citizen summit’ telebridge (Leningrad–Seattle), when that stern Party lady blurted out in desperation: ‘We don’t have sex!’?

How can he possibly repeat this tired myth when it’s well known that the phrase was ripped completely out of context and didn’t sound like that at all? But who needs facts when a neat anecdote fits the narrative, right? And once you catch the author doing this kind of sleight of hand, you start doubting the rest of his argumentation as well.

A large part of what should have been factual analysis turns into personal jabs. They sound like: “Oh, he used to be a good man — I knew him back in Soviet times, we were friends — but then he wrote this nonsense, what a lousy logician he turned out to be, though still a wonderful person otherwise.” All of that could have been said without the personal memoir flourishes. As it is, whoever he mentions seems to walk away feeling splattered.

Yet he himself freely inserts unverified claims as if they were indisputable truths. Take, for example, the notion that Ilyin was Putin’s “mentor.” It looks dramatic on the page — but where is even a single piece of evidence that Putin has ever read Ilyin, let alone regarded him as a mentor? And still Yanov keeps calling him “Putin’s mentor.” Apparently he’s allowed to do this (unlike his opponents).

And overall, his style of polemics — in the form of open letters and magazine articles (which he includes in full right in the book) — often doesn’t work in his favor. In the second volume he argues with Solzhenitsyn; later, with Dugin. But when he “debates” Dugin — whose ideas I do not share or support in the slightest — Dugin’s presentation looks much stronger. More coherent, better structured, without cheap personal attacks, without constant winks at the reader — and most importantly, it’s simply easier to read, without all the detours Yanov loves so much. Though, to be clear, I would never voluntarily read Dugin for fun.

The chapter written for the fourth volume by Vladislav Inozemtsev is a perfect example — it’s like night and day. Clear, structured, and strictly to the point. Unlike Yanov’s own response to it.

So the result is a highly ambiguous work. It does show how, for centuries, the apologists of the Russian idea have nurtured and reinforced this mindset: “endure anything, as long as others have it worse.” Because the true mission, in their view, is to teach everyone else how to live “properly.” Notably, everyone except their own people — they can wait, of course, since the rest of the world must first be brought back onto the “righteous path.”

My rating: by volumes — 3, 2, 3.5, 3