[Spoiler Alert: This post covers Book Three and the Sept 8 post will cover Book Four. So "compulsively readable" is this novel (Donald Fanger), that we can't help but overrun our deadlines! -- Howl]
"It is hard enough to keep your billion character-oviches separate in our minds. How dare you, Mr. Dostoevsky, ramble for pages," wrote my colleague, Howl. But what Howl doesn't understand is that Mister Dostoevsky's greatest achievement was realizing that losing control was actually a pretty effective Literary Device. "What? What!" you may say, "Stop rambling, chum!" But follow me.
On page: 24, Fyodor Pavlovich Karamazov mutters my favorite lines from The Brothers Karamazov Thus Far screaming at his son the monk: "I think, that the devils will forget to drag me down to their place with their hooks when I die. And then I think: hooks? Where do they get them? What are they made of? Iron? Where do they forge them? Have they got some kind of factory down there?"
I could go on, quoting his gorgeous, rambling speech about the length and the depths of Hell, figuring out the theological problems of the Drunken Atheist. But instead of trying to figure out the traditional Sunday-School cutesy theological problem: "How many angels can fit on the head of pin?" No, good old Fyodor Pavlovich Karamazov, this mixed-up father figure who fathered so many mixed-up sons, he doesn't screw around with sappy metaphorical problems, he's trying to figure out a whole different kind of metaphysical riddle: How many demons it will take to peel off my skin in Hell?
That's my favorite part about The Brothers Karamazov Thus Far—that we have characters so blasphemous, on the one hand, and so poetic, on the other hand, that even the Damned Father Figure is wrestling with religious conundrums so thick that there is no Literary Device to describe what the Author has achieved. So I am inventing a Literary Device to describe it. When the crazy Fyodor Pavlovich Karamazov rambles poetically about the ceilings and the hooks of Hell, Mister Fydor Dostoevsky is utilizing the Literary Device: The Train Wreck Metaphor.
Ah yes, The Train Wreck Metaphor. It's as if traditional religious and philosophical and literary rhetoric had a drunken orgy with surrealism; it's a metaphor that jumps the tracks and goes flying through the air spitting steam and gears, spiraling out of the writer's control; it's a mad mad metaphor and there's nothing you can do about it. If I take any lesson away from The Brothers Karamazov Thus Far, it is that Dostoevsky loved Train Wreck Metaphors, when the sentence careened off into some new place. If you pay attention to these strange passages, it seems as if Dostoevsky had fathered an Illegitimate Book within this Classic Novel, a book that he wouldn't even acknowledge, just like the birth of Fyodor Pavlovich Karamazov's possibly illegitimate son in the garden on page 99—nobody knew how the boy's mother ended up in Fyodor Pavlovich Karamazov's garden, but there she was, giving birth to a son who will later challenge everything the father took for granted about his bourgeoisie lifestyle.
And so then, that particular Train Wreck Metaphor grows up and becomes Pavel Fyodorovich Smerdyakov, the servant in his drunken father's house who ends up delivering some of the most devastating atheist theology of The Whole Book Thus far, this line, this out of control Train Wreck Metaphor that literally makes his father proud on page 130: "in the Scriptures it is said that if you have faith even as little as the smallest seed and then say unto this mountain that it should go down into the sea, it would go, without the slightest delay, at your first order....if I'm an unbeliever, and you are such a believer that you're even constantly scolding me, then you, sir, try telling this mountain to go down, not into the sea (because it's far from here to the sea, sir) but even just into our stinking stream, the one beyond our garden, and you'll see for yourself right then that nothing will go down, sir"
The kid talks just like his alleged father. So much so, that Fyodor Pavlovich Karamazov calls him "Balaam's ass." Balaam's Ass—the faithful donkey that tried to warn the misguided prophet Balaam about the giant angel blocking the road. Balaam couldn't see the angel that was about to kill him, but Balaam's Ass could—what a fabulous Train Wreck Metaphor for a hateful man to call his possible son. Let us jumble our metaphors henceforth, following the terrible example of a wicked father. Henceforth, celebrate the Train Wreck Metaphor. Write, write, write like you are knocking down a mountain or being speared by devils in Hell; write as if there is an angel in the road, prepared to smote you, an angel that nobody else can see except for you.
Henceforth, for all these aforementioned reasons, call me Balaam's Ass. Utilizing the authority of my new office, I recommend the next poster posts something before September 8...
Monday, August 25, 2008
Saturday, August 16, 2008
Why Is Such a Book Printed!
The story starts strong. The introduction is perfectly crazy, and then the opening chapters have everything you could want in a novel: drunkenness, orgies, a suicide attempt, family warfare, hints of murder, a cast of misfits ... By the end of the third chapter, I lost count of the deaths.
Then comes "Elders." The narrator states, "I ought to say a few words [...] about what, generally, the elders in our monasteries are"; and my response is, you ought not to have wasted our time.
This chapter, Mr. Dostoevsky, is almost inexcusable. It is hard enough to read a 130-year-old novel, let alone an 800-page 130-year-old novel, let alone a Russian 800-page 130-year-old novel ... It is hard enough to keep your billion character-oviches separate in our minds.
How dare you, Mr. Dostoevsky, ramble for pages about Mount Athos and the Ecumenical Patriarch? How dare you tell us about Paissy Velichkovsky and his disciples, and your favorite "most aged monks," one of them "famous for his great silence and remarkable fasting"? Your charade, Mr. Dostoevsky, depends on this assumption: "I am a canonized novelist, so you must worship everything I write, you must convince yourself that my whims and my editors' neglect are not whims and neglect, but proofs of my genius"; why not drop the charade, Mr. Dostoevsky, and just waterboard us?
For this is obviously what you want: for the reader to suffer, for us maybe to become -- I don't know -- closer to God by suffering. Well thank you, Mr. Dostoevsky, thank you for bringing me to the "true kingdom of Christ. " But I'd thank you still more if you left literature to your friend Count Tolstoy, and spared us the "Ultramontanism" puns. (Could anything be less funny?)
Questions for the readers:
1) How often do Alyosha and the elder make love? ("Alyosha lived in the cell of the elder, who loved him and allowed him to stay by him [...] of course he also liked it.")
2) What the hell is a hieromonk?
3) Do people really read this book for pleasure, or is it only read for reputation--or by assignment?
Then comes "Elders." The narrator states, "I ought to say a few words [...] about what, generally, the elders in our monasteries are"; and my response is, you ought not to have wasted our time.
This chapter, Mr. Dostoevsky, is almost inexcusable. It is hard enough to read a 130-year-old novel, let alone an 800-page 130-year-old novel, let alone a Russian 800-page 130-year-old novel ... It is hard enough to keep your billion character-oviches separate in our minds.
How dare you, Mr. Dostoevsky, ramble for pages about Mount Athos and the Ecumenical Patriarch? How dare you tell us about Paissy Velichkovsky and his disciples, and your favorite "most aged monks," one of them "famous for his great silence and remarkable fasting"? Your charade, Mr. Dostoevsky, depends on this assumption: "I am a canonized novelist, so you must worship everything I write, you must convince yourself that my whims and my editors' neglect are not whims and neglect, but proofs of my genius"; why not drop the charade, Mr. Dostoevsky, and just waterboard us?
For this is obviously what you want: for the reader to suffer, for us maybe to become -- I don't know -- closer to God by suffering. Well thank you, Mr. Dostoevsky, thank you for bringing me to the "true kingdom of Christ. " But I'd thank you still more if you left literature to your friend Count Tolstoy, and spared us the "Ultramontanism" puns. (Could anything be less funny?)
Questions for the readers:
1) How often do Alyosha and the elder make love? ("Alyosha lived in the cell of the elder, who loved him and allowed him to stay by him [...] of course he also liked it.")
2) What the hell is a hieromonk?
3) Do people really read this book for pleasure, or is it only read for reputation--or by assignment?
Sunday, August 3, 2008
book club -- first reading
Much as TV series and seasons often start and end with double episodes, The Brothers Karamazov began when its first and second books were published together in the January 1879 issue of The Russian Herald.
Imagine yourself there: a St. Petersburg winter, a nation without elections or free speech or good dentistry, a bottle of vodka on your table and a Georgian prostitute in your filthy bed. Then the mail arrives, and with it your favorite "thick journal," the Herald. You light your third cigar of the morning and pour yourself a fourth vodka. You are fifteen years old.
Turning the pages, you see a piece about the Tsarina, and how lovely she looks in ermine. Then there's another piece, something on France and its political failings -- you skim it, knowing you'll need a bon mot on the topic for Anna Scherer's soiree tonight. Next you see a full-page advertisement from a company that leases charwomen: "Does your divan smell like Dianka? Try our women, who always use soap ... " You turn more pages, passing over an article about the new Mussorgsky opera -- who cares, you hate Mussorgsky, you met him at a restaurant and he stank like a goat -- still more pages turn, and then ... Double Dostoevsky! What a treat.
Members of the book club are now invited to read "From the Author" and Books One and Two ("A Nice Little Family" and "An Inappropriate Gathering"), which together in the Pevear-Volokhonsky translation constitute the book's first 91 pages. (We can skip Pevear's introduction for now.) I'll post something around August 16.
Imagine yourself there: a St. Petersburg winter, a nation without elections or free speech or good dentistry, a bottle of vodka on your table and a Georgian prostitute in your filthy bed. Then the mail arrives, and with it your favorite "thick journal," the Herald. You light your third cigar of the morning and pour yourself a fourth vodka. You are fifteen years old.
Turning the pages, you see a piece about the Tsarina, and how lovely she looks in ermine. Then there's another piece, something on France and its political failings -- you skim it, knowing you'll need a bon mot on the topic for Anna Scherer's soiree tonight. Next you see a full-page advertisement from a company that leases charwomen: "Does your divan smell like Dianka? Try our women, who always use soap ... " You turn more pages, passing over an article about the new Mussorgsky opera -- who cares, you hate Mussorgsky, you met him at a restaurant and he stank like a goat -- still more pages turn, and then ... Double Dostoevsky! What a treat.
Members of the book club are now invited to read "From the Author" and Books One and Two ("A Nice Little Family" and "An Inappropriate Gathering"), which together in the Pevear-Volokhonsky translation constitute the book's first 91 pages. (We can skip Pevear's introduction for now.) I'll post something around August 16.
Saturday, August 2, 2008
t-shirt of the month
Again the winner this month was clear and early:
GOT JUNK
IN YOUR
TRUNK?
I'M YOUR MAN
IN YOUR
TRUNK?
I'M YOUR MAN
Out with the old
I keep things. In the last year I've worn about 5% of the clothes I own. I keep bubble wrap, uniquely shaped envelopes, styrofoam blocks from packaging, the weird wine bottle holder (best guess) that the previous owner left in my condo, and boxes. Lots of boxes.
I kept all my moving boxes from last year, as well as most of the original boxes of things I've bought (shoes, cuisinart, rice cooker...). My reasoning is either that if I ever move it would be easiest to repackage these things in their original boxes, or that I'll have another use for this diversely sized collection of boxes. Yet in the 16 months since I've moved in, I have to say I can't remember ever needing any of these boxes. So this morning I cleaned my storage space of most of these boxes. The big boxes I did keep - I just couldn't help myself - but I at least broke them down (even though by slicing through the tape it meant I would have to waste yet more tape next time around). My storage unit now looks nearly empty.
My storage unit also has spiders. I'm sure they're harmless, but I have an aversion to spiders. I'm open-minded, but I don't think I could ever be friends with a spider. So as part of my cleaning I did have to squash a few spiders. But I left some others unharmed, because they weren't in my way, I didn't feel like getting into more spider muck, and I knew they'd probably just come back. Well, the dead ones probably wouldn't come back, but others like them would. I need some spider traps.
I kept all my moving boxes from last year, as well as most of the original boxes of things I've bought (shoes, cuisinart, rice cooker...). My reasoning is either that if I ever move it would be easiest to repackage these things in their original boxes, or that I'll have another use for this diversely sized collection of boxes. Yet in the 16 months since I've moved in, I have to say I can't remember ever needing any of these boxes. So this morning I cleaned my storage space of most of these boxes. The big boxes I did keep - I just couldn't help myself - but I at least broke them down (even though by slicing through the tape it meant I would have to waste yet more tape next time around). My storage unit now looks nearly empty.
My storage unit also has spiders. I'm sure they're harmless, but I have an aversion to spiders. I'm open-minded, but I don't think I could ever be friends with a spider. So as part of my cleaning I did have to squash a few spiders. But I left some others unharmed, because they weren't in my way, I didn't feel like getting into more spider muck, and I knew they'd probably just come back. Well, the dead ones probably wouldn't come back, but others like them would. I need some spider traps.
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