It’s 9 o’clock at night on a Monday night, but it’s nearly June so the heavens are still a pale blue. A few lazy clouds float in the sky, but any calm is ruined by the rumble of the trams and the hiss of passing cars that jars the chest and offends the nose. I’m standing across from what is affectionately known as a taxi–hailing Lenin, but even Lenin can’t get a ride: there are no taxis in sight. Meanwhile, I’m contemplating how I will return to the hotel. The tram system is about as confusing as the works of Jacques Derrida, a philosopher who came up in our class once, and I only made it here thanks to Diane’s help, and now I’m counting on her to save me again since I don’t understand this city. But what about the metro? Alas, this is Irkutsk, and the metro is non-existent: my options are either trams or buses, neither of which provide any assistance as to where they are going. I’m waiting for a call from someone; Diane, a taxi driver, anyone, now. Left alone, I’m forced to reflect on how powerless I feel.

Earlier today, I was at Lake Baikal. Words cannot describe. Yet somehow, looking at a 25 million year old lake, one gets a sense of great force and might; I cannot escape that this lake existed before Moscow was built, before the first people’s drew on cave walls, before my entire species. Compared to this lake, I am weak and pathetic; my entire life is just another wave, breaking and then crashing against the shore, to be followed by similar but not identical waves. Yet does this inspire fear? Perhaps it does, but it also inspires love and awe in a sense of almost the Kantian sublime. An example Kant gives of this is God, whose wrath is feared but who is also loved (1). The sublime tends to feel immune to human influence. Yet 150 years later, Nietzsche declared that God is dead (2). He tried to kill God. Whether he succeeded is a question I won’t attempt to answer, and I should really leave philosophy to Ian as I probably don’t understand any of this properly. In any case, though you see how extreme of emotions I experienced. But while Baikal may be almighty next to me, I know that it is not next to humanity. If we can try to kill God, why can’t we try to kill this lake?

As various authors we have read, including Lisa Dickey (3) and Peter Thomson (4), scientists are already concerned that the lake is dying. Algae growth, contaminating the lakes crystal clear water, is becoming more common, sponges at the bottom are dying, and more pollutants are spilling in as more people begin to surround the lake. At this stage, the lake is becoming ill, at least according to the opinion of the majority of scientists, and it’s location is still so remote compared to other comparable lakes. For example, Lake Tahoe, which is also known for its depth and clear water, is surrounded by tourist resorts, casinos, and ski lifts, all of which which is generating pollutants and waste. Every summer the road to the one protected beach is clogged with cars, all producing carbon dioxide that heats the air and nitrates that pollute the water. Of course, global warming all such huge cold lakes must contend with. Somehow Tahoe has more or less survived so far, but it’s still nothing like Baikal. Part of this is unavoidable; for example, Baikal is a whole lot bigger than Tahoe and regardless of human influence, but also Tahoe feels more tame, more under human auspices, and more damaged than Baikal. Will Baikal eventually become this, or worse?

I won’t comment since I only make predictions for sports games, and I always predict that the Phillies are going to lose (since that’s what normally happens). But somehow just the question makes my current situation feel even more despicable. I stand before this city and I feel completely powerless, and my heart is filled with fear, but no love, only loathing; no awe, only disgust. Irkutsk has not made a good first impression, only from what I happened to think about when I was lost there. The whole excursion feels like a disaster and I feel terrible; I’ve managed to inconvenience everyone, and for what? A blog post? I’m sitting in a cab now and the blue sky has turned to black. My thoughts drift back to the theme of human environmental damage. Some cities are so dear to me: Moscow, San Francisco, St. Paul. Yet they to are the same in terms of environmental destructiveness, if not worse. How can I reconcile this? I gaze into the blackness, the stars invisible behind the street lights, and find no answers.

 

 

1 Kant, Immanuel. “Analytic of the Sublime.” Critique of Judgement. Translated by Werner Pluhar. Indianapolis: Hacketts Publishing Company, 1987.

2 I first heard this phrase in Thus Spoke Zarathustra, although apparently it predates that book. I am using the phrase somewhat ironically, and to be clear I’m not trying to comment in a serious way on either Kant’s or Nietzsche’s work here

3 Dickey, Lisa. Bears in the Streets: Three Journeys Across a Changing Russia. New York: St. Martin’s Press, 2017.

4 Thomson, Peter. The Sacred Sea. New York: Oxford University press, 2009.