How to Finish The Brothers Karamazov on Your nth Attempt

This is not a review of one of the best-known books in the literary canon. Instead, it’s my reaction to it, how I finally tamed the monster.

We all have at least one of the great classics lurking in our subconscious, taunting us with its impregnable unread status. My Achilles heel has been The Brothers Karamazov and I considered myself beaten after abandoning it no less than five times in three decades. It wasn’t even that I didn’t like Dostoevsky – he is, in fact, one of my favourite Russian authors and I lapped up all of his other work, even the gloomiest ones. Nor was it the length that put me off. I managed to get through Remembrance of Things Past (where far less exciting stuff happens) and War and Peace (although the war scenes did not enthrall me) relatively unscathed, while Genji Monogatari is one of my favourite books of all time.

So it was with some trepidation that I picked it up in December to read straight after the hugely enjoyable Sakhalin Island by Chekhov. To my astonishment, I not only managed to finish it in less than a month, but I actually enjoyed it this time! What made it different this time? Here are some top tips for vanquishing the beast (some of them tongue-in-cheek, some of them perfectly serious).

Clear your schedule:

I knew I had the Christmas holidays coming up, and that I wasn’t likely to go anywhere very soon, so it seemed like the perfect opportunity to lie in bed for an hour or two in the morning and another couple of hours in the evening. I’d often find myself gravitating towards it during the day as well for a few pages.

Pick a good translation:

I had tried reading the book in Romanian, German and English translations, but none of them stuck. This one by Ignat Avsey (Oxford University Press World’s Classics) felt very fresh natural, really conveyed the feel of the spoken language of rural Russia, without sounding old-fashioned or ‘too exotic’.

Alternate with lighter reads:

When the going got tough, when bad news was forthcoming and I just couldn’t stomach any more Russian gloom and drama, I would switch to something lighter and more escapist, for example crime fiction like Ruth Ware’s skiing holiday from hell One by One, or John le Carre’s A Murder of Quality or the cosier puzzle mystery of The Marlow Murder Club by Robert Thorogood. I also watched plenty of lighter films over the holidays, and they too helped to lift the mood.

Skim read the bits that bore you rigid:

This will not be a popular piece of advice with the purists, but it’s what got me through. Classic though he is, Dostoevsky does tend to go on and on upon the slightest provocation. Alyosha and Ivan go to a tavern together and Ivan launches into several chapters’ worth of lengthy explanations about his world view and doubts and metaphorical tales. It sometimes feels like every single character has far too much of a back story, and that the unnamed narrator has to share all the gossip. As for the scenes in the monastery – that’s where I abandoned the book in the past. Father Zosima’s life and sayings were just a step too far for me – especially since he then disappears from the book without too much of an impact on the actions of any of the other characters (other than Alyosha). Even the sub-plot with the schoolboys befriended by Alyosha was not really all that necessary to the main story, although I personally quite liked it.

So yes, Dostoevsky tries to bring pretty much everything into this story: all of human philosophy, faith, psychology, as well as a good deal of discussion about the unique Russian traits (if those exist). At times it is simply too much, and he could have done with a good editor, but if you find some bits less enthralling than the others, read them a bit diagonally instead of giving up, because there will be plenty of good bits to follow.

Make notes as you go along:

I half-filled the book with post-it flags. There were so many interesting quotes and paragraphs that I wanted to reread, to remember, to return to. Perhaps, with so much currently going on in the news, and so much anger and sadness at the state of the world, the quotes that particularly struck me were the ones that seemed to show that human nature has not really changed over the years and has certainly not kept pace with any technological improvements.

Everyone says they hate wickedness but deep down they all love it.

Miracles never bother a realist. A true realist, if he is a non-believer, will always find within himself the strength and the ability not to believe in miracles. And if he believes, it’s because he wants to believe.

He prided himself on his ability to judge by appearances, a pardonable weakness in one who was 50, an age when an intelligent, well-to-do man starts to take himself seriously, sometimes even against his better judgement.

He who is false to himself is also the most likely to get offended. After all, it is sometimes very gratifying to feel offended… blow it out of all proportion so as to attract attention.

One can love one’s neighbour in the abstract and sometimes even at a distance, but close up almost never.

What is horrifying is that such dreadful crimes have ceased to shock us. What should horrify us is not that a certain individual commits an atrocity, but that we take these atrocities for granted.

We can be enthused by the noblest of ideals, only on condition that we don’t have to expend any effort, make any sacrifices, above all, that we needn’t pay anything. Paying is something we really resent…receiving, that’s really up our street.

The real world not only bestows rights but itself imposes enormous obligations… if we want to behave like civilised human beings… we must act rationally… not to harm our fellow man.

Additionally, I shared my enthusiasm by tweeting the shorter quotes, which sometimes led to people commenting. This helped to create a sense of community, even though I wasn’t reading it at the same time as anyone else.

Don’t expect to like the characters or identify with them:

Let’s be honest: the Karamazov family is pretty vile, as are many of the people around them. Dostoevsky seems to be playing with animal stereotypes there. The father is a greedy, selfish pig. Dmitry is a vain, flighty, spendthrift peacock. Ivan is a self-absorbed, supercilious fox. Smerdyakov is a secretive, nasty, double-crossing rat, while Grushenka and Katya are both volatile, extravagant and catty. Even my dear Alyosha is too much of an idealist, a bit of a rabbit or deer caught in the headlights and often used by those who are bolder than him. What struck me most is how operatic and over the top the whole story is, with lots of melodramatic set-pieces.

There was perhaps only one character in the whole book that I could somewhat identify with, and she is a very minor one: the mother of one of the schoolboys, Kolya Krasotkin, a single mother with a gentle but cheerful character, who does so much for her only son that he gets teased about it at school.

It always seemed to her that Kolya was aloof towards her, and on occasion she would weep hysterically and begin to reproach him for his aloofness. The boy did not like this, and the more anyone tried to elicit expressions of sentiment from him the more stubborn he became, as if on purpose. However he behaved thus not deliverately but involuntarily – such was his nature. His mother was mistaken; he loved her dearly, what he hated was ‘all this soppiness’…

These little observations, the psychological depth and understanding the author often shows for even his secondary characters, the subtleties of language or rich hidden meanings make this book feel both hugely specific and yet truly universal. What to make of that strange narrator, for instance, who seems to know far more than he really should, but is not an objective omniscient point of view at all, and even claims he cannot remember details from the trial.

Appreciate the humour:

Amid all the serious philosophical debate about the presence or absence of God, about the flaws of mankind and the absurdity of existence, I had forgotten that Dostoevsky can also be very funny. There are several scenes that have great comic potential, for example the clash between the Poles and the Russians, the misunderstanding between Dmitry and Mrs Khokhlaķova when it comes to her giving him money (and how she insists she is giving him far more than that, she is offering him the possibility to get involved in mining). But my favourite is the scene when the devil appears at Ivan’s side in the guise of a fairly polite, former serf-owner who has now become a mere hanger-on, and mocks all of his assumptions and beliefs. I could imagine him as a rather ridiculous looking Jacob Rees-Mogg, apparently all reasonable and cultured, but actually deeply vicious and immoral.

I’m a much maligned person… I’m blessed with a kind and cheerful disposition; I’ve turned my hand to vaudeville and that sort of thing. You seem determined to cast me as a grey-haired Khlestakov, but I’m destined for far greater things. I was singled out by some sort of prehistoric decree, which I’ve never been able to understand, as epitomising ‘negation’, but in fact I am genuinely kind and just not suited for negation. But no, I have to go forth and negate; without negation there would be no staire, and what’s the good of a magazine without a critics’ section… they made me the scapegoat and forced me to contribute to the critics’ section.

What torments? Oh, don’t ask, we used to have all sorts, but now we’ve gone over to moral torments, ‘pangs of conscience’ and all that rubbish. We owe that to you too, to your ‘relaxation of moral standards’. And who has benefited? Only the unscrupulous, because what are pangs of conscience to those who have no conscience?

I’m very sensitive and impressionable when it comes to artistic effects. But common sense… kept me within the proper bounds… purely out of a sense of duty and because of my social position, I felt bound to repress my virtuous impulse and to stick to nefarious deeds. All the credit for virtue goes to someone else, and I’m left with just a handful of dirty tricks.

Yes, if I were Dostoevsky’s editor in the present-day, I would advise him to start with the crime and the trial instead of the long lectures in the first half of the book, which made me abandon ship so many times. Nevertheless, I am not only glad I persevered with it, but I truly liked it this time round. There is a reason why some books are classics, why they still have so much to say even hundreds of years after they were first published. I have no idea how Shakespeare or Dostoevsky or Stendhal or Flaubert or Chekhov managed to gain such deep insights into human psychology, but their characters are unforgettable, and both modern and timeless.

Are Modern Books Too Long?

You may have noticed that books have become longer in the last few years. Fellow crime fiction connoisseur Margot Kinberg recently did a strawpoll of crime novels and found that since 2000 more and more of them fall in the 300+ pages category. Others have noticed the reappareance of ‘chunksters’ across all genres – and they seem to be walking away with quite a few literary prizes too (The Luminaries, Wolf Hall, Au-revoir là-haut, The Goldfinch). Does that fly in the face of the much-vaunted evidence that our attention spans are getting shorter and that we spend far too much time online? Are people perhaps reading fewer books per year, but then committing more time to the ones that they do buy and read? I’ve read four doorstoppers this month. Well, we had 2 weeks of rainy school holidays, so I couldn’t get much else done. Plus I’ve had no Internet/phone/TV for the last day and a half (that’s what happens when everything is tied up in a single provider), so there was nothing I could do but read. I’ve already given my unvarnished opinion of ‘The Secret History’, but the other three chunky books never felt too long. Because I am so far behind on my reviews, I will discuss all three of them in this post, but they each deserve a far more detailed review.

farfromtreeAndrew Solomon: Far from the Tree

We’ve all done it as parents: wondered ‘where on earth does my child get that from?’ or ‘what changeling has been put into my cradle?’  Some families go far beyond that: they have children who are exceptional in all sorts of ways – they may be dafe or autistic or  child prodigies, they may be severely disabled or dwarfs or trapped in the wrong kind of gender. They may be difficult to love, like children who are the result of rape, or who are schizophrenic and violent, or who turn to crime.  There is a chapter for each of these situations in this monumental non-fiction book, a labour of love arising from Solomon’s own experience of clashes with his parents about being gay, and based on 10 years of interviews with families all over the United States. About a third of the book are footnotes and references, so it’s not quite as long as it looks, but I could not get my fill of all the personal stories shared here. It is well-documented, yet very readable, because it is all about real people and their very moving, often very difficult stories. Let me give you just one example. After meeting the Klebold family, whose son Dylan was one of the teenagers responsible for the Columbine High School killings, the author says:

The better I came to know the Klebolds, the more deeply mystified I became. Sue Klebold’s kindness would be the answered prayer of many a neglected or abused child, and Tom’s bullish enthusiasm would lift anyone’s tired spirits. Among the many families I’ve met in writing this book, the Klebolds are among those I would be most game to join.

And this is what I love about the book – it doesn’t preach or give solutions. It admits bafflement when confronted with human behaviour and with the enduring power of love.

I’ve heard some criticism that the research is not quite so thorough in parts, that the author sides with one school of thought or another (for instance, there is quite a bit of conflict within the deaf-mute community whether signing or learning spoken language is the way to go, or within the dwarf community whether limb-lengthening is an acceptable surgical procedure). Yet for a reader like me who is new to most of these conditions, it was an eye-opening introduction. It is a popular science book, but one brimming over with emotions and lovely quotes. It will open up your mind and heart, and will make you question your own tolerance of difference and your own power of acceptance. My favourite non-fiction book of the year, no question!

HitlerTimur Vermes: Er ist wieder da  (translated as ‘Look Who’s Back’ & published by MacLehose Press).

The instant I saw that sober black and white cover with the proverbial moustache, I was intrigued. This is actually the shortest of my chunksters: about 400 pages in the original German hardback, and I think it’s just about the perfect length. Too short and it would have been superficial, longer and the satire would have started to feel tired and overblown. As it is, it’s a very funny book, and you keep reading on to see just how far the author will go with his conceit.

Just imagine that Hitler had not died in his bunker in 1945, but had instead gone into some kind of cryogenic coma and woken up in 2011. How would he cope with present-day society? Surprisingly well. In this hard-hitting satire and rather brave book, the author can be quite savage in his criticism of many of the political and social trends in today’s Germany, including day-time television, the cult of celebrities, personal branding, party in-fighting and well-meaning liberalism. Of course, this is perhaps a more humane and less obsessive fictional Hitler, but the implications are chilling. Especially when he agrees (or you agree) with many of the things being said about the euro, certain EU countries needing to pull their weight, rampant consumerism and paying lip-service to ecology.

truenovelMinae Mizumura: A True Novel

To say this is ‘Wuthering Heights’ transposed into a Japanese landscape is not quite doing the book full justice. The story is, indeed, very closely based on the characters, the plot and even the narrative devices (story within a story) of the original, but there are many other influences at work here too.  Tanizaki’s ‘The Makioka Sisters’, ‘The Great Gatsby’, Dazai Osamu’s ‘The Setting Sun, and Chekhov’s ‘The Cherry Orchard’ are all invoked here, whether directly or not.
The leisurely pace and many digressions bring to mind a Russian or Victorian novel (unlike the brevity of the original Brontë novel), and there may be a little bit of sagging in the middle. The story within a story can feel a bit artificial at times (I was puzzled why there was an additional layer beyond the Lockwood/Nelly equivalent), but it does provide us with even more questions about whose account of events we can trust, just how reliable each narrator is, or just how much we can know of the truth. Above all, I enjoyed the sense of place: the faded beauty of a resort like Karuizawa, the spookiness of the foggy lake, pampas grass and abandoned cottages, in contrast with the onslaught of modern developments and tourists.

Traditional Western villa, Karuizawa, from gonagano.net
Traditional Western villa, Karuizawa, from gonagano.net

It’s this contrast between old and new, between tradition and modernity, between affluence and poverty, which makes this much more of a social fresco than the original work. This is also a panorama of post-war Japan, the initial crushing defeat, followed by the Japanese economic miracle, and then the burst of the bubble and the lost decade of stagnation (just one decade at the time the book was written). There is also quite a bit in the prologue about the perception of Japanese people in the United States and the often troubled relationship between the two countries.

Impeccably translated from Japanese by Juliet Winters Carpenter (and believe me, it is not easy to convey Fumiko’s quaint, old-fashioned style of speaking in English) and presented in a beautiful 2 volume box set with atmospheric pictures of the locations, this edition is a work of art. I am still floating in the world created by the author, because, of course, we all dream of a Heathcliff and of a love that defies all conventions.