It seems to me that I was on my way to this book for a very long time. And I didn't have the slightest idea of the plot beforehand. But the title "The Brothers Karamazov" had a hidden and fateful meaning that simultaneously attracted me, whetting my reader's appetite, and at the same time repulsed me with the promise of something vile and sinful.
Such thoughts swirled in my head, holding back and delaying the hour when I would open the last of Dostoevsky's works, but at the same time urging me not to miss the chance to return to the sources, to take this particular book for my book marathon, to dive into the Russian classics without the slightest hope of pardon or unexpected salvation.
Fyodor Mikhailovich Dostoevsky was a Russian novelist, short story writer, essayist, and journalist. His literary works explore human psychology in the troubled political, social, and spiritual atmospheres of 19th-century Russia, and engage with a variety of philosophical and religious themes. His most acclaimed novels include Crime and Punishment (1866), The Idiot (1869), Demons (1872), and The Brothers Karamazov (1880).
The book begins with a completely unnecessary, in my cranky opinion, author's preface, in which FM muddies the waters, gets ahead of himself, apologizes and mocks a lot. More importantly, he keeps saying that there will be two books. The first one is introductory, and the second one is straight up woohoo! About a bright hero. That's what I read, read, and did not wait for any division. Parts like 4, each book is three, and another N chapters. What did you deceive Fyodor Mikhailovich, did you dare to make a joke before his death? But never mind, that's not the point. So I open the book. And here it is...
So my premonition came true, one can see in it an omen, the wiles of the evil one, fate, fate. I just thanked my intuition once again. Indeed, the book bears the stamp of damnation and vice. It is full of tormented souls and poisoned minds, great sinners and down-to-earth righteous people, if you consider that at least some of them were really free from the pernicious influence of depravity, lies and cynicism, of which almost all the tenants of City C are rich.
Imagine for a moment that time has reversed, and you are transported to the end of the nineteenth century, to a province lost in the boondocks with petty officials, retired officers, bankrupt landlords and grief-philosophers. Not much time has passed since the abolition of serfdom, but the bony minds, enslaved for centuries by the old order, are still unable to fully comprehend the new state of affairs. And only fermentation multiplies in young minds, political circles and movements multiply, philosophical currents as well as religious concessions collide almost to physical violence, not accepting contradictions, not recognizing peaceful coexistence. And so it is in this environment that our heroes live, as different as they are similar.
While the petty bourgeois are trying to turn a penny into a ruble, not hesitating to plow the land themselves, simple men and "the people" - in the words of one of the boys - are still drinking themselves intoxicated. The Great Russia does not change, oh centuries go by, but the spirit is the same. And what else is left for the freed, but in conditions a little less than slave, people? That's the same. The merchants and landlords, who have money, are another matter. Though they are greedy to eternal gold, but they are too voluptuous, so they let hundreds and thousands rubles flow in the wind with easy heart, which many people could not hold in their hands during their life. Let's have a party, let's have a party, let's have a party. Sing the gypsies a song, play the gypsies on violins and cymbals. Girls, girls, dance! Dance! With a handkerchief, with a blush, with a mischievous twinkle in their eyes!
Can you imagine? Have you drunk cognac and champagne? Here's the elder's Wednesday. In which he clowned and debauched and introduced himself. It is not strange that in such a life there should be a feisty and mean-spirited temper, but proud, with his honor and low feelings. The light of our Motherland's two capitals is another matter, this is not a provincial town. Here are institutes and colleges, great minds and scholars, doctors and lawyers, seminarians and critics. But the soul is not enough, and the faith ran out. It dripped and dripped, it kept oozing through the torn wounds of our hearts, through the sieve of our souls. And so it ran out, and there was nothing to put in its place. And how modern we must be in pain, with unhealed genetic wounds. Oh, you are our goddamn holes. And here we come back to Rodion Raskolnikov from another book, where everything is allowed. But that's not the point. Can a man live aimlessly, with no aspirations or spiritual beginnings? One can fall ill, catch a fever, or become ill with the devil. And let the mind is a room, but the flames of the soul of a seminarian and anti-humanist. Here's your average hero.
What's our sacred number? Three, three, trinity. There is also the youngest at first glance very different and strange, innocent and reserved, open and sincere. The monastery is the arena, the monks are friends. Blessed thoughts, childlike pure soul and faith. Isn't he a mystic, a Jesuit, or a candidate for priesthood? But if so, he would have had a different surname and would have been related to completely different people. But he is in the same harness, and it is not clear whether he is pulling or pushing. A positive character? I do not believe in signs "+" and "-" in relation to people! They are not real numbers. And I will sin if I do not say that it seems to me that in many respects our positive hero was that provocateur-pebble, which out of ignorance and because of his inability snapped and dragged down boulders after him. And all they needed was to get a push and to get acceleration. They will overtake everyone else by a quadrillion quadrillion versts and will be the first to arrive at the trial.
But enough about the people, this is not a national census, it's a different story. I'm not going to go into details, quotes, or motives about whose house is on the edge and who is the wolf to whom. That is unwarranted spoilerism! You won't be forgiven for that. I will say that the book presents a full deck: drama, love, feuds, reconciliations, crimes, punishments, revelations, obsessions, religion, bureaucracy, verbosity and vacuousness, philosophy and self-discovery. And the inhabitants are diverse too, but how ugly and unpleasant all in one. How is it cruel to live the life of characters who cause so much disgust and squeamishness. But that's a reader's fate.
You know, I made an analogy with Sodom and Gomorrah, only Dostoevsky has everything hidden in the souls of people, and wrapped in beautiful wrappers with colored ribbons. But God, what a beautiful and enchanting language he has! How not to be amazed, if you do not like dialogue-monologues, but still read with rapture, though torture. And there is torture, because in answer to a simple question with a possible one-word answer of "yes" or "no", Karamazovsky's hero is able to spew out a speech of several pages, confused, confused and seemingly devoid of meaning. But, you know, you believe a man like that. You just do. You don't get the meaning, you get the mood. Because the character screams so furiously, and beats his chest with such passion, scolds, blasphemes and, on the contrary, repents to the point of tenderness and tears. HOW... IS... IT... NOT... TO... LOVE?!
I can't help but mention a spoonful of soot. Dostoevsky, consciously or naively in a childish graphomaniacal dozens or even hundreds of times leading us along the path of the current action in passing mention events or facts that will reveal much later. Crap! What the hell is this?! I wanted to finish reading it myself and see everything at the right, timely moment! Well, why introduce intrigue and reveal it almost immediately, and then lead us down a path of discovery and comprehension? Most likely, this is some sort of fashionable device. Let the linguists and literary scholars judge. I am a reader, of whom there are many; it is the text itself that concerns me, not the showing off of the creator.
I do not consider myself a researcher or an ardent fan of Fyodor Dostoevsky, but I do have certain views on his work. And it seems to me that the strength of the father is in psychology, in the moods and dialogues. What his "children" say, the way they do it - gives us much more food for thought and feeling than countless descriptions, revealed thoughts and actions in other writers. Admittedly, the author is strong. Strong not in the beauty of phrases, but in depth and sincerity. What's on your mind is on your tongue. And may other contradictory words come off in a moment, but it was at the moment of utterance that the hero thought that way, felt that way, lived that way. Considering that FM is a master of psychology, I would even say a connoisseur of the human being and his unvarnished nature, it is not surprising to see the dominance of sin in his final work. Almost every commandment is broken here: gluttony, greed, adultery, anger, despondency, vanity, pride, making an idol, etc. You will see for yourself.
I am not specifically talking about the plot, but only about the artistic execution. I could, of course, touch on the detective stuff as well. But I don't think it's worth wasting your precious time. Undoubtedly, as you read "The Brothers Karamazov" at the very beginning you will understand everything, and there will be only small nuances for the appetizer. They will become clearer towards the end, but not as satisfying as expected. It's not the adventures of Sherlock Holmes, after all. This is a book about souls, their tossing, sin, remorse, rebellion, betrayal and love. Love is not a man and a woman, but man to man.
I have found a lot of bitterness in this work, and touching moments when you could run a waterfall of tears, not once. But in the end, I found an optimistic grain which will in time bear good fruits, and many thanks to Fyodor Mikhailovich for that. I am unspeakably glad that even in spite of all the horror and rottenness shown, there is always room for humanity and hope. With that I live, and with that I leave.
This article was sponsored by Dante Cuenco
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