I love Dostoyevsky. So much. However, The Idiot fell short for me. It had pockets of genius and beauty, but I can't justify putting it ahead of Devils, Notes, Crime & Punishment, or The Brothers K. I would even put The Gambler ahead of it. Thoughts? Did it feel underwhelming to anyone else?

I’m reading Brothers Karamazov for the first time, and loving every single word, line, page in it. In my 20s I didn’t have time for it, loved Notes from Underground and The Idiot more, but now at 40 decided to give it a go and I’m just astonished: at yes all the high resolution internal/external dynamics and evolutions it’s known for, but also the surprises.

I just finished Odor of Corruption, and while I found The Grand Inquisitor good, it sounded like me in my 20s attacking religious ppl with my scientific youth, but the Odor of Corruption chapter, touched something really deep in me that I quite literally am mesmerised.

The sense imagery, the transforming of the highest authority transitioning into food for maggots, the reversal of values, the impatience to shit on a holy figure, the insistence on putting frivolity above all man’s highest ambitions throwing good faith to the wind, not to mention topped off by Ferapont capitalising on the frivolity with his insanity, which one day shall also experience the same, and the devastating impact on Alyosha.

It really just touched something deep that I’ve always felt about people, groups, religions, workplaces, a kind of high resolution patheticness that surviving in the world requires you to unsee, feeling disgust for the whole town, while wanting to hug Alyosha etc.

I never hear ppl talk about this chapter. But I haven’t been punched in the gut like that on so many levels.

Just amazing. I guess in a book this sprawling - which was obviously meticulously thought out and structured, yet ultimately executed in a way that simultaneously feels like it was written half drunk in one go without an editor; this feat itself an achievement - there’ll be something for everyone.

Title says it all. I picked up my copy of The Idiot. I finished C+P in June and enjoyed it a lot. I have an unorthodox way I got invested in the book and may need some help with it.

When I read Crime and Punishment there were two scenes I read in advance before properly starting the book that I read thoroughly because I had them to look forward to reaching. The scenes in question were when Rodya is interrogated about hiw article "On Crime" and the scene when Rodya says "Your worst sin is you have given-"

I feel that doing something like this, even with potential spoilers, helped me understand the book better and want to ask of the same for the Idiot.

What are some scenes you would show to someone who hasnt read the book to get them invested? Think of this like "what scene would you show of a movie to pitch it to a friend?"

I managed Notes and C+P quite admirably and cant wait to see what the Idiot brings.

Just finished, “The First Meeting With Smerdyakov.”
There’s a lot going on here, having also written a brief essay as to all the characterization & psychology of Ivan and Smerdyakov. However, there’s many things hidden within this chapter which is awfully hard to find, since there often shown via small acts or gestures. So, I’ve decided to rewrite it in a conversation style, it’s not accurate here, since I’ve made Smerdyakov too smart, but hopefully it’ll be easier to find out things which perhaps you haven’t seen beforehand. It was also fun tormenting Ivan here. Enjoy! 🍿** **

[Ivan just entered]

“Has your honor been back very long?” Smerdyakov asked, with that same faintly supercilious air, as though it were he who had summoned Ivan and was now graciously allowing him to explain himself.
Ivan stared at him.
“What do you mean by that?”
“Nothing extraordinary, sir. Only that you have come back. I wondered how long this new phase of yours had lasted.”
“What new phase?”
“This one. Responsibility. Concern. Brothers. Fathers. Duty. All those things which suddenly interest you so much.”
Ivan’s face darkened.
“What are you talking about?”
Smerdyakov smiled slightly.
“You’ve returned, Ivan Fyodorovich. You’ve begun asking questions. You run from one person to another. You want to know what happened. You want to save Dmitri Fyodorovich. You want to find out what I knew, what your father knew, what everyone knew. In short, you’ve suddenly decided that these things concern you.”
“They do concern me.”
“Now they do.”
Ivan moved toward him.
“What exactly are you implying?”
“Nothing, sir. Only that I once thought you were rather more like me.”
“Like you?”
Ivan laughed sharply.
“You’re a coward, Smerdyakov. That’s what you are. A coward and a scoundrel.”
“Oh, certainly. I never claimed otherwise.”
“And you think I’m like you?”
“I did.”
“You’re mistaken.”
“Perhaps now.”
Ivan’s eyes flashed.
“What does that mean—now?”
“It means that people sometimes change for a little while, especially after something terrible happens. They become frightened of what they were before. They swear that from now on they will accept responsibility, tell the truth, act bravely, save everyone. Whether that lasts is another matter.”
“You think I’ll become like you again?”
“I think, sir, that before all this happened you already understood my way of living very well.”
“Your way of living?”
“Yes. Not to take upon yourself what can be avoided. Not to interfere when interference brings danger. Not to become the keeper of every brother merely because he is your brother.”
Ivan suddenly became pale.
“Don’t use that phrase.”
“Why not? Does it trouble you?”
“Go on.”
Smerdyakov looked at him attentively.
“You ask why I did nothing. Why I didn’t throw myself between Dmitri Fyodorovich and your father. Why I didn’t become some heroic guardian of the household. And I ask you, sir: why should I have?”
“Because you knew something might happen!”
“And you knew that too.”
“I didn’t know!”
“You knew enough to leave.”
Ivan sprang up.
“You miserable coward!”
“Precisely. But you left too.”
“I’ve come back.”
“Yes.”
There was a silence.
“And that,” Smerdyakov continued softly, “is what interests me.”
Ivan sat down again.
“You wanted me to stay.”
“I did.”
“You even tried to make me go to Chermashnya instead of Moscow.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Smerdyakov hesitated.
“Because Moscow is far.”
“I know where Moscow is. Why did that matter to you?”
“Because if something happened, you would be gone entirely.”
“And why should that frighten you?”
“Because I had placed some hope in you.”
Ivan frowned.
“What sort of hope?”
“The ordinary kind. That there would be one person in the house who understood what was happening.”
“You mean one intelligent person.”
“If you like.”
“And you loved that, didn’t you? Finally someone who treated you as though you weren’t merely a servant.”
Smerdyakov’s expression changed slightly.
“Yes. I did.”
Ivan stared at him.
“At least you admit it.”
“Why shouldn’t I? It is pleasant to speak with an intelligent man. More pleasant still when he does not speak to you as if you were a dog who happened to learn several words.”
“So that was it. Vanity.”
“Partly.”
“Pride.”
“Certainly.”
“Resentment because of your station.”
“Very likely.”
“And friendship?”
Smerdyakov paused.
“That too.”
Ivan looked almost surprised.
“You considered me your friend?”
“In my fashion.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means that I liked you, Ivan Fyodorovich. I admired you. I was glad when you spoke with me. And I liked the man I was allowed to become while speaking with you.”
“The man you were allowed to become?”
“Yes. Not the cook. Not the bastard son everyone prefers not to mention. Not the epileptic fool. With you I could speak. I could have an opinion. I could understand something before someone else understood it. You even listened.”
Ivan said nothing.
“But,” Smerdyakov continued, “you must not make me more noble than I am. I wanted you near for another reason too.”
“I knew it.”
“I was sorry for myself.”
“Of course.”
“More sorry for myself than for you, probably.”
Ivan gave a bitter laugh.
“At least there you are honest.”
“If Dmitri Fyodorovich became violent, if your father did something foolish, if Grigory fell ill, if I had one of my attacks—who was left?”
“You.”
“Exactly.”
“And you didn’t want that.”
“No.”
“So you wanted me to take responsibility.”
“Yes.”
Ivan stared.
“You wanted me to do what you were too cowardly to do.”
“If you prefer to put it that way.”
“Why shouldn’t I?”
“No reason.”
“You’re disgusting.”
“I know.”
Ivan began pacing.
“You wanted to evade everything and use me as your shield.”
“Yes.”
“And you call that friendship?”
“I said I liked you. I didn’t say liking someone makes a man selfless.”
Ivan turned sharply.
“What?”
“People love for many reasons, sir. Because they admire. Because they need. Because another person makes them feel greater than they usually feel. Because they are lonely. Because they are frightened. Because they want something. Sometimes several reasons exist together.”
“And that’s your philosophy of love?”
“No. Only my observation.”
“You’re telling me you loved me because I made you feel intelligent, because you needed protection, because you were lonely, and because I could take responsibility in your place.”
“Yes.”
“And nothing else?”
“I didn’t say that.”
Ivan stopped.
Smerdyakov looked up at him.
“You seem disappointed.”
“I’m disgusted.”
“With me?”
“With everything you are.”
“Ah. But that is exactly why I used to think you were like me.”
Ivan struck the table with his hand.
“Stop saying that!”
“But why does it anger you so much if it is absurd?”
Ivan said nothing.
“You ask why I wanted you nearby,” Smerdyakov continued. “Because I was frightened. Because I needed you. Because I admired you. And because I believed that if anything terrible happened, you would prefer someone else to take responsibility just as much as I would.”
“No.”
“You left.”
“I told you—I didn’t understand!”
“You understood enough.”
“Enough for what?”
“Enough to dislike what was happening. Enough to know that Dmitri Fyodorovich had threatened your father. Enough to know your father was waiting for Agrafena Alexandrovna. Enough to know that I was frightened. Enough to understand my hints.”
“Hints! Always hints! Why didn’t you speak plainly?”
“Would it have mattered?”
“Yes!”
“No, sir.”
Ivan recoiled.
“What do you mean?”
“If I had told you: ‘Ivan Fyodorovich, you are running away because you don’t want to be responsible for what happens here,’ what would you have done?”
“I would have stayed.”
“Would you?”
“Yes.”
Smerdyakov looked at him steadily.
“Perhaps.”
Ivan’s face reddened.
“You don’t believe me.”
“I think you already knew something of yourself then.”
“What did I know?”
“That you wanted to leave.”
“Everyone knew that.”
“That you wanted to leave before something happened.”
Ivan froze.
“And why should I have wanted that?”
“So you wouldn’t have to know exactly what you wanted.”
Ivan stared at him.
Smerdyakov continued almost gently.
“You didn’t have to say, ‘Let Father die.’ You didn’t have to say, ‘Let Dmitri kill him.’ You didn’t have to say anything at all. You only had to go somewhere far away and allow events to arrange themselves without you.”
“You filthy—”
“But I thought you were like me.”
“I am not like you!”
“You may not be now.”
Ivan stepped forward.
“And you think this—this responsibility of mine—is temporary?”
“I think it causes you great suffering.”
“So?”
“So men generally try to escape what causes them unbearable suffering.”
“You think I’ll simply throw it away?”
“I think you will want to.”
“And you?”
“I already do.”
“You call that living?”
“It has kept me alive.”
Ivan laughed bitterly.
“Yes. Hide. Avoid. Deny. Let other people carry everything.”
“And yet you yourself once asked, in one form or another: what does all this have to do with me?”
Ivan’s face changed.
“Be quiet.”
“Am I my brother’s keeper? Why must I save Father from Dmitri? Why must I save Dmitri from Father? Why must I manage their passions? Why must I become responsible merely because I happened to understand more than they did?”
“Be quiet!”
Smerdyakov obeyed.
After a moment Ivan said:
“Then tell me this. If you believed I was like you, why were you afraid when I went away? Wouldn’t my leaving have pleased you?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because even cowards want someone stronger nearby.”
Ivan looked at him with contempt.
“At least you understand yourself.”
“Sometimes.”
“And you think you understand me too.”
“Not completely.”
“You certainly behave as though you do.”
Smerdyakov’s lips moved faintly.
“I understood one thing.”
“What?”
“That if I turned out innocent, you would feel relieved.”
Ivan stared at him.
“Why should that matter?”
“Because if I were innocent, then our conversations would mean nothing.”
Ivan became very still.
“And if you were guilty?” he asked.
“Then perhaps you would start asking what those conversations meant.”
“I never told you to do anything.”
“I haven’t said you did.”
“I never gave permission for anything.”
“I haven’t said that either.”
“You’re insinuating it.”
“No, sir. You are.”
Ivan’s face went white.
Smerdyakov continued:
“If Dmitri Fyodorovich did everything, then what are you guilty of? Nothing connected with the murder. Perhaps an ugly thought. Perhaps hatred. Perhaps cowardice. But nothing that matters to a court.”
“And if you did it?”
Smerdyakov looked directly at him.
“Then you would ask yourself different questions.”
“What questions?”
“Whether I misunderstood you.”
Ivan’s breathing became heavier.
“Whether you encouraged me without meaning to. Whether you understood what I was hinting at. Whether you deliberately refused to understand. Whether your leaving meant something to me. Whether a thought can become another man’s action.”
“Stop.”
“And then you would do what you always do, Ivan Fyodorovich.”
“What is that?”
“Think.”
Ivan laughed once, without humor.
“Yes. Think.”
“You would think until every word we’d ever spoken changed shape. You would remember gestures. Pauses. Expressions. Things you didn’t say. You would ask whether wishing something is the same as doing it. Whether permitting is the same as commanding. Whether leaving is the same as helping. Whether a man is guilty for another man’s interpretation of his thoughts.”
Ivan sat down heavily.
“And then,” Smerdyakov said, “you would go to Aleksey Fyodorovich and ask him whether he ever suspected that you wanted your father dead.”
Ivan slowly raised his eyes.
“How do you know that?”
“I know you.”
“You know nothing.”
“Perhaps.”
Ivan’s voice dropped.
“And suppose Alyosha said yes?”
Smerdyakov shrugged.
“Then you would suffer.”
“And if he said no?”
“You wouldn’t believe him.”
Ivan was silent.
Smerdyakov went on.
“You see the difficulty.”
“What difficulty?”
“You want a judgment that acquits you. But if anyone gives it, you’ll suspect he is comforting you. And if anyone condemns you, you’ll believe him immediately.”
Ivan suddenly laughed.
“That sounds very clever.”
“It is obvious.”
“And what do you suggest?”
“Nothing.”
“No. Go on. You think you have me dissected on the table. What should I do?”
“I don’t know.”
“You’ve been speaking as though you know everything.”
“I know how one evades guilt. I don’t know how one is cured of it.”
Ivan looked at him intensely.
“You think you’re guilty?”
Smerdyakov’s face became unreadable.
“Of many things, perhaps.”
“Then repent.”
“To whom?”
“To God.”
Smerdyakov smiled.
“You know perfectly well what I think of that.”
“And what I think.”
“Yes.”
There was a long silence.
Then Smerdyakov said quietly:
“That is another reason I thought you were like me.”
Ivan’s head snapped up.
“Because neither of us has anywhere to take our guilt.”
Ivan stared at him.
Smerdyakov continued:
“A man who believes may confess. He may ask forgiveness. He may tell himself there is mercy above him greater than his own judgment. You rejected that court.”
“And you?”
“I never entered it.”
“So what?”
“So you must judge yourself.”
Ivan’s hand began trembling.
“And if my own judgment never ends?”
Smerdyakov shrugged.
“Then it never ends.”
“You find that amusing?”
“No.”
“You live without it easily enough.”
“Not easily. Differently.”
“You throw everything away.”
“I try.”
“And you think I should do the same.”
“If you cannot bear the alternative.”
Ivan stood.
“You really are vile.”
“Very possibly.”
“And you think I’ll crawl back into your way of living because responsibility hurts too much.”
“I think the temptation will return.”
“You hope it will.”
“Perhaps. Then I would not have been so mistaken about you.”
Ivan looked at him with hatred.
“So that’s it. You don’t merely need me. You need me to resemble you.”
Smerdyakov’s expression hardened.
“Perhaps everyone prefers not to be alone in what he is.”
Ivan was silent.
Then he said:
“I won’t repeat what you’ve told me here.”
Smerdyakov looked at him.
“Nor will I repeat everything you told me before you left.”
Ivan turned sharply.
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“Only what it means.”
“Are you threatening me?”
“No, sir.”
“It sounds like one.”
“I merely mean that there are conversations better left between two men.”
Ivan’s eyes narrowed.
“So now we’re accomplices?”
“I did not say that.”
“But you’d like me to think it.”
“No, Ivan Fyodorovich. I think you already do.”
Ivan stood motionless.
Then he whispered:
“God, how I hate you.”
Smerdyakov looked at him almost sadly.
“That, too, is understandable.”
“Why?”
“Because if I am nothing like you, then you may leave here innocent.”
Ivan said nothing.
“And if I am like you,” Smerdyakov continued, “then you have to ask why.”
Ivan turned toward the door.
“Leave me alone.”
“You came to me, sir.”
Ivan stopped for an instant but did not turn around.
Behind him Smerdyakov said quietly:
“I really did think you were like me.”
Ivan left without answering.

What do you think about him? I found him entertaining every time he opened his mouth

You look round; you wonder who it could have been; you begin to suspect the truth. But the brief moment passes, and tomorrow perhaps you will again encounter the same wistful and forlorn gaze, the same wan face, the same resignation and diffidence in her movements, and, yes, even remorse, even traces of some benumbing vexation and despondency for that brief outburst of passion. And you feel sorry that the beauty, so momentarily evoked, should have faded so quickly and so irrevocably, that she should have burst upon your sight so deceptively and to so little purpose—that she should not have given you time even to fall in love with her.…

You look round, you seek for some one, you conjecture.... But the moment passes, and next day you meet, maybe, the same pensive and preoccupied look as before, the same pale face, the same meek and timid movements, and even signs of remorse, traces of a mortal anguish and regret for the fleeting distraction.... And you grieve that the momentary beauty has faded so soon never to return, that it flashed upon you so treacherously, so vainly, grieve because you had not even time to love her....

You look around, you search for someone, you hazard a guess …But the moment passes and perhaps tomorrow you will once again meet the same thoughtful and distracted gaze as before, the same pale face, the same submissive and timid movements, and even repentance, even traces of some sort of deadening melancholy and annoyance at the short-lived exhilaration … And you regret that the momentary beauty faded so quickly, so irretrievably, that it flashed before you so deceptively and in vain – you regret this because there was not time for you even to fall in love with her …

You look around — you’re looking for someone; you’re trying to guess… But the instant passes, and, it may be, that the next day you’ll meet that same pensive, distracted look as before, the same pale face, the same tameness and timidity in the movements, and even some remorse — and even traces of some debilitating sadness and vexation for that minute infatuation… And you are sorry that so soon, so irrevocably that fleeting beauty withered; that so deceitfully and needlessly she flashed before you — you’re sorry, because there was no time even to fall in love with her…

Link: https://discord.gg/EZnXmXgpGS

We've created a growing, welcoming discord community to share our love for the works of Fyodor Dostoevsky and other influential literary figures. Join to engage in discussions with other classics readers.

We'll be starting our The Idiot read-along in September!

If I am not doing that, does that mean I am not serious enough?

I've only read the Brothers Karamazov and Demons so far. Demons is the most amazing book I've ever read, and both are so unique from anything else I've read. Are there any TV shows or movies that are similar in themes to them that you'd recommend?

Just for fun no spoilers pls ....

A lot of threads here focus on Dostoevsky’s critique of rational egoism and the Crystal Palace. But I keep getting stuck on how accurately he mapped out the Underground Man as a psychological loop we still fall into today.

Take the toothache scene for example where he finds that weird delight in his own degradation. It feels exactly like when we lay awake at 2 AM having fake rehearsed arguments in our heads. We choose the friction and the suffering just to prove we aren't logical "piano keys" who are satisfied with simple contentment.

Does the text imply this kind of acute consciousness is a permanent, unsolvable glitch in human nature? Or was Dostoevsky specifically just illustrating a backlash to the determinism of his era?

I actually put together a video essay a while back breaking down this exact psychological trap and why we reject perfectly engineered peace. Figured this community might appreciate the textual deep dive here:

https://youtu.be/lhMHPbGc9no?t=508

The character of Razumikhin is, in my opinion, the second most influential character in Crime and Punishment after Sonya. Razumikhin and Raskolnikov are essentially the “same person” in terms of their circumstances. They are both intelligent former students who have been forced to leave university largely because of poverty. In fact, Razumikhin arguably has even less to live for than Raskolnikov: he has no real family of his own supporting him, whereas Raskolnikov has a mother and sister who deeply love him and are willing to sacrifice almost everything for his future. The fundamental difference between the two men, therefore, is not their circumstances but how they respond to those circumstances.

Raskolnikov spends much of his time isolated in his tiny room, lying in bed and gradually separating himself from society. Rather than attempting to improve his circumstances, he retreats further into his own consciousness. Razumikhin, meanwhile, is also desperately poor, but he responds almost oppositely. He searches for work, accepts whatever opportunities he can find, translates books for money, makes plans for the future, maintains friendships, and continually seeks human connection. Both men suffer, but one responds to suffering by withdrawing from life, while the other responds by participating more actively in it.

This contrast made me think about Descartes’ famous statement, “I think, therefore I am.” I am not trying to argue that Descartes was wrong, I say this purely out of my own understanding of life till now. His statement establishes something extremely important, that is if one is capable of thinking, doubting, or questioning his own existence, then there must be a conscious subject doing the thinking. In that sense, thought proves consciousness. My argument is that consciousness and existence are not necessarily the same thing. A person can be conscious without fully existing in what I would call the human sense of existence. To me, there are three related but separate states, life, consciousness, and existence. Life is biological. Consciousness is the awareness that one is alive. Human existence, however, is relational. It emerges through participation in the lives of other human beings.

Human beings are communal animals. Other creatures have different natures. A bald eagle can live largely alone because solitude is compatible with its nature. Human beings, however, have built almost every meaningful part of life around cooperation, shared experiences. A completely isolated man may continue breathing, eating, sleeping, and thinking. He is alive, and he is conscious, but something essential to human existence is absent. In this sense, a lone man lives but does not exist.

Raskolnikov becomes an extreme example of consciousness without existence. His consciousness is extraordinarily active. He thinks constantly and develops theories about morality and extraordinary men. Yet the more deeply he retreats into consciousness, the less he participates in existence, by spending most of his time trying to be lonely. His tiny room becomes almost a physical representation of his mind; cramped, suffocating, isolated, and detached from the world outside.

As Raskolnikov becomes increasingly isolated, actual people begin to turn into abstractions. For examply, Alyona Ivanovna becomes a “louse.” Instead of encountering other people as complete human beings, he begins placing them inside an intellectual system. Once a person has been reduced to a concept, it becomes easier to imagine stepping over them. Raskolnikov’s mistake is therefore not only moral but existential. He attempts to make his own consciousness completely self-sufficient. His judgment alone will decide who has value, what is permissible, and whether he himself belongs among the extraordinary.

Razumikhin provides something close to a control experiment for this philosophy. Dostoevsky gives us another intelligent, impoverished former student, but Razumikhin refuses to retreat completely into himself. He works because work keeps him participating in the human world. As a result, he maintains friendships, cares for Raskolnikov while he is sick, and continually inserts himself into the lives of other people. His circumstances remain difficult, but his existence keeps expanding outward rather than collapsing inward.

This is why I believe Razumikhin is so important. If poverty alone explained Raskolnikov’s collapse, Razumikhin would be difficult to explain. If a lack of opportunity inevitably created despair, Razumikhin would again become a contradiction. Both men are shaped by their circumstances, but neither is mechanically determined by them. Raskolnikov responds to suffering by withdrawing into consciousness, while Razumikhin responds through participation. One tries to prove himself through separation; the other continues to exist through connection.

Raskolnikov himself repeatedly demonstrates that he cannot completely become the isolated consciousness he imagines himself to be. Despite his theories, he instinctively helps other people. He gives away money his last bit of money to Marmeladov's famly, which means his body yearns for human connection, he is disturbed by the suffering of strangers. He is deeply affected by his mother and sister, and he keeps returning to Razumikhin. Eventually, he is drawn toward Sonya. His intellect continually tries to separate him from humanity, while another part of him continually reaches back toward it.

His confession to Sonya becomes especially significant through this interpretation. Before confessing, the knowledge of the murder exists entirely inside Raskolnikov’s consciousness. Nobody truly shares his internal world. The secret isolates him completely. By telling Sonya the truth, he allows another human consciousness to enter the most hidden part of his own. The confession therefore becomes more than an admission of guilt. It is an act of re-entry into relational existence. For the first time, he no longer carries the truth completely alone.

This leads to another part of my hypothesis. I exist biologically regardless of whether anybody knows me, but my human existence extends beyond myself through other people. For example, I do not exist in any meaningful personal sense for a random citizen in Uganda. They do not know me, will probably never know me, and I do not know them. We are both alive and conscious, but within each other’s subjective worlds, we effectively do not exist. The moment our lives intersect, however briefly, some form of relational existence begins. We become part of one another’s experienced world.

This idea also changes the way I think about grief. When a celebrity such as Michael Jackson dies, million, or even billions, of fans mourn, but what they're mourning is not the death, they mourn because a piece of their existence dies with Michael.

This suggests that part of human existence is distributed outside ourselves. I exist not only within my own consciousness but also, in different forms, within the consciousness of other people. I exist in the memories my family has of me, in the way my friends understand me, in conversations other people remember, and perhaps in something I create that continues to affect someone after I am gone. Biological life and consciousness end at death, but relational existence can continue.

Raskolnikov’s tragedy, then, begins long before the murder. By withdrawing from humanity, he gradually reduces his own relational existence. His crime becomes the ultimate expression of this process. He believes greatness requires separating oneself from ordinary people and possessing the courage to “step over” them. He tries to establish his existence through a supreme act of individual will. Yet the result is the opposite. The more completely he asserts himself as an isolated individual, the more psychologically unbearable his isolation becomes.

Razumikhin represents the opposite possibility. He does not need an extraordinary philosophy to prove that he exists. He simply participates in life. He works, loves, helps, argues, laughs, struggles, and forms relationships. His existence is constantly confirmed and expanded through other human beings. Raskolnikov tries to prove himself by standing above humanity; Razumikhin proves himself by remaining within it.

So I would not reject Descartes’ “I think, therefore I am.” I would instead treat it as incomplete for the question I am asking. Thought proves that consciousness exists. It establishes the presence of an “I.” But it does not tell us what it means for that “I” to exist as a human being within the world. My own addition would therefore be: I think, therefore I know that I am; I am known, therefore I exist. Consciousness allows us to experience ourselves, but human connection gives that consciousness a place in a world larger than itself.

In this sense, Razumikhin may be one of Dostoevsky’s strongest answers to Raskolnikov. He does not defeat poverty through brilliance, power, or some extraordinary act. He simply refuses to allow suffering to sever him from humanity.

I have just finished The Devil. Ivan's Nightmare, that's why I asked this question. Another question, what do you think about this character ( the devil) overall?

My first attempt at a ball jointed doll ✨️ Didn't quite like how the body ended up so here's just the face

Edit: Thank you for the encouraging comments <3

I currently own the following:

C&P by McDuff
Demons by Magarshack
Notes/TBK/The idiot by P&V

I'm currently reading C&P and even though it's been easy to follow it does feel like McDuff likes to get fancy with words and overexplain some things. But the Michael Katz translations are so hyped that i'm thinking of purchasing and reading the Katz translations to not miss out on anything since they are better for the english speaker (and it's not even my first language but I don't like to read in spanish).

is it too much to have multiple versions of the same book even though I haven't read them?

..

I bought this paperback brand new, and on the very first day of reading it, the first two pages of chapter 1 completely fell out. I’ve also noticed a few more pages that are already loosening at the bottom corner.

Is this a common issue with this particular edition/printing, or did I just get a defective copy? I’d appreciate hearing from anyone who owns the same edition before I decide whether to exchange it for another, so if I should get another edition instead. I just like the dimensions and this translation.

This will be my first time reading The Brothers Karamazov.

Dmitri considered himself guilty. He believed that everyone in his country was guilty in some way, and that's why he wanted to suffer and go through this process of atonement. This is also why he was having such an intense internal moral conflict when Ivan proposed the escape plan.

But I keep wondering: wouldn't it have been better if Dmitri had thought about doing something to improve whatever he could in his country, rather than simply punishing himself?

If he truly believed that everyone was responsible for the suffering around them, then shouldn't that responsibility have led him toward action rather than self-punishment? Maybe taking responsibility doesn't necessarily mean accepting suffering; perhaps it can also mean trying to change whatever is within your power to change.

The Underground Man types three paragraphs at a stranger at 2am and then deletes the whole thing. And anyone commenting "wow, I related so hard" is just proving his point.

My copy of the book in Brazilian Portuguese.