2/4 MINI REVIEW: The Brother Karamazov by Fyodor Dostoevsky

First and foremost, I need to acknowledge the fact that I’ve been reading this book for quite a long time. And that’s only because I’ve hardly been reading it at all. I’m an artist! A thinker! A liver! (A liver? Ugh! How anatomical!). Yes, a liver! And a lover and creator of many things, and my hobbies were calling me. But alas! I’m back, and with a few things to say. 

“Everywhere now human intellect is, ironically, beginning to ignore the fact that a person’s genuine security lies not in his individual, solitary efforts, but in the common solidarity of the people. This terrible individualism absolutely must end, and men will understand at once that they have separated themselves from one another unnaturally,” (358). See Genesis 2:18.

This book/section was titled “Lacerations” and the majority of it was spent unraveling the layered relationships the brothers have with each other and with the people in their town. A love story begins to bloom in the most sincere and innocent of ways for Alyosha and I couldn’t be more thrilled. His fiancé is witty, so witty and funny and sensitive. The two make a marvelous, heartwarming pair. She already seems to coax out a different side of Alyosha, one that’s brave, private, masculine, and protective. He’s always been this way, but with her it’s amplified, and it's a pleasure seeing all the ways it plays out.

Dmitri is wild as ever, and I’m expecting something terrible to come from his wildness. In truth, I’m shocked it hasn’t already happened yet. He’s an ass with a gift for humiliating women he seems to genuinely care for. It’s clear that Dmitri is all body, Ivan is all brain, and Alyosha is all soul. Of course, that is a generalization, but that’s the blurry image they present of themselves. The basis for Ivan’s atheism has become far more fleshed out in this sectioned, which warranted a bit of sympathy from me (surprising, I know), and yet the holes in his argument led me to the same conclusion: Ivan cannot let himself rest, he cannot accept God’s greatness, it’s all too unfathomable and fantastical for such a drab and hurtful world. You cannot make a believer out of someone who does not want to believe. You can present every answer to every question, but if a person does not want to believe you, then they never will. Logic will not matter–the truth could be based entirely on logic, as I believe much of it is–if the heart is bound by apathy or stubbornness or some other hidden impediment. That is what I see as Ivan’s great tragedy here. And yet, I maintain hope! Throughout this section, there has been a recurring theme of spiritual transformation. It’s all been very Saul-to-Paul of late.

“‘Who is there to worship?’ For having been left in a state of freedom, man has no greater, more urgent, or more agonizing need than to find someone to worship…Because the secret of man’s being is not only in living, but in having something to live for,” (301-302). 

The theological discussions just get richer and richer as the book continues, and it’s all written with smoothness and passion. Before reading Dostoevsky, I had been warned about the rough, jagged edges of his writing. Perhaps it’s a glossy translation I’ve been reading, but I’ve found the language to be remarkably scintillating and seamless. As is the case with every speaker, writer, or musician, there’s a certain frequency to his words, and his frequency is quite easy to fall into. That's not to say it's elementary, because it's not. I'm saying this is the perfect book for the overthinker, over-analyzer, and deep feeler. And being all of those, it's really helped me feel less...alone? Crazy? Sensitive? (PAUSE. Am I falling in love with Dostoevsky? Yes, I believe so). And I don’t want to say the writing style is stream of consciousness, but there is something in it that reminds me of 1,001 Nights–stories inside of stories inside of stories. This book is ta lot like hat teacher that would answer all your questions and tell you stories and allow the class to be derailed for the sake of a story that ought to be told, heard, and enjoyed or considered. I believe only two or three days have passed in the book's setting and I’m 400 pages in.

“Brothers, love is a teacher, but one must know how to acquire it, because it is difficult to do; it costs a great deal and is acquired by long, hard work. We must love not only for a moment, but forever. Everyone can occasionally experience love, even the wicked,” (375).

There are moments in my life when, depending on the emotional state of a situation, certain Bible verses pop up into my head, either because it resonates or because it will, in some way, soothe the situation. The same thing happens with certain lines of Shakespeare, too, and while there is a difference between God’s word and literature that holds the wisdom of the ages, I believe Dostoevsky carries a similar weight–the weight of a classic, and one that’s able bleed into the reader and stay there and live with a person, forever. 

“We were almost proud of our drunkenness, debauchery, and bravado. I won’t say that we were despicable; all these young people were good men, but they behaved despicably, and I was the worst of all,” (349). See 1 Timothy 1:15.

Now while I was initially apprehensive about beginning the biographical section of the book (on Father Zosima), it ended up being one of my favorite parts. It was so rich in wisdom, mining deep into this mountain of Biblical truth and apologetics. It came to me at the most fitting time in my life. There will and always have been spiritual dry spells that occur for any number of reasons under the sun. This book has revealed to me that my way back to my faith will be through logic and storytelling. I need an argument, I need a battle, and I need a narrative. And this section began to feel like a true narrative, too--a history of a person, and yet, father Zosima does not exist. What a brilliant idea, to use a biography, albeit an incomplete one, to present insight gained across a lifetime, particularly that pertaining to Christ and our place in this world and life. 

Though there were several tidbits of information I’d like to draw out and dissect, a practical reminder this part of the book granted me was the value of elders, especially those of which have lived a righteous life. I’ve always thought the old folks ought to be respected to a greater degree, not because they are old, but because they’ve survived multiple seasons of grief, repentance, regret, and joy. The older one gets, the easier it seems to cut straight through to what’s important. I’ve had the privilege of being related to several Father Zosima's, and I do not take for granted the type of love and guidance they’ve showered upon me my whole life. My Grandma Carol was like this, and while not being so righteous in the "front pew every Sunday" sense, she had, over the years, allowed the harshness of her hardships to smooth her into, well, a stunning Fabergé egg. ( I realize I could’ve used a metaphor about pressure and diamonds and all that, but that is so overdone). I say Fabergé egg, not just due to its Russian relevance, but because she was, in the purest sense, a good egg. And how often do we credit the good eggs in our lives with a naturally good and charismatic temperament, forgetting what it is they’ve gone through or survived? While this could easily turn into an essay titled, “How to identify the good eggs from the bad eggs in your life?” or “What really makes a person a good egg?” – (I suddenly hear oompa loompas dancing and singing in the background of my mind), I’d rather simply like to encourage you to cherish the old folks in your life, listen to what they say–record it, too, if you can–and let it change you and mold you, smooth you out, like a rock in a riverbed worn smooth from years of constant motion and fearless submission. Yes, I know the elders can be ornery, but then again, so can you.