I have always been an optimist (!). I must have been 12 when a family friend gave me a $50 gift card for a bookstore close to my house. Imagine that. $50, all for me, books. So obviously the first thing I did was run to the store and blow a good chunk of that money on two books: One Hundred Years of Solitude and The Brothers Karamazov. I am now 25. In the 13 years that have passed since then, I have “tried” to read The Brothers Karamazov 4 times. The first 3 times ended up 50 pages in. I had the same set of excuses that I would throw around, usually having nothing to do with my inherent lack of maturity and having everything to do with Russian names, nicknames, patronymics, etc. Russian books are depressing! Why would I read them? I would never stop to think “Okay, if you truly believe in that reasoning, stop trying.” That makes too much sense of course. The 4th and final unsuccessful attempt came when I was beginning my graduate studies. I had actually made it 100 pages in. Then life happened, and it happened hard. Grad school, I guess. What happened, then, to push me to be successful this 5th (and by no means final) attempt? My dad picked it up, read it, then proceeded to tell me that he had read it constantly, knowing it would motivate me to get there. Fathers and Sons. Thanks dad. Very cool.

I’m not quite sure if this one needs me to say much about influence, impact, literary weight, etc. We all know. There is a reason I kept trying to read it as a young’un. The name is in the culture, and we most likely drift through our lives as readers knowing that the book has a certain aura around it. There is the famous Freud quote that comes up with this book – “the most magnificent novel ever written.” This was the book that was on Tolstoy’s bedside table as he died. Joseph Frank, a famous Dostoyevsky scholar, says that the book has “a grandeur that spontaneously evokes comparison with the greatest creations of Western literature. The Divine Comedy, Paradise Lost, King Lear, Faust - these are the titles that naturally come to mind as one tries to measure the stature of The Brothers Karamazov.”

As you read the book for the first time, you are taking in a great number of ideas – you can try to grab them all with in-depth and specific annotations, delve into one specific stream, or just take in the spectacle and come back later. I took the third option. The themes presented were all worth diving into in-depth. A juicy 3-page passage on philosophy would be followed up by an even juicer 10-page passage on religion. There were reflections on the psychology of daily life. We saw family strife and meaning-making within a harsh and unforgiving environment. Loyalty and love, death, violence. Pride within society, pride within family, pride within the self. Pernicious pride. Belief. Faith. I am just throwing words at you at this point, but each of these prompts can take books to discuss (and such books do exist – Joseph Frank has a great set of lectures on Dostoyevsky). This is one where you can vividly picture coming back to often, and each time you do, a specific theme will be more salient than the previous read.

There are a lot of strengths to this novel. Two stand out to me above the rest: philosophical/psychological/theological arguments and characterization. Since I do not currently have the time or the expertise to discuss the former, I will write a few words about the latter. You have to have a great amount of respect for anyone (not just a novelist) who is capable of respectfully depicting people that he/she does not agree with. How easy it is to straw man! Dostoyevsky never once does that. That’s what makes this book so thrilling, so genius. I can conceivably see readers falling along any spectrum with 5-6 different characters. And they would all have a point. I will betray some of my thoughts with my choice of adjectives to come.

You start with Fyodor Pavlovich, the father. Reprehensible buffoon. Takes everything, gives nothing. As my friends and I are so fond of saying, he is “an all around shit guy”. Dimitri Fyodorovich, the eldest son. A former army man, an unfortunate drunk, a hopeless playboy. Talks big, falls at the feet of a woman who winks at him. Ivan Fyodorovich, the next son. Nihilist. Self-appointed smart one. To him, the arcane is anathema. He is, after all, part of the academics and intelligentsia of higher society Russia. Alexei Fyodorovich, the youngest son. Alyosha. Cuddly. Innocent. The “faith man”. Radiates pure energy. Positivity. Honesty. Just a few, but the list can go on. When you put these characters in front of each other, make them interact, make them converse about faith, humanity’s struggles, free will, destiny, etc., you have joy for the reader.

There is also the issue of translation. This is a great article that discusses the different translations of The Brothers Karamazov. There are a great number of them thrown at you if you walk into any bookstore to buy yourself a copy - Constance Garnett, David McDuff, Richard Pevear & Larissa Volokhonsky, Ignat Avsey, Andrew R. MacAndrew. I’m a sucker for the Penguin Classics and I really wanted to gravitate toward it (translated by McDuff). However, I have been on this wave with Pevear and Volokhonsky, so I decided... why not. I’ll go a different one each time anyway. I have come to realize that scholars of Russian works are not necessarily all in with P&V as I once thought. It seems to me that, on a scale from “poetic” to “technical”, Garnett is poetic, McDuff is technical, and P&V are a mix. So perhaps not a terrible place to start.

Many images came to mind as I read the book. I thought of Job, staying true to his faith. I thought of Nietzsche, his God, his vision of an atheistic world (“If there is no God,” Ivan says, “everything is permitted”). I thought of Socrates on his deathbed, surrounded by disciples and handing out a few final pieces of comforting wisdom. Most of all, one image remained with me, one that Dostoyevsky explicitly referenced - Contemplator, created by Ivan Kramskoi.



Everything I have talked about with the hopes, desires, and frustrations of the characters can be seen in those eyes. The tattered rags and the sad cloth/sac, the cane, the shoes. The frigid atmosphere is striking. I don’t know why, but I keep coming back to this image. Maybe something to explore in the near future.

I have a Word document on my desktop with all the quotes that I took down from this book, but I will end with one that was particularly beautiful – until next time:

n  We are of a broad, Karamazovian nature..., capable of containing all possible opposites and of contemplating both abysses at once, the abyss above us, an abyss of lofty ideals, and the abyss beneath us, an abyss of the lowest and foulest degradation.n

There's nothing like this book. Given the fact that many before me have spoken about the many beautiful aspects which The Brothers Karamazov posesses, I will just say that no matter at what stage in your live you read this book, it will always be a life changing experience.

Sometimes I feel like modern covers have gone too far.

Someone: Helloooo… yoo-hoo…. Fucktard, you there?

Ben: Yes, I'm here... I finished The Brothers Karamazov the other night and I'm a bit blown away. Emotionally exhausted. Right now, it has me sitting here thinking about it, feeling all kinds of things, thinking complex, important thoughts....

Someone: The great Fyodor Dostoevsky should do that to you. He's a literary Giant; one of the all time greats. But you see, knowing you, shitfuck, I'm not surprised you gave it five stars. You give everything five stars, do you not? I mean, God -- and I mean "God" in a purely metaphorical sense, as he is simply an opiate for the weak masses -- you even gave The Wind-up Bird Chronicle five stars, which was more disturbing than Grace Jones chasing me on horseback. You see, most of Murakami's narrators sound as if they just disembarked the short bus. Not lyrical so much as the product of blunt-force trauma to the head, I think. But sometimes the two are in fact interchangeable.

And don't even get me started on your review of The End of the Affair. A bit self serving, wasn't it? I mean, goodreads isn't your goddamn therapy group. Just about every review you've written is a sap-fest. So what kind of personalized, kitschy, life changing moment are you gonna compare this book to? Just face it, fucktard, you're one of those easily excitable star whores. You throw these five stars out left and right like you’re a John for one of my leprous herpes-infected Argentinean -- or (Westside) South Bend -- hookers....

......

You aren't going to tell anyone, are you?

Ben: heh.

Someone: What is that supposed to mean?

Ben: Well, I do plan on sharing this conversation with others, although I can edit out the hooker part, if you'd like. I want to share it because I really want people to know how great this book is, and I know you love this book as well. I hope the fact that it has your full seal of approval will encourage them to read it.

Someone: Look, fucktard, usually I'd be happy to be the idol in any person's religion, but I've learned that it's just too much pressure. I reserve my right to be surly and malevolent.

And you get my point, right? You're changing over there, and it's obvious. Toughen up cowgirl. Before you know it you'll be a priest or something.

Ben: Actually, Someone, I'm quite cautious about the number of stars I award. My average rating is 3.09, which is far below just about anyone else's I've seen. And in regards to giving out 5 stars like one of your Johns, it actually takes quite an experience for me to award five stars. I've literally only given 5% of all my rated books 5 stars.

Although I should add that I did give a good rating to one of your homeboys recently: I gave Nine Stories four stars. I know you like-

Someone: That pissed me off fucktard. That's a five star book if there ever was one. Salinger-

Ben: I know, I know: you want to have passionate sex with him and all the rest. You don't need to go into details.

Someone: Don't patronize me, Haruki-hag. Stand up, wipe the sand out of your vagina. Who do you think you are, that innocent little Alyosha or something?

Ben: I guess that's better than "jewhole". And Alyosha is one of my top 5 literary characters of all time. So intuitive, insightful and empathetic -- yet a great leader who stands up for what he believes in. Ivan makes my top five as well. He's-

Someone: Ivan! He's subject to various interpretations, and at a surface level, some of his thoughts appear contradictory. Then again, I am not a huge fan of systematic philosophies. He and I are kindred spirits of sorts -- without kindred mustaches, however. We both veer toward iconoclasm and (endearing?) arrogance, we both hate Hegel, and we both have few qualms about embracing a horse. Wait a second... that's Nietzsche..

Ben: Yes, Nietzsche. But Ivan was absolutely brilliant and interesting, wasn't he? So intellectual, cerebral and logical, yet passionate and moral. Of course he's not as "perfect" per se, as Alyosha. Like most of Dostoevsky’s characters, he's complex, human, and real.

Really, the personalities of all the characters are extreme -- almost ridiculously so. Yet somehow Dostoevsky gets you absorbed inside their heads and hearts, and makes them so realistic that you feel like you really know them, and God do you care for them. And their thoughts, ideas, and philosophies -- they span everything, and when his characters interact with each other -- in what is nearly perfect dialogue -- you see the thin line between being brilliant and crazy, and how superb it is when they intermingle, as they often do -- and the magic of life itself opens up: you feel the full rush of all the varying natures within; your heart beats HARD, your senses are on high alert -- shit man, you're feelin' the same way those crazy characters are.

Someone: The storyline is brilliant as well, fucktard.

Ben: Yes! The unmatched talent and the outpouring of heart that Dostoevsky puts into this can change your life. Through this novel you can come to your own conclusions about important, existential philosophies: you can even use this book to better yourself in concrete ways by comparing yourself to the different brothers, learning from their mistakes, and taking the good aspects from each.

Someone: There you go with your idealistic, finding yourself, magic bullshit. Look, Penis Wrinkle, I'll let you get away with it, since this novel is--

Ben: It's fucking great! It's one of the best books of all time, dammit. I haven't read as much as you, and I'm not as smart as you, but it’s GOT TO BE. Right?

Someone: Yes, yes, you're right. This is one of only 21 books in my literary Valhalla, otherwise known as my “pants-crapping-awesome” bookshelf. This novel is--

Ben: YES! The great ranges in our emotions, the soaring capabilities of our passions, the depths of our intellect and souls. This book hits the full spectrum of just about everything. It seems to hit just about every side of just about every important existential issue; it spans all that’s important in life: love, family, faith and doubt, friendship, money, revenge— everything. It's such a full and complete spectrum that reading this book is like devouring life itself. And it does so in real and fascinating ways. It has to be one of the greatest novels of all time. It has to be. This novel is a literary grand slam. You have to read it to understand. Nobody should live without reading this book. That's all I can say. I'll never be able to do this beautiful, deep, mesmerizing, brilliant, masterpiece of a book the justice it deserves. All I can really say is--

Someone: Read it.

Russian novels always get better of me, I am left battered both body and mind. But the exhaustion is like the exhaustion of sex (can’t find more fitting analogy) breathless and full of life at the same. Like the traveler who was long gone on a journey and on his return, bathes for a long good hour, taking good care of every little pore of body, soaping himself as he sinks in tub very slowly, and as water pours over him he shuts his eyes and with numbing senses recalls everything in an episodic manner, the tiniest details of his journey, and that’s the magic of Dostoyevsky, his reader is exasperated by the far off tours but at the end, is exalted nonetheless!
The hell we create through our thoughts for ourselves, is never been better visited by any other but D.the endless war we are in with ourselves, the fluctuations of our mind, the contradictions of our ideas and creation of ideals, the conflict of God or no God, the choice of being sinner or saint, is all in us, within us, and Dostoyevsky leaves nothing unsaid in telling the tale of who we are, and what we choose to hide, the characteristic quality of his prose is directness, he sometimes, undoubtedly descends to the elegant, but his element is great. He occasionally invests himself to an extent, but his natural port is human psychology.
“Je pense, donc je suis, I know that for a fact, all the rest, all these worlds, God and even Satan—all that is not proved, to my mind. Does all that exist of itself, or is it only an emanation of myself, a logical development of my ego which alone has existed forever?” (p. 781)
Brother Karamazov is not the tale to be taken as a chronicle of one family and parricide only, the murder is not a mystery here, neither is the murderer, it’s all known at the instant murder takes place, or even before, the plethora of themes and thoughts runs deep in the waters of this gigantic ocean that the volume is! We have in detail, the characters donned into garbs of confused expressions about other characters and on the brink of self-assessment and self-denial. And as the novel proceeds, there are peculiar ideas, echoing into the minds of characters, ideas get doubled or split into multiple strings as the tale follows, Dostoyevsky makes his characters suffer by their own doomed states, their own beings are their torture cells, no one escapes this suffering, no one!
The question of individual identity mounts many a time in the story, as the devil visits Ivan or so he fancies; the boundaries of one soul and the influence of wishes thought to be unvoiced are questioned throughout the novel, the suppressed/unidentified wishes of one character are accomplished by the other, For instance, the relationship between Ivan and Smerdyakov, with Ivan apparently the stronger and more intelligent, and Smerdyakov the instrument of his will. Ivan’s unconscious wishes for his father’s death direct Smerdyakov, who communicates with the unconscious directly; Smerdyakov is, then, the master, the controller of fate simply because he is able to penetrate the barrier of consciousness that must conventionally deny evil impulses.
We are quite restrained to admit the bastard smerdykov shrewder than Iven, he is cleverer and is more strategic with his nihilistic views, and the self-centered epileptic is astonishingly strongest of the characters, he proves through actions that “all the things are lawful”
Ah! How cold he is to lay us stark naked before us, we’ve long known his brother Karamazov, we are them, if not wholly, but in parts, the impulsive, goodhearted Dimitri is recognizable to us like a closed kin,we know Ivan, the skeptic genius and we’ve been him too in our hearts, haunted by uncertainty, tormented by conscience....
“Do you understand why this infamy must be and is permitted? Without it, I am told, man could not have existed on earth, for he could not have known good and evil. Why should he know that diabolical good and evil when it costs so much? Why, the whole world of knowledge is not worth that child’s prayer to ‘dear, kind God’!” (p. 287)

انا لا أقيم الكتب ، إنما فقط اصف علاقتي بها ، فأنما نقرأ لنجد ذلك الكتاب الذي يسقينا الشغف و يعزلنا عن العالم
سر عظمة دوستويفسكي وخلوده إنما في هذا الكتاب ، صحيح أن لكل مجتمع قيمه و لكل زمن فضائله لكن ضمير الإنسان واحد خارج حدود الزمان والمكان دمغت فيه كلمة الله وتميزت فيه صورة الشيطان ، أنما الإنسان خطاء لكنه ليس معدوم الضمير ، داخله أنبل وأسمى العواطف وايضا احطها واحلكها ظلمة ، فحتى لو أأمن أن الله غير موجود وكل شيء مباح حتى القتل واقدم عليه بدافع الفكرة وحدها صار إلى الجنون ، ذلك إن الإيمان لا يحتاج براهين المعجزة لكن القلب يحتاج الايمان ولذلك هذا الكتاب سيقرأ ويقرا و وسيعيش ما شاء الله له أن يعيش، على القارىء المحب لدوستويفسكي أن يقرأ الأخوة كارامازوف ولا يخشى أبدا عدد صفحاتها

I've read the Brothers K maybe five or six times in the Constance Garnett edition--Garnett translated all the major 19th Century Russian authors, and was the first to translate Dostoevsky into English. Respect due, but her translations (re Brodsky and Nabokov) lack sensitivity to the language of the individual writers. Pevear and Volokhonsky's translations do not suffer this, and the new translation of Doestoyevsky's masterpiece is amazing. Who knew Dostoevsky was funny? But the father is funny/awful/funny/awful in the most brilliant way. Every time I read this book, it's different, because I'm different. Great literature is such a mirror that way. Doestoyevsky saved my life as a young person. The overheated claustrophobic drama that was my life found its explication.

They say that Dostoyevsky tied a girl to the tracks in the first fifty pages of every novel, and this is absolutely true of The Brothers Karamazov. A horrible, awful, hilariously dirty old man is found bludgeoned to death, and it seems one of his very different sons is the culprit. As I've aged, I've identified with different brothers--it's almost like 'which Beatle do you like the best?' When I was young it was the brooding young intellectual nihilist, Ivan. I was an "Ivan." It's Ivan who has the famous encounter with the Grand Inquisitor. Then there was the angelic son Alyosha. Can't we just get along? Great embrace of the poor, a spiritual young man, living his beliefs. Finally there's the passionate, headstrong Dmitri, who boils over and smashes things up, and is passionately in love with the questionable Grushenka--who I later identified with, (and I think is the true hero of the book). There's also an illegitimate half-brother in the wings, Smerdyakov, and even his name tells you what Dostoyevsky thinks of him--the likely product of a rape of a simple girl, a holy fool, and the grotesque senior Karamazov.

It's a great epic contest of spirit and earth, of passion and greed and everything else under the sun. If only one book were to be saved at the end of the world... to encapsulate the range of the Human Condition, who we were and what we did on earth, for me it would be a tie between the Brothers Karamazov and Ulysses.

رنج چیست؟ از رنج نمیترسم، حتی اگر بی کران باشد، حالا از آن نمی‌ترسیم؛قبلا میترسیدم. می دانی، حالا به قدری قدرت در من هست که می توانم برهمه چیز غلبه کنم، برهمه ی رنج ها، فقط اینک بگویم وهر لحظه به خودم بگویم:من هستم، درميان هزارعذاب_من هستم‌؛ پیچ وتاب خوران_زیرشکنجه _اماهستم.
محبوس دربرجی،اماهنوز هستم. خورشید را می بینم واگر نبینم باز می دانم که هست وهمه ی زندگی اونجاست.

بااینکه کتاب پرحجم وسنگینه من از خوندنش لذت بردم برعکس جنایت و مکافات که هیچ ازش نفهمیدم وبعد از این کتاب شاید برم بقیه ی آثار داستایفسکی رو بخونم

Dark abysses in moonless skies will engulf the titillating brightness of stars and ghastly winters will obliterate the warmth of the earth until justice has been done.
Recline comfortably in your velvety chaise longue and concentrate on the spectacle that is about to begin, for the so much awaited day of the trial has arrived and the Karamazov family will be submitted to relentless interrogation, psychological scrutiny and the righteous proof of circumstantial evidence. There is humor, melodrama and suspense to be expected.
The peasants in the jury rub their hands greedily in anticipation because it is a widely known fact that the Karamazov brothers are evil creatures, doomed wretches and witless idealists, cursed with inherent vice and rotten spirit. Murder is not the real crime but only a succulent appetizer to the real feast. Prejudice doesn’t exist when the morality of Mother Russia has been challenged, defiance is the biggest offense and adequate punishment needs to be inflicted.
Let the trial begin, let the accused condemn themselves.

Prosecutor Ippolit Kirillovitch knows the Karamazov well.
Fyodor, the murdered head of the family, an appalling father and a worse Christian is a man of excesses drawn by hedonistic pleasures, whose debauchery and petty buffoonery put his name to shame. Malignant cynicism is his moral code and sarcasm his only religion. When Grushenka, the quintessential femme fatale, crosses Fyodor’s path he is irredeemably attracted to her like a moth to a bulb light. She becomes his obsession and ultimate perdition.

“I am an inveterate buffoon, and have been from birth up, your reverence, it’s as though it were a craze in me. I dare say it’s the devil within me. But only a little one.” Book II, chapter one (41).

Mitya, a man of wild passions and destructive jealousy seeks for absolution but his love for Grushenka eclipses his commitment to his betrothed Katya. Ashamed of his weaknesses he struggles against himself in constant contradiction. Good and evil, a scoundrel but not a thief, a deceitful swine but of noble heart, a squanderer but a man of honest generosity, a sentenced murderer but a redeemed victim, he suffers to purge his corrupt spirit.

“In thousand of agonies – I exist. I’m tormented on the rack – but I exist! Though I sit alone on a pillar – I exist! I see the sun, and if I don’t see the sun, I know it’s there. And there’s a whole life in that, in knowing that the sun is there.” Book XI, chapter 4 (665).

Ivan, the rebellious atheist of sharp intellect and faster tongue who, in spite of proving God’s non-existence through the intrinsic cruelty of mankind, admits receiving nightly visits from the devil. Ivan’s strategist and scheming mind rejects the idea of mercy and his Grand Inquisitor makes him refuse his own humanity.

“I don’t want harmony. For love of humanity I don’t want it. I would rather be left with the unavenged suffering. I would rather remain with my unavenged suffering and unsatisfied indignation.” Book V, chapter 4 (268).

Aloysha, the bright star whose light nurtures, guides and absolves those rotating in his Solar System of forgiveness and gentleness. He spreads Father Zossima’s belief in the goodness of people with innocent idealism, never faltering faith and a modest heart that pumps unselfish love through mankind’s veins.

“If you are penitent, you love. And if you love you are of God. All things are atoned for, all things are saved by love. If I, a sinner even as you are, am tender with you and have pity on you, how much more will God have pity upon you. Love is such a priceless treasure that you can redeem the whole world by it, and cleanse not only your own sins but the sins of others.” . Book II, chapter 3 (53).

Smerdyakov, Fyodor’s pitiful bastard and valet, neglected creature and cursed with epilepsy hides his vile temperament behind a mask of groveling servitude. His nihilist tendencies find solace in Ivan’s calculating logic and cold rationalism.

“That was quite right what you taught me, for you talked a lot to me about that. For if there’s no everlasting God, there’s no such thing as virtue, and there’s no need of it.” Book XI, chapter 8 (710).

Guilty, guilty, guilty. Three times guilty villains! One after another, all the members of the Karamazov family succumb to temptation and become plagued by doubt. Lust, envy, greediness, wrath and arrogance are only a few of their countless sins.
There is neither verbose nor pompous enough speech the defense attorney could articulate to convince the jury of their blamelessness. Conscience is the sterner judge of all and these sensualists have condemned themselves. The prosecutor basks in his victory but wears a distorted smile on his pallid and emaciated face because the price to pay for the irrefutable proof of guilt might be too dear. For aren’t we all blameworthy?
“Nothing is more seductive for a man than his freedom of conscience, but nothing is greater cause of suffering.” Book V, chapter 5 (279).

Nothing is what it seems and fictional actors in the most grotesque of stages can transcend the borders of realism and become myths to decide the fate of a nation or the destiny of mankind’s soul.
Russia is on trial. The fraternal, ambiguous and chauvinistic troika represented by Fyodor and Mitya, the mystical mother earth embodied in Alyosha’s untainted belief in the worthiness of its people and Ivan’s intellectual realism and detached views on European Enlightenment are presented as diverging instruments to save the fate of Russia. Traditional conservatism, religious idealism or disruptive modernity?
The true nature of humanity is being dissected, probed and mercilessly judged while the Karamazov brothers emerge as allegorical symbols of incongruous contradiction coexisting in their intrinsic need for spiritual redemption. It is only human to strive for salvation. Even The Grand Inquisitor, the emblem of unsatisfied indignation and logical argumentation feels his heart beating with relief when a kiss of forgiveness has blessed his right cheek, or when he has given an onion and performed a good deed.
Step aside, Mr.Kirillovitch. The real judgment of the Karamazov brothers’ soul can’t possibly take place in a courtroom, neither of human nor even of divine nature. Nothing can supplant the judgment of one’s own conscience. The onion needs to be peeled of its pungent layers to get to its tender core. It is a painful task to perform but once the tears have washed away the itchiness, a bright light remains which will illuminate the shadowy paths to redemption.
The Karamazov Brothers have fought their own demons, admitted their own flaws and achieved spiritual transformation. They have been absolved. And so has been this humble reader. There will be hope as long as there is love.
“Hurrah for Karamazov!” Epilogue, chapter 3 (870).

n   “"What is hell?" I maintain that it is the suffering of being unable to love.” n Book VI, chapter 3 (356).

“Above all, don't lie to yourself. The man who lies to himself and listens to his own lie comes to a point that he cannot distinguish the truth within him, or around him, and so loses all respect for himself and for others. And having no respect he ceases to love”--Father Zosima, to Fyodor Karamazov, a scoundrel and atheist who somewhat disingenuously asks of his son Alyosha’s spiritual mentor what it is he needs to transform his life.

I have always said in bar or coffeeshop conversations about The Best Books of All Tme that the two best books I have ever read (for my tastes) were The Brothers Karamazov and Crime and Punishment. Great epic explorations of nineteenth century Russian society--politics, society and morality--and both are also great murder mysteries that help to complicate the social and cultural and moral issues Dostoevsky raises. I took the time to read and listen to this 750-page tome because I was sheltered at home and hoped he/it would help me take a broad look at my own time and place and inner life again. I took notes all along the way but cracked my laptop screen a couple days ago, lost several things including 3-4 ongoing reviews, including a review of this book, boo hoo, so am just writing this again, having taken roughly a month to finish the book. I will say that this particular edition of this book is a gift from perhaps the best (let’s say among the very best, more modestly?) translation team of our time, Richard Pevear and Larissa Volokhonsky.

Dostoevsky spent nearly two years writing The Brothers Karamazov, which was published as a serial in 1879-1880. Dostoevsky died less than four months after its publication. He wrote it after he was released from six years of prison in which he made his most complete commitment to God after a lifetime of doubt and struggle (though if you are worried this is some kind of religious tract, relax, there is still a lot of anguish and struggle in it). What’s it “about”? Debates about God, doubt, free will, love, capital, inequity . . . and (there henceforth spoilers) patricide.

Fyodor, Daddy K, is a wastrel, scoundrel, rake, philanderer. . . you get the picture. We are not rooting for him. One wife leaves and he neglects his son, another dies and he neglects the next son. He fathers a child with a disabled woman in the village, known as Stinking Lizaveta, ugh. (I mean he despicable, not her). We would not be unhappy to see him go. . and he does, but not for a long time in this story. He’s in love with Grushenka and in some dispute with his son Dmitri over money and his shared love/lust/jealousy about her.

Dmitri is, like his father, a ladies man, a “sensualist” or hedonist, engaged to Katerina Ivanovna, but later in love with Grushenka. A trial ensues after his father is killed, and he is accused.

Ivan is an intellectual, the most cynical of the three brothers, an atheist that battles his monk brother Alyosha over issues of faith; recites a poem/tale of The Grand Inquisitor that is seen as one of the great statements about faith and doubt ever written. Ivan, distressed about the massive suffering of the world, doubts that a benevolent God would allow it. He also seems to be in love with Dmitri’s betrothed, Katerina Ivanovna.

Alyosha is the youngest brother, a novice monk who has left the lust and greed and cynicism of his family (which are some things Dostoevsky himself struggled lifelong with, and more). Called by the narrator as the “hero” of the novel, he is also named after Dostoevsky’s dead 3-year-old son, Alyosha. While the novel primarily moves forward through rich and entertaining dialogues on social issues and family, Alyosha speaks the least, and is potentially the least interesting in a way because he is just so. . . good, but the novel ends with him interacting with children in love, an image of hope and reconciliation. At one point he is briefly engaged to disabled neighborhood friend Lise. His spiritual father is Father Zosima, who gets to make some of the best defenses for faith in God; even if you are an atheist you might want to check out these speeches.

Smerdyakov, an epileptic as was Dostoevsky, is the “illegitimate” son of Fyodor and Lizaveta. Maybe as grim and cynical as Ivan. His father hires him as a servant.

I felt a kind of intellectual vindication of my feeling for the book when in grad school I read Mikhail Bakhtin’s assertion in The Dialogic Imagination that the novel was the best of all forms of writing for an exploration of the world. Not poetry, not debate/argument, but narrative. At its best, Bakhtin said, the novel could function as a kind of “cultural forum,” as opposed to some kind of didactic treatise. Bakhtin held up the Brothers K as the best example of this tendency in the best of novels, not a sermon with mere types of characters but a rich dialogue among very real and visceral human beings representing a range of human (and decidedly Russian) experience. Bakhtin thought the later Tolstoy, such as in Resurrection, created a kind of black and white, saints and sinners universe, not nearly as good an example of the novel’s possibilities as Brothers.

In Brothers Dostoevsky has a credible atheist, a credible hedonist/sensualist, and a credible Christian, all three brothers making a kind of case for how one might live one’s life. Dostoevsky, a gambler, a heavy drinker, an intellectual, an epileptic, a passionate lover of women, a passionate and anguished believer and doubter of Christianity, isn’t writing a tract for faith but an exploration one can use to think about one’s own moral life.

“And what's strange, what would be marvelous, is not that God should really exist; the marvel is that such an idea, the idea of the necessity of God, could enter the head of such a savage, vicious beast as man.”

That murder and trial? As good a page turner as any murder mystery you’ll find. You just have to wait about half of the book to get to it. . . I am not sure if you can actually predict the verdict. I mean, Dmitri is found with blood on his clothes, had motive, was on the scene, was spending money drunkenly afterwards. . . So he did it, right? Maybe. A lot of people had reason to kill the old man.

Some interesting things:

*So, Father Zosima finally dies, but not before he makes a final sermon to those around him at the monastery. Whether or not you are a Christian, or even religious, this is a great and powerful speech. Then, almost as comic relief, we see that many people are disappointed to find that the body of this guy they think of as a saint actually decays. What, no resurrection?!

“This is my last message to you: in sorrow, seek happiness.”

*As the father of two boys with autism, I was especially anguished this time around about the chapter on Lizaveta, who roams the streets, with no verbal language (as is the case with one of my sons). Most people accept her, feed her, support her, but as now, not everyone. And she is pretty clearly raped by Fyodor, because we can’t assume consent.

*One sort of feminist acknowledgement of patriarchy is that people of this time found a tendency in some women to largely go “bad” because of. . . men. These women were referred to as "shriekers," and if you saw the limitations many women faced in this time, you would shriek, too.

*Early on I love the dialogues between the hedonist/wastrel/sensualist/sinner Fyodor and Father Zosima, who is the closest thing we have to a saint in any Dostoevsky story, though his follower Alyosha may just fill his shoes.

*After all the anguish, I like the sweet simple image of love and faith that concludes the book, with Alyosha and some children.

Some good and thoughtful quotes:

“The mystery of human existence lies not in just staying alive, but in finding something to live for.”

“I think the devil doesn't exist, but man has created him, he has created him in his own image and likeness.”

“Man, do not pride yourself on your superiority to the animals, for they are without sin, while you, with all your greatness, you defile the earth wherever you appear and leave an ignoble trail behind you--and that is true, alas, for almost every one of us!”

“If he's honest, he'll steal; if he's human, he'll murder; if he's faithful, he'll deceive.”

“Everything passes, only truth remains.”

The best book ever? For me it is.

باید یک بار دیگه نسخه ی نوشتاری کتاب رو هم بخونم
نسخه ی شنیداری تمرکز خیلی بالایی میخواد و این یک امتیاز رو در واقع از خودم کم میکنم که گاهی تمرکزم کم میشد :))
نقطه ی اوج و قوت داستان ، جلسه ی دادگاه بود
تا اینجا که بهترینِ داستایفسکی بوده برای من و البته بهترینِ آرمان سلطانزاده

Above all, avoid lies, all lies, especially the lie to yourself. Keep watch on your own lie and examine it every hour, every minute. And avoid contempt, both of others and of yourself: what seems bad to you in yourself is purified by the very fact that you have noticed it in yourself. And avoid fear, though fear is simply the consequence of every lie. (57)

t
Family. You cannot pick. You are either happy to be around them or you are stuck with them. You can choose your friends, a pet, you can choose between a blueberry muffin and a chocolate chip one, but you cannot choose your family. The combination of genetics and the social environment is simply fascinating. For example, take this ordinary Russian family. An ambitious, lascivious, ridiculous father who enjoyed alcohol in any form; a son who, at first, seemed to be the image of his father; a second son, vain and intellectual with even more questionable moral reactions; the youngest son with the kindness of a saint and the troubled soul of a common man and another weak, disturbing young man who never counted as a son. This book contains the story of every family in the world. Their struggles, their fears, their doubts, the decisions that reflect the highest and most degrading aspects of human nature.

“There is a force that will endure everything,” said Ivan, this time with a cold smirk.
“What force?”
“The Karamazov force ... the force of the Karamazov baseness.”
“To drown in depravity, to stifle your soul with corruption, is that it?” (210)

This book contains centuries of human history. It is a major treatise on philosophy and religion. And yes, there is a lot of religion here, but even me, a person who is struggling with a lack of faith and a deep ocean of doubts and fear, can still be interested and dazzled by all this. (Unless we are talking about the "monk book". There were a couple of good things but, in general, it was the only part of the book that made me want to take a really long nap. I must admit it, in the spirit of full disclosure. And my previous naive defense about how “even” me could be interested? Yes, forget it, I know I am haunted by uncertainty and, therefore, obsessed with knowledge, no matter how limited I can be.)

“Can it be that you really hold this conviction about the consequences of the exhaustion of men’s faith in the immortality of their souls?” the elder suddenly asked Ivan Fyodorovich.
“Yes, it was my contention. There is no virtue if there is no immortality.”
“You are blessed if you believe so, or else most unhappy!”
...
“Maybe you’re right... ! But still, I wasn't quite joking either ... ,” Ivan Fyodorovich suddenly and strangely confessed—by the way, with a quick blush.
“You weren't quite joking, that is true. This idea is not yet resolved in your heart and torments it. But a martyr, too, sometimes likes to toy with his despair, also from despair, as it were. For the time being you, too, are toying, out of despair, with your magazine articles and drawing-room discussions, without believing in your own dialectics and smirking at them with your heart aching inside you ... The question is not resolved in you, and there lies your great grief, for it urgently demands resolution...” (66)

A sharp observation written using such an exquisite language. You should become accustomed to that. Once you reach Book V, you will found yourself overwhelmed by the author's mesmerizing erudition.

If you're expecting an explosive plot with lots of things going on at the same time, weird twists and vampires, fights and dragons, magic and flying dogs, then this book is not for you. There is a plot, of course, but the excellence of this book lies on the writing. Dostoyevsky's trademark is his gifted ability to describe human nature using the most poignantly elegant prose known to man. His insightful points of view on almost every subject that affects all humanity are written with admirable lyricism and precision. Reading this particular writer can be rather demanding. You have to be prepared. You have to become habituated to the idea that your soul might absorb the despairing and sometimes playful beauty of his writing. And once that happens, you won't be able to forget him. Dostoyevsky has the power to defeat oblivion. He personifies an unwelcome light that illuminates every dark nook of our minds. He makes us think about what we like to see in ourselves and what we choose to hide.

Jealousy! “Othello is not jealous, he is trustful”... A truly jealous man is not like that. It is impossible to imagine all the shame and moral degradation a jealous man can tolerate without the least remorse. And it is not that they are all trite and dirty souls. On the contrary, it is possible to have a lofty heart, to love purely, to be full of self-sacrifice, and at the same time to hide under tables, to bribe the meanest people, and live with the nastiest filth of spying and eavesdropping... And one may ask what is the good of a love that must constantly be spied on, and what is the worth of a love that needs to be guarded so intensely? (293)

Besides briefly discussing the plot, I can only add I don't have favorite characters. They all annoyed me or disgusted me in the same contradictory way. But I do understand them, most of the times. I loved the dialogues—the amazing reflections while they are deciding to act against everything that is good; they know what they are about to do is wrong but they can't help it; it's in their blood—the profound remarks of our narrator and the fact that Dostoyevsky, one more time, allowed me to enter inside his characters' minds. He shares the complexity of all of them. And I'm enchanted by this man's ability to make everything beautiful, even while describing the darkest aspects of humanity, which leads me to another point.
I love reading other people's thoughts on the books I like. A certain opinion I read a while ago was about how Dostoyevsky seems to be a vicious misogynist because of the way he wrote about Smerdyakov's mother, “Stinking Lizaveta.” I try not to make out of every word written by the author, a reflection of the person he or she really is. Crime writers don't usually murder every human they find. Mystery writers don't always think that somebody's butler is up to something. In that sense, an author who writes about how a woman is mistreated by a certain part of society doesn't necessarily mean he's a vicious misogynist. He was being honest, he was displaying truth. Poor women and men were often treated like less than a human - that hasn't changed that much. Dostoyevsky described it too vividly.*

...people speak sometimes about the ‘animal’ cruelty of man, but that is terribly unjust and offensive to animals, no animal could ever be so cruel as a man, so artfully, so artistically cruel. (193)

In conclusion, as I said before, this book contains the history of the world. A deluge of misery and wisdom waiting for the reader. The way of representing the Russian soul is the way all souls should be represented; it transcends any geographical boundary, any limitation of time. We all have many sides of the Karamazovs' nature in us. We all have demons tormenting our good judgment. We all know what we should do and, sometimes, we simply can't do it. I can't justify everything but we are humans. I want to understand, I need to. We are susceptible to failure. To negligence. To vileness, dishonesty and many other abhorrent things. Once mistakes are made, only the most fortunate ones are able to find a path toward redemption. In this book, in this Russia which portrays the world of all times, some did. And some had to endure the bitter punishments that the choices in their lives have brought upon them.

‘I love mankind,’ he said, ‘but I am amazed at myself: the more I love mankind in general, the less I love people in particular, that is, individually, as separate persons... (56)

Too human. We all hear the sounds of a ravenous solitude echoing in the dark depths of our beings; they often make us act by instinct, forgetting that we have been blessed—or doomed—with reason. Moreover, they make us forget to feel love. And that, indeed, is a faithful depiction of what hell must feel like. A hell to which we will soon arrive by repeating to ourselves: n  everything is permittedn.




May 05, 14-Update June 17, 19
*Just another reader's opinion.
** Also on my blog.