In a satirical description of Soviet bureaucracy, the narrator comments on the endless cycle of meetings that consume officials’ time. The passage uses alliteration to underscore the monotony and pomposity of these gatherings, piling up a string of words featuring the /k/ sound—"committees, caucuses, colloquiums, congresses, and conventions"—that blur into sameness. The effect is mocking: what is presented as serious political deliberation becomes little more than repetitive noise, exposing how major processes stall over trivial matters.\:
In a single week, there might be committees, caucuses, colloquiums, congresses, and conventions, variously coming together to establish codes, set courses of action, levy complaints, and generally clamor about the world’s oldest problems in its newest nomenclature.
The alliteration here almost mimics the sound of bureaucracy in action. The repetition of similar terms not only draws attention to their sameness but also suggests an infinite loop of discussion that leads nowhere. By linking the cycle of committees and congresses with “clamor,” the narrator makes the language itself a performance of futility, echoing the very noise it describes.
The tone is sharply ironic. Instead of treating governance with solemnity, the passage satirizes the spectacle of political procedure, exposing how officials become preoccupied with words rather than outcomes. The detail that they are wrangling over phrasing—debating whether to replace “facilitate” with “enable and ensure”—illustrates how rhetorical ceremony overwhelms practical action.
This critique resonates with earlier motifs in the novel, such as the stylized spectacle of dueling, where form often eclipses function. Just as honor once depended on ritualized gestures, Soviet politics here is portrayed as an endless choreography of meetings and terminology. Alliteration reinforces this mock-ceremonial tone, showing how history repeats itself as performance, full of sound but largely empty of progress.
When Anna surprises the Count by flawlessly preparing Emile’s roasted bass, the evening takes on unexpected depth. Their shared meal leads to an exchange of childhood stories, and in the intimacy of conversation the Count reconsiders his earlier impressions of her. The narration highlights this shift through alliteration, as the Count muses on the unpredictable nature of human beings. The repetition of sound reinforces the idea that character cannot be reduced to a single impression but must be experienced in its full, layered complexity:
By their very nature, human beings are so capricious, so complex, so delightfully contradictory, that they deserve not only our consideration, but our reconsideration—
The clustered /k/ sounds—"capricious," "complex," "contradictory"—create a rhythm that mirrors the overlapping, multifaceted qualities the Count observes in Anna. The cadence suggests both elegance and inevitability, as though the unpredictability of human character is woven into the very sound of the language. This sonic pattern elevates what could be a private realization into a universal reflection on the nature of judgment.
The wordplay extends with “consideration” and “reconsideration,” emphasizing the importance of revising initial perceptions. The sound repetition underscores the theme of reevaluating others, fitting the Count’s recognition that Anna is far more skilled, surprising, and compelling than he assumed.
The tone is philosophical but graceful, characteristic of the Count’s worldview. What begins as a moment of attraction becomes an elegant meditation on human complexity, framed through carefully crafted language. Alliteration here is not ornamental but functional: it embodies the theme of revision, encouraging patience and generosity in forming opinions.
By linking Anna’s unexpected talent to a broader principle of human unpredictability, the passage illustrates the novel’s larger method. Personal encounters are consistently elevated into reflective insights, with language itself—here the play of repeated consonants—shaping the meaning.