Alexander Isayevich Solzhenitsyn, a Russian novelist who was deeply moved by the trials and tribulations of his people, gave a concrete shape in his stories of their unenviable existence. He inevitably incurred the wrath of the Soviet authorities, and was forced to seek asylum in the U.S.A., where he lived quietly, in Vermont, writing various books, till his death in 2008.
In May 1982, he received an invitation from the American government to participate in an official ceremony to be held in his honour at the White House in Washington. Besides other dignitaries, the U.S. President himself intended to grace the occasion. This program included a special 15 minutes meeting of Solzhenitsyn with Mr. Reagan. Solzhenitsyn, however, replied to the President on May 3rd, 1982, regretting his inability to attend the program. He wrote: “The life span at my disposal does not leave me time for ceremonial encounters.”
His well-defined objective–to narrate in novel form the heartening tales of his countrymen’s lives–occupied his mind to such an extent that he felt he had not a minute to spare, and had no choice but to reject invitations to events which were likely to prove time-consuming–even if the invitation came from the U.S. President himself.
When a man has a specific and worthwhile goal before him, he sets a great value upon his time, but when bereft of a goal, time hangs heavily upon his hands. It is then that ceremonial gatherings and vain pursuits become welcome occupations. He makes no real life for himself but depends upon others for occupation and distraction. In this way, he drifts along, like a ship without a rudder, to the end of his useless life. On the surface, he leads a full, busy life, but, on closer inspection, he discovers rather late, that his achievements are nil, and that he has frittered away his precious existence in empty, meaningless diversions.
