Okay, okay. So I started this book many years ago when I co-taught "History in Literature and Film" with Brian Bodner. I never actually finished the book back then; I only got about 1/3 of the way through it. I figured it was about time I finished it.
I liked the plot and characters. Stowe, for a Nineteenth century New England Baptist, has a great sense of dialogue. Her slave characters had interesting and slightly varied dialects (difficult to write well), and the evil characters (e.g., the diabolical Simon Legree) were frightening in their viciousness. All the characters had original, unique voices, and Stowe fleshed them out thoroughly with extensive backgrounds. Overall, the story was realistic, an aspect confirmed by the superfluous and didactic final chapter in which she relates many of the real-life anecdotes upon which numerous novel events were based.
The book had some memorable scenes: Eliza crossing the Ohio River, infant in her arms, by jumping across floes of ice (an event supposedly based upon reality), the death of little Eva, the wonderfully careless but compassionate Augustus St. Clare, and of course the emotional death of Uncle Tom himself. The book was surprisingly humorous, despite- or perhaps because of--its serpentine prose and intrusive narrator. Maudlin at times, preachy and overwritten on occasion, and with a series of final coincidences that stretch believability, the book nevertheless was enjoyable to read. The ending (i.e., the final two chapters) dragged horribly, but I can forgive her inability to resist driving home her point and providing a happy ending for as many of her characters as she could, considering what she undertook in writing the novel. Abraham Lincoln certainly had a high opinion of the novel, as evidenced by his comment upon meeting Harriet Beecher Stowe at a White House reception: "So you're the little woman who wrote the book that made the great war!"
Wednesday, February 21, 2007
Saturday, February 17, 2007
Crime and Punishment, Final Thoughts
(I shouldn’t have waited so long to do my blog. I’ve forgotten too much.)
I very much enjoyed reading Crime and Punishment, and while it did not make my Top Ten List, it is probably somewhere in my top twenty. I’ll re-read it eventually, but not in the near future. I enjoyed it much more than reading Don Quixote. I liked the complexity of the characters, the inner turmoil of Raskolnikov, the humor, the rambling monologues, the plot twists, the various stylistic devices, and the cliff-hanger endings of some of the chapters. In many ways, it was a typical Dostoevsky novel. Not that I am some kind of F.D. expert; it just reminds me of The Brothers Karamazov and from what I have read of the author, it seems illustrative of his writing style and thematic explorations. I remember liking Karamazov, though as one of his later novels, B.K. clearly has the advantage of a prose style that is more mature/refined/developed–whatever. Also, as my first Dostoevsky novel, it holds special places in my heart and my intellect.
In looking back on my comments, I see that many of my predictions came true to a certain extent. I don’t take too much credit for this, nor am I particularly disappointed: The novel is too much a part of the zeitgeist for me to have escaped any subliminal influences on plot elements; also, Dostoevsky’s story, characters, and writing style were compelling enough to maintain my interest throughout the novel.
Raskolnikov’s eventual redemption through religion was not a surprise, again, given Dostoevsky’s religious beliefs. I liked the way he didn’t end the novel with Raskolnikov’s confession. True, the confession ends the novel proper, but the Epilogue is such an essential part of the story (much as the Prologue and Epilogue are critical to Ralph Ellison’s Invisible Man) that it must be considered in order to provide full thematic closure. Although Raskolnikov endures hardships in prison, his material/corporeal punishment does not fully redeem him, nor can any amount thereof: He needs spiritual forgiveness as well, his resistance to which causes his fellow inmates to treat him with antagonism.
So ultimately, Raskolnikov really was trying to demonstrate his “extraordinariness” to the world. I said earlier that this idea did not make sense to me, and I stand by that conclusion. This, in my eyes, is the weakness–not “failing,” because in my view this novel in no way fails–of the novel. It’s weak because Raskolnikov’s article concerned “great” men, like Napoleon (to whom Raskolnikov compares himself several times), who committed lesser crimes while on their way toward achieving greatness. However, his contention in the article is that such men can be forgiven their lesser, incidental crimes because of the sheer magnitude of their exceptionality. Raskolnikov intentionally commits a crime before he does anything to make him worthy of extraordinariness. His conscience overcomes him; it is not that society cannot forgive his actions in light of his greatness. Raskolnikov’s double-murder is an end in itself, not a means to an end (his intentional crime juxtaposed with the incidental crimes of exceptional men), which makes him simply a criminal, in my eyes. Thus, in crafting Raskolnikov’s attempt–his “experiment”–part of Dostoevsky’s theme is doomed from the start because he committed a logical fallacy: faulty analogy. Therefore, I don’t buy Raskolnikov’s motive, although its originality goes far in winning me over. (It may seem that I am nitpicking, and perhaps I am. The novel is a masterwork, and when dealing with a text of such impressive scope and extraordinary depth of thought, all one is left with is a critique of thematic “shadings”.) Of course, it could be that Dostoevsky was trying to illustrate Raskolnikov's “ordinariness” through his mistake in logic, and I suppose that one would have a point. However, because of Raskolnikov's demonstrated intelligence throughout the novel, such an error in reasoning doesn't make sense. I think it is more likely that Dostoevsky is simply trying to explore the destructiveness of guilt and the power of redemption through religious faith.
Favorite scenes: the murder (of course), the first police station scene, the “interview” with Luzhin and Raskolnikov’s family, both conversations with Porfiry in the lawyer's office, Sonia’s reading of the “Lazarus miracle” to Raskolnikov, Marmeladov’s funeral dinner (both chapters), Raskolnikov’s confession to Sonia, Porfiry’s visit to Raskolnikov, the street scene just before Katerina Ivanovna kicks it, Dounia pulling a gun on Svidrigailov and actually firing it! Woman's got some guts!
Liked: Razumihin, Raskolnikov’s self-destructiveness, Dounia (a great, strong female character), Luzhin (but only because he’s such an ass), Porfiry. I liked Katerina Ivanovna, who died of consumption (and was herself “consumed” with the idea of her family’s pseudo-respectability) and was wacky enough in her interpretations of reality to simultaneously excite both pity and humor.
Didn’t like: All the fevers Raskolnikov endured, the numerous dreams, Sonia (too delicate), Zametov, Svidrigailov (I liked him at first, but he lost me after his discussion with Raskolnikov; I wish Dounia had killed the bastard in his room; I was glad when he shot himself), all the freakin' Russian name variations (sheesh!).
I’m forgetting something here. Raskolnikov was right about Sonia, and she about him. I thought his vacillation over whether to turn himself in at the end was believable and interesting, especially when he kissed the ground at the crossroads (how appropriately literary!). His actions were that much more meaningful since he had no idea Sonia was there watching him (thus, his actions weren’t “for show”). When he left the police station the first time in the last chapter, I thought he was going to wimp out and leave for good, then try to live with his guilt. One look at Sonia was all he needed to accept his punishment. She really was his redemption.
I very much enjoyed reading Crime and Punishment, and while it did not make my Top Ten List, it is probably somewhere in my top twenty. I’ll re-read it eventually, but not in the near future. I enjoyed it much more than reading Don Quixote. I liked the complexity of the characters, the inner turmoil of Raskolnikov, the humor, the rambling monologues, the plot twists, the various stylistic devices, and the cliff-hanger endings of some of the chapters. In many ways, it was a typical Dostoevsky novel. Not that I am some kind of F.D. expert; it just reminds me of The Brothers Karamazov and from what I have read of the author, it seems illustrative of his writing style and thematic explorations. I remember liking Karamazov, though as one of his later novels, B.K. clearly has the advantage of a prose style that is more mature/refined/developed–whatever. Also, as my first Dostoevsky novel, it holds special places in my heart and my intellect.
In looking back on my comments, I see that many of my predictions came true to a certain extent. I don’t take too much credit for this, nor am I particularly disappointed: The novel is too much a part of the zeitgeist for me to have escaped any subliminal influences on plot elements; also, Dostoevsky’s story, characters, and writing style were compelling enough to maintain my interest throughout the novel.
Raskolnikov’s eventual redemption through religion was not a surprise, again, given Dostoevsky’s religious beliefs. I liked the way he didn’t end the novel with Raskolnikov’s confession. True, the confession ends the novel proper, but the Epilogue is such an essential part of the story (much as the Prologue and Epilogue are critical to Ralph Ellison’s Invisible Man) that it must be considered in order to provide full thematic closure. Although Raskolnikov endures hardships in prison, his material/corporeal punishment does not fully redeem him, nor can any amount thereof: He needs spiritual forgiveness as well, his resistance to which causes his fellow inmates to treat him with antagonism.
So ultimately, Raskolnikov really was trying to demonstrate his “extraordinariness” to the world. I said earlier that this idea did not make sense to me, and I stand by that conclusion. This, in my eyes, is the weakness–not “failing,” because in my view this novel in no way fails–of the novel. It’s weak because Raskolnikov’s article concerned “great” men, like Napoleon (to whom Raskolnikov compares himself several times), who committed lesser crimes while on their way toward achieving greatness. However, his contention in the article is that such men can be forgiven their lesser, incidental crimes because of the sheer magnitude of their exceptionality. Raskolnikov intentionally commits a crime before he does anything to make him worthy of extraordinariness. His conscience overcomes him; it is not that society cannot forgive his actions in light of his greatness. Raskolnikov’s double-murder is an end in itself, not a means to an end (his intentional crime juxtaposed with the incidental crimes of exceptional men), which makes him simply a criminal, in my eyes. Thus, in crafting Raskolnikov’s attempt–his “experiment”–part of Dostoevsky’s theme is doomed from the start because he committed a logical fallacy: faulty analogy. Therefore, I don’t buy Raskolnikov’s motive, although its originality goes far in winning me over. (It may seem that I am nitpicking, and perhaps I am. The novel is a masterwork, and when dealing with a text of such impressive scope and extraordinary depth of thought, all one is left with is a critique of thematic “shadings”.) Of course, it could be that Dostoevsky was trying to illustrate Raskolnikov's “ordinariness” through his mistake in logic, and I suppose that one would have a point. However, because of Raskolnikov's demonstrated intelligence throughout the novel, such an error in reasoning doesn't make sense. I think it is more likely that Dostoevsky is simply trying to explore the destructiveness of guilt and the power of redemption through religious faith.
Favorite scenes: the murder (of course), the first police station scene, the “interview” with Luzhin and Raskolnikov’s family, both conversations with Porfiry in the lawyer's office, Sonia’s reading of the “Lazarus miracle” to Raskolnikov, Marmeladov’s funeral dinner (both chapters), Raskolnikov’s confession to Sonia, Porfiry’s visit to Raskolnikov, the street scene just before Katerina Ivanovna kicks it, Dounia pulling a gun on Svidrigailov and actually firing it! Woman's got some guts!
Liked: Razumihin, Raskolnikov’s self-destructiveness, Dounia (a great, strong female character), Luzhin (but only because he’s such an ass), Porfiry. I liked Katerina Ivanovna, who died of consumption (and was herself “consumed” with the idea of her family’s pseudo-respectability) and was wacky enough in her interpretations of reality to simultaneously excite both pity and humor.
Didn’t like: All the fevers Raskolnikov endured, the numerous dreams, Sonia (too delicate), Zametov, Svidrigailov (I liked him at first, but he lost me after his discussion with Raskolnikov; I wish Dounia had killed the bastard in his room; I was glad when he shot himself), all the freakin' Russian name variations (sheesh!).
I’m forgetting something here. Raskolnikov was right about Sonia, and she about him. I thought his vacillation over whether to turn himself in at the end was believable and interesting, especially when he kissed the ground at the crossroads (how appropriately literary!). His actions were that much more meaningful since he had no idea Sonia was there watching him (thus, his actions weren’t “for show”). When he left the police station the first time in the last chapter, I thought he was going to wimp out and leave for good, then try to live with his guilt. One look at Sonia was all he needed to accept his punishment. She really was his redemption.
Wednesday, February 14, 2007
Crime and Punishment, Part Four
The opening chapter conversation with Svidrigailov was interesting. (Now I know who he is!) I have to say, I liked his manner–literarily speaking–in a way similar to my liking of Lillian Rearden, though he was certainly not nearly as subtle. He ignored questions he didn’t like or didn’t want to answer, and he had an easygoing manner of speech. I am suspicious of his offer of ten thousand roubles. It sounds nice on the surface, but Raskolnikov was immediately wary – as he should have been – and his judgment seems to have been sound up until now, so I trust his opinion in this, too. If it sounds too good to be true, …
Chapter Two ranks as one of my favorites so far. Luzhin was so cocky, so arrogant, so self-assured that when even Pulcheria started ranking on him, I laughed out loud! She held her own against Luzhin and came across as much smarter and more confident than I had originally thought her to be. Dounia deserves credit for the way she framed the discussion, allowing each man to present his side. Particularly telling was the fact that Raskolnikov said nothing in response to her. I kept expecting him to object or to yell, but he didn’t. He clearly knows his sister and took her tone as the warning in which it was obviously intended. She’s got some cojones on her.
Raskolnikov was great throughout the conversation: he didn’t need to say a word. He just sat and enjoyed the show. Razumihin nearly beat the snot out of Luzhin at the end, and I almost hoped he would. Luzhin deserved to get whaled on after some of the things he said. I guess we can see Luzhin’s true colors, now, especially since the narrator has chosen to make a more pronounced appearance in these chapters. His comment at the end of chapter two surprised me with its authoritativeness. I was used to the limited narrator, so when the omniscient voice showed up, I was a bit disconcerted. At least we didn’t have those “foreshadowings” which are really heavy-handed authorial intrusions on the narrative (e.g., “Gage, who now had less than two months to live, …”). Particularly interesting was the narrator’s choice of the word “victims” to describe Dounia and Pulcheria in regards to Luzhin. The narrator seems to have dropped any pretense of objectivity. Speaking of which, if I recall properly, the final paragraph of chapter three is the first appearance of the first person pronoun in reference to the narrator. Odd.
I thought Raskolnikov was going to get into trouble with his family when he admitted to seating a prostitute in the presence of his mother and sister. It’ll be even more of a scandal if the two of them "get together." I was stunned when Raskolnikov left his family at the end of chapter four. It was insensitive and selfish of him to insist that Razumihin take his place as son and brother, though I think that Raz is the type of person who would not mind it so much. His plan for becoming a publisher is timely, and Raskolnikov’s support of his idea makes sense in a literary way. I wonder if this is Dostoevsky’s way of getting rid of them as characters and telling the reader that they’ll be fine.
I was not surprised by Raskolnikov’s visit to Sonia, or of his asking her to go away with him. You could see his interest in her at first glance when they met. His probing of her religious beliefs incorporated a long-missed element of the Dostoevsky novel: religion. Although we’ve had sporadic mentions of God throughout, Raskolnikov himself seems to be an atheist, although Sonia did her best to convert him. Perhaps she even succeeded. At any rate, it was a powerfully moving chapter (four). What role eaves-dropping Svidrigailov will play remains to be seen. Once again, Raskolnikov proves himself astute in his conclusions about others.
Porfiry’s interview with Raskolnikov was intense. The descriptions we got of the way Porfiry asked questions – his looks, his mannerisms, his facial expressions – were agonizingly ambiguous, and the reader was right alongside Raskolnikov’s uncertainty as we tried to pierce his veil and discover his motives. I confess I believed Porfiry was being genuine with Raskolnikov throughout much of the discussion, especially considering Raskolnikov’s frame of mind and his interpretations of Porfiry and despite his ramblings about the guilty person who, if given enough rope, will hang themselves. However, his remembrance of the person who admitted to the crime although they were innocent was delicious foreshadowing. I had a feeling that the fat, womanish man was the “surprise” behind Door #3, but his appearance to Raskolnikov in Chapter Six robbed the novel of some tension and uncertainty. Dostoevsky might be trying to tie up some loose ends and simplifying his complex plot: He’s all but removed (or at least made it possible to remove) Raskolnikov’s mother and sister from the book, not to mention Razumihin, he’s clarified Raskolnikov’s relationship with Sonia, and he’s let us (and Raskolnikov) see Porfiry’s hand. I am pleased that Raskolnikov no longer seems bothered by the guilt of the murder, though he does feel regret for having killed Lizaveta, and is now bent on avoiding his own capture and conviction by police. The only question is, how will Sonia react when he tells her? I think, given her religiosity, she will reject him utterly. Svidrigailov will overhear Raskolnikov's confession and use it to try to blackmail him, possibly trying to get Raskolnikov to give him the hand of his sister Dounia in marriage. So many possibilties! I guess Dostoevsky didn't really need all those loose ends, after all.
Speaking of Sonia, Raskolnikov compares the two of them as “fellow sinners,” but I think this in an unfair comparison. Sonia was driven to prostitution through desperation and attempted to sacrifice herself for her family. It was love that drove her actions. What drove Raskolnikov? Rob and I were discussing his motive, and neither of us felt that money was the motive, since Raskolnikov got next to nothing from the woman (and hid what little he did receive, gaining no benefit), and he does not seem particularly distressed by his lack of financial success. Was he trying to demonstrate that he could get away with murder, thus proving himself (by his own definition) to be an “extraordinary” man? Upon reflection, that doesn’t make sense to me – though I like that idea better than the money idea – because it would not prove that Raskolnikov was above the law, only that he could flout it. Perhaps he was, or is, mad after all.
Chapter Two ranks as one of my favorites so far. Luzhin was so cocky, so arrogant, so self-assured that when even Pulcheria started ranking on him, I laughed out loud! She held her own against Luzhin and came across as much smarter and more confident than I had originally thought her to be. Dounia deserves credit for the way she framed the discussion, allowing each man to present his side. Particularly telling was the fact that Raskolnikov said nothing in response to her. I kept expecting him to object or to yell, but he didn’t. He clearly knows his sister and took her tone as the warning in which it was obviously intended. She’s got some cojones on her.
Raskolnikov was great throughout the conversation: he didn’t need to say a word. He just sat and enjoyed the show. Razumihin nearly beat the snot out of Luzhin at the end, and I almost hoped he would. Luzhin deserved to get whaled on after some of the things he said. I guess we can see Luzhin’s true colors, now, especially since the narrator has chosen to make a more pronounced appearance in these chapters. His comment at the end of chapter two surprised me with its authoritativeness. I was used to the limited narrator, so when the omniscient voice showed up, I was a bit disconcerted. At least we didn’t have those “foreshadowings” which are really heavy-handed authorial intrusions on the narrative (e.g., “Gage, who now had less than two months to live, …”). Particularly interesting was the narrator’s choice of the word “victims” to describe Dounia and Pulcheria in regards to Luzhin. The narrator seems to have dropped any pretense of objectivity. Speaking of which, if I recall properly, the final paragraph of chapter three is the first appearance of the first person pronoun in reference to the narrator. Odd.
I thought Raskolnikov was going to get into trouble with his family when he admitted to seating a prostitute in the presence of his mother and sister. It’ll be even more of a scandal if the two of them "get together." I was stunned when Raskolnikov left his family at the end of chapter four. It was insensitive and selfish of him to insist that Razumihin take his place as son and brother, though I think that Raz is the type of person who would not mind it so much. His plan for becoming a publisher is timely, and Raskolnikov’s support of his idea makes sense in a literary way. I wonder if this is Dostoevsky’s way of getting rid of them as characters and telling the reader that they’ll be fine.
I was not surprised by Raskolnikov’s visit to Sonia, or of his asking her to go away with him. You could see his interest in her at first glance when they met. His probing of her religious beliefs incorporated a long-missed element of the Dostoevsky novel: religion. Although we’ve had sporadic mentions of God throughout, Raskolnikov himself seems to be an atheist, although Sonia did her best to convert him. Perhaps she even succeeded. At any rate, it was a powerfully moving chapter (four). What role eaves-dropping Svidrigailov will play remains to be seen. Once again, Raskolnikov proves himself astute in his conclusions about others.
Porfiry’s interview with Raskolnikov was intense. The descriptions we got of the way Porfiry asked questions – his looks, his mannerisms, his facial expressions – were agonizingly ambiguous, and the reader was right alongside Raskolnikov’s uncertainty as we tried to pierce his veil and discover his motives. I confess I believed Porfiry was being genuine with Raskolnikov throughout much of the discussion, especially considering Raskolnikov’s frame of mind and his interpretations of Porfiry and despite his ramblings about the guilty person who, if given enough rope, will hang themselves. However, his remembrance of the person who admitted to the crime although they were innocent was delicious foreshadowing. I had a feeling that the fat, womanish man was the “surprise” behind Door #3, but his appearance to Raskolnikov in Chapter Six robbed the novel of some tension and uncertainty. Dostoevsky might be trying to tie up some loose ends and simplifying his complex plot: He’s all but removed (or at least made it possible to remove) Raskolnikov’s mother and sister from the book, not to mention Razumihin, he’s clarified Raskolnikov’s relationship with Sonia, and he’s let us (and Raskolnikov) see Porfiry’s hand. I am pleased that Raskolnikov no longer seems bothered by the guilt of the murder, though he does feel regret for having killed Lizaveta, and is now bent on avoiding his own capture and conviction by police. The only question is, how will Sonia react when he tells her? I think, given her religiosity, she will reject him utterly. Svidrigailov will overhear Raskolnikov's confession and use it to try to blackmail him, possibly trying to get Raskolnikov to give him the hand of his sister Dounia in marriage. So many possibilties! I guess Dostoevsky didn't really need all those loose ends, after all.
Speaking of Sonia, Raskolnikov compares the two of them as “fellow sinners,” but I think this in an unfair comparison. Sonia was driven to prostitution through desperation and attempted to sacrifice herself for her family. It was love that drove her actions. What drove Raskolnikov? Rob and I were discussing his motive, and neither of us felt that money was the motive, since Raskolnikov got next to nothing from the woman (and hid what little he did receive, gaining no benefit), and he does not seem particularly distressed by his lack of financial success. Was he trying to demonstrate that he could get away with murder, thus proving himself (by his own definition) to be an “extraordinary” man? Upon reflection, that doesn’t make sense to me – though I like that idea better than the money idea – because it would not prove that Raskolnikov was above the law, only that he could flout it. Perhaps he was, or is, mad after all.
Sunday, February 11, 2007
Crime and Punishment, Part Three
No surprise: Razumihin is in love with Dounia. You could see this one coming a mile away. He escorted Dounia and her mother home, checked in (overly-solicitously) on Raskolnikov, and generally demonstrated his willingness to please. His regret the next morning when he sobered up was expected as well. His embarrassment at the start of Part Three was cute, and Dounia found it endearing. I think (hope) they’ll end up together.
The narrative became more traditional in the sense that we’ve moved outside the limited narrator of Raskolnikov’s mind and into third person omniscient. Dostoevsky seems satisfied to have established the frame of mind of his protagonist sufficiently so that he can now cause things to happen within that framework. I find it clever that all the characters are concerned about so many different things: the murder, Raskolnikov’s health, money, Luzhin, love, etc.. Their conversations and perspectives are engagingly complicated, especially Dounia and Raskolnikov. They share a particularly close relationship, and Dounia strikes me as very mature for her age. She’s, what, eighteen? Twenty? Speaking of her, she’s starting to fall for Razumihin, though she doesn’t want to admit it. She was dismayed when he spoke well (albeit somewhat ambiguously) about Luzhin. Whatever her initial reasons for accepting Luzhin’s proposal, she now feels honor-bound, in part, to stay the course. I found it telling, however, when she called Luzhin a “contemptible slanderer” to the dismay of her mother. She certainly was shaken when Raskolnikov critiqued Luzhin’s letter. I think that was the first indication that she was not entirely committed to her relationship with Luzhin. That relationship is doomed. Matter of time.
The mother, by the way, is weak and not the sharpest pencil in the box. Raskolnikov tortures her with his behavior: she does not have half the wit she needs to understand him. I liked his response to comment that “everything you do is good.” “Don’t be too sure,” he tells her. He’s just aching for a punishment.
I liked the fact that Sonia came to visit. Her awkwardness was so cute! Raskolnikov is attracted to that sort of needy girl, as evidenced by his betrothal to that troglodyte, the landlady’s daughter. Sonia will be his savior in the end.
I loved the conversation with Porfiry! And the presence of Zametov, though he hardly did anything more than snort, was a creative complication to the scene. But clearly, Porfiry did not know that Raskolnikov was going to be there at that time and thus could not have invited Zametov in order to “trap” Raskolnikov, so his (Raskolnikiov’s) worry about Zametov’s presence was unnecessary. It was purely a coincidence. I was sweating through the conversation, especially since Raskolnikov does not seem to want to get caught now and is much more lucid. (BTW, Raskolnikov is now much more calculating in his responses to people, and his thought process betrays a great deal of deliberation.) However, I think he’s really just interested in the challenge of it all. He seemed actually to enjoy the conversation about the nature of criminals with Porfiry, and he rose – admirably – to the challenge of Porfiry’s final question about the painters at the flat. (His response was awesome! I have so much more respect for Raskolnikov as a thinker after his response to Porfiry’s inquiry.) Also, he commits this heinous crime, receives virtually no personal gain as a result, drops a ton of hints as to his guilt left and right, but tries desperately to avoid detection. He is tortured by the crime immensely, yet he puts himself in the position of having to extricate himself from several self-inflicted implications. He’s either testing the system to see if he can get away with it – and by extension define himself as an “extraordinary” person – or he has a bizarre, masochistic tendency toward self-destruction.
This last observation interests me, as Razumihin’s comment about the social order contributing to, or being the cause of, crime. It seems to me that Razumihin is correct, although I’m starting to have a lower opinion of his intellect, as I’ll comment on later. A perfectly constructed social order will not eliminate crime. Human nature tends toward conflict. We need it in our lives. We crave it. For proof, one need only look at the popularity of films, especially violent ones. What we lack in our lives, we yearn to experience vicariously through story-telling (any kind: film, novel, poetry, drama, etc.), and one of the elements we crave is conflict. If the desire for conflict becomes too great and the vicarious satisfaction too empty, we act in apparently self-destructive ways to satisfy ourselves. In reality, we are adding excitement to our lives. Some people believe that to suffer is to live, and they strive toward suffering as a way to realize their humanity and experience the gamut of human sensibility. Raskolnikov strikes me as this manner of person. He suffers in his poverty, yes, but his suffering is merely physical. His takes the life of two people and now his suffering increases exponentially: It becomes intellectual, a suffering of the soul. Immensely gratifying, seductive, even addictive. His crime, although it weighs down his soul, has actually elevated him by adding another dimension to his person. People need conflict in their lives, and when they don’t have it, they create it. Some people just need more conflict and/or conflict of a greater degree. Raskolnikov is one of the latter.
Now, Razumihin, I predict, will be Raskolnikov’s downfall, if he (Raskolnikov) has not already caused his own destruction through his “delirious” comments. Their conversation at the end of Chapter Six is going to bring the ruin. Raskolnikov, in his distraction and exasperation, pretty much explained to Razumihin why he responded to Porfiry’s question as he did, and while the explanation was far from an admission of guilt, Razumihin seemed – in his innocent support of Raskolnikov –to become inflamed at Porfiry, enough so that he will return to him and excoriate him for suspecting Raskolnikov of the murder. He will relate their conversation, or at least the gist of it, to Porfiry which will provide the latter with sufficient information to suspect Raskolnikov even further. Razumihin wasn’t sharp enough to pick up on the subtleties of Raskolnikov’s comments (e.g., why did he have to think through his answer to minimize the appearance of his guilt rather than just give an honest response? Isn’t his explanation an admission of guilt itself?). He’ll take them at face value rather than see that, in explaining his thought process to Razumihin, Raskolnikov was almost admitting that he needed to out-think Porfiry in order to respond properly and “safely” without implicating himself. He came dangerously close to telling Razumihin that he couldn’t rely on the truth and so had to actively fabricate a response to avoid the trap Porfiry had set for him. Razumihin didn’t interpret Raskolnikov’s response this way, but Porfiry certainly would.
Two surprises in the last chapter: The fat guy looking for Raskolnikov, and the young-looking old guy (Svidrigailov) who found him. I’m not going to address the whole dream thing (not another one!) except to say that Raskolnikov’s subconscious recognizes the irony and pointlessness of the murder. I was surprised about the fat guy, and if I were Raskolnikov, I’d have chased after that bastard, indignant as all hell. In fact, that’s probably the way I’d act, if I had killed someone. (Where’s Zametov when you need him?) I’d pretend that no one, not even eyewitnesses, has any idea it was me. Deny, deny, deny. Then I’d bury the loot under a big rock. If all the evidence is circumstantial – which it seems to be – then Raskolnikov’s conviction is virtually dependent upon his admission of guilt.
Svidrigailov followed Sonia, but I don’t know why. Then he found Raskolnikov, but again, I don’t know why. I remember his name was mentioned earlier in the novel – by Razumihin, I think – but I forget the significance. Does anyone remember where or when he was mentioned? I wonder what part he’ll play? Raskolnikov seems quite surprised that he showed up. I can’t wait to see who he is and what he wants.
How’s this for a low-brow conversation starter: How many shots of vodka will it take to put Razumihin under the table? Who will win in a slap-down fight: Dounia or Sonya? If Raskolnikov were alive today, would he be an Ayn Rand fan?
The narrative became more traditional in the sense that we’ve moved outside the limited narrator of Raskolnikov’s mind and into third person omniscient. Dostoevsky seems satisfied to have established the frame of mind of his protagonist sufficiently so that he can now cause things to happen within that framework. I find it clever that all the characters are concerned about so many different things: the murder, Raskolnikov’s health, money, Luzhin, love, etc.. Their conversations and perspectives are engagingly complicated, especially Dounia and Raskolnikov. They share a particularly close relationship, and Dounia strikes me as very mature for her age. She’s, what, eighteen? Twenty? Speaking of her, she’s starting to fall for Razumihin, though she doesn’t want to admit it. She was dismayed when he spoke well (albeit somewhat ambiguously) about Luzhin. Whatever her initial reasons for accepting Luzhin’s proposal, she now feels honor-bound, in part, to stay the course. I found it telling, however, when she called Luzhin a “contemptible slanderer” to the dismay of her mother. She certainly was shaken when Raskolnikov critiqued Luzhin’s letter. I think that was the first indication that she was not entirely committed to her relationship with Luzhin. That relationship is doomed. Matter of time.
The mother, by the way, is weak and not the sharpest pencil in the box. Raskolnikov tortures her with his behavior: she does not have half the wit she needs to understand him. I liked his response to comment that “everything you do is good.” “Don’t be too sure,” he tells her. He’s just aching for a punishment.
I liked the fact that Sonia came to visit. Her awkwardness was so cute! Raskolnikov is attracted to that sort of needy girl, as evidenced by his betrothal to that troglodyte, the landlady’s daughter. Sonia will be his savior in the end.
I loved the conversation with Porfiry! And the presence of Zametov, though he hardly did anything more than snort, was a creative complication to the scene. But clearly, Porfiry did not know that Raskolnikov was going to be there at that time and thus could not have invited Zametov in order to “trap” Raskolnikov, so his (Raskolnikiov’s) worry about Zametov’s presence was unnecessary. It was purely a coincidence. I was sweating through the conversation, especially since Raskolnikov does not seem to want to get caught now and is much more lucid. (BTW, Raskolnikov is now much more calculating in his responses to people, and his thought process betrays a great deal of deliberation.) However, I think he’s really just interested in the challenge of it all. He seemed actually to enjoy the conversation about the nature of criminals with Porfiry, and he rose – admirably – to the challenge of Porfiry’s final question about the painters at the flat. (His response was awesome! I have so much more respect for Raskolnikov as a thinker after his response to Porfiry’s inquiry.) Also, he commits this heinous crime, receives virtually no personal gain as a result, drops a ton of hints as to his guilt left and right, but tries desperately to avoid detection. He is tortured by the crime immensely, yet he puts himself in the position of having to extricate himself from several self-inflicted implications. He’s either testing the system to see if he can get away with it – and by extension define himself as an “extraordinary” person – or he has a bizarre, masochistic tendency toward self-destruction.
This last observation interests me, as Razumihin’s comment about the social order contributing to, or being the cause of, crime. It seems to me that Razumihin is correct, although I’m starting to have a lower opinion of his intellect, as I’ll comment on later. A perfectly constructed social order will not eliminate crime. Human nature tends toward conflict. We need it in our lives. We crave it. For proof, one need only look at the popularity of films, especially violent ones. What we lack in our lives, we yearn to experience vicariously through story-telling (any kind: film, novel, poetry, drama, etc.), and one of the elements we crave is conflict. If the desire for conflict becomes too great and the vicarious satisfaction too empty, we act in apparently self-destructive ways to satisfy ourselves. In reality, we are adding excitement to our lives. Some people believe that to suffer is to live, and they strive toward suffering as a way to realize their humanity and experience the gamut of human sensibility. Raskolnikov strikes me as this manner of person. He suffers in his poverty, yes, but his suffering is merely physical. His takes the life of two people and now his suffering increases exponentially: It becomes intellectual, a suffering of the soul. Immensely gratifying, seductive, even addictive. His crime, although it weighs down his soul, has actually elevated him by adding another dimension to his person. People need conflict in their lives, and when they don’t have it, they create it. Some people just need more conflict and/or conflict of a greater degree. Raskolnikov is one of the latter.
Now, Razumihin, I predict, will be Raskolnikov’s downfall, if he (Raskolnikov) has not already caused his own destruction through his “delirious” comments. Their conversation at the end of Chapter Six is going to bring the ruin. Raskolnikov, in his distraction and exasperation, pretty much explained to Razumihin why he responded to Porfiry’s question as he did, and while the explanation was far from an admission of guilt, Razumihin seemed – in his innocent support of Raskolnikov –to become inflamed at Porfiry, enough so that he will return to him and excoriate him for suspecting Raskolnikov of the murder. He will relate their conversation, or at least the gist of it, to Porfiry which will provide the latter with sufficient information to suspect Raskolnikov even further. Razumihin wasn’t sharp enough to pick up on the subtleties of Raskolnikov’s comments (e.g., why did he have to think through his answer to minimize the appearance of his guilt rather than just give an honest response? Isn’t his explanation an admission of guilt itself?). He’ll take them at face value rather than see that, in explaining his thought process to Razumihin, Raskolnikov was almost admitting that he needed to out-think Porfiry in order to respond properly and “safely” without implicating himself. He came dangerously close to telling Razumihin that he couldn’t rely on the truth and so had to actively fabricate a response to avoid the trap Porfiry had set for him. Razumihin didn’t interpret Raskolnikov’s response this way, but Porfiry certainly would.
Two surprises in the last chapter: The fat guy looking for Raskolnikov, and the young-looking old guy (Svidrigailov) who found him. I’m not going to address the whole dream thing (not another one!) except to say that Raskolnikov’s subconscious recognizes the irony and pointlessness of the murder. I was surprised about the fat guy, and if I were Raskolnikov, I’d have chased after that bastard, indignant as all hell. In fact, that’s probably the way I’d act, if I had killed someone. (Where’s Zametov when you need him?) I’d pretend that no one, not even eyewitnesses, has any idea it was me. Deny, deny, deny. Then I’d bury the loot under a big rock. If all the evidence is circumstantial – which it seems to be – then Raskolnikov’s conviction is virtually dependent upon his admission of guilt.
Svidrigailov followed Sonia, but I don’t know why. Then he found Raskolnikov, but again, I don’t know why. I remember his name was mentioned earlier in the novel – by Razumihin, I think – but I forget the significance. Does anyone remember where or when he was mentioned? I wonder what part he’ll play? Raskolnikov seems quite surprised that he showed up. I can’t wait to see who he is and what he wants.
How’s this for a low-brow conversation starter: How many shots of vodka will it take to put Razumihin under the table? Who will win in a slap-down fight: Dounia or Sonya? If Raskolnikov were alive today, would he be an Ayn Rand fan?
Sunday, February 04, 2007
Crime and Punishment, Part Two
For me, Part Two developed in a structure similar to Part One: Somewhat slow beginning, then a very compelling ending. I am enjoying the writing style and I love to listen to the characters as they ramble on and on. Raskolnikov was starting to annoy me with the fever that composed most of his existence in Part Two, so I'm glad he seems to have shaken it.
His visit to the police station at the beginning of the section worried me at first, but then I realized that if he were busted for the crime, they would have sent officers to escort him: they wouldn’t have simply asked him to report to the station on his own. His behavior at the station was about as composed as it could have been, given that he had killed two people less than 24 hours before.
I was surprised at his visit to Razumihin directly afterward, but I think Dostoevsky was just trying to find a way to introduce the character, to pull him into the story. I must say, I like him better than Raskolnikov. Rodya (Fab) is brooding, self-absorbed and introverted; Razumihin (Berry) is much more outgoing, fun-loving, and gregarious. It’s a wonder they’re friends. The way he treats Nastasya, it’s a wonder she even comes to visit him. She probably has a crush on him or something.
The dream he had about the landlady getting beaten was realistically written: I thought it was really happening. I remember thinking, “Why the heck doesn’t he go help her?” Might have been interesting to have him open the door and find nothing rather than hear about it from Nastasya, but it may just serve – for her – as further verification of his fever.
Anyway, Raskolnikov seems to be exhibiting a great deal of self-destructive behaviors: He’s poor as a dirt farmer, yet he constantly gives away what little money he has (the street singer gets five copecks, Duclida the girl near the tavern gets fifteen and doesn’t even have to do anything, fifty copecks to the waiter for tea and vodka, plus freakin’ twenty roubles to the widow Ivanovna), he gives his doctor Zossimov reasons for suspicion, he almost dares the clerk Zametov to suspect him of the crime when he’s in the tavern, he nearly turns himself in to the cops soon after, AND he almost alienates his friend Razumihin despite his kindness. (Actually, because of it. I think he was just feeling guilty about the crime and didn’t feel he deserved any kindness from anyone.) If not for that old woman who jumped off the bridge (and Marmeladov), he might have ended it all right there.
I’m glad he found a sort of redemption in helping Marmeladov’s widow and family. They really appreciated his help, and the whole situation gave Raskolnikov a purpose to live. He recovered somewhat from his feverishness and seemed happy for once.
He’s going to have some explaining to do to his family, now that they’re here and he has mortally insulted his sister’s fiance. (Now THAT was funny!)
His visit to the police station at the beginning of the section worried me at first, but then I realized that if he were busted for the crime, they would have sent officers to escort him: they wouldn’t have simply asked him to report to the station on his own. His behavior at the station was about as composed as it could have been, given that he had killed two people less than 24 hours before.
I was surprised at his visit to Razumihin directly afterward, but I think Dostoevsky was just trying to find a way to introduce the character, to pull him into the story. I must say, I like him better than Raskolnikov. Rodya (Fab) is brooding, self-absorbed and introverted; Razumihin (Berry) is much more outgoing, fun-loving, and gregarious. It’s a wonder they’re friends. The way he treats Nastasya, it’s a wonder she even comes to visit him. She probably has a crush on him or something.
The dream he had about the landlady getting beaten was realistically written: I thought it was really happening. I remember thinking, “Why the heck doesn’t he go help her?” Might have been interesting to have him open the door and find nothing rather than hear about it from Nastasya, but it may just serve – for her – as further verification of his fever.
Anyway, Raskolnikov seems to be exhibiting a great deal of self-destructive behaviors: He’s poor as a dirt farmer, yet he constantly gives away what little money he has (the street singer gets five copecks, Duclida the girl near the tavern gets fifteen and doesn’t even have to do anything, fifty copecks to the waiter for tea and vodka, plus freakin’ twenty roubles to the widow Ivanovna), he gives his doctor Zossimov reasons for suspicion, he almost dares the clerk Zametov to suspect him of the crime when he’s in the tavern, he nearly turns himself in to the cops soon after, AND he almost alienates his friend Razumihin despite his kindness. (Actually, because of it. I think he was just feeling guilty about the crime and didn’t feel he deserved any kindness from anyone.) If not for that old woman who jumped off the bridge (and Marmeladov), he might have ended it all right there.
I’m glad he found a sort of redemption in helping Marmeladov’s widow and family. They really appreciated his help, and the whole situation gave Raskolnikov a purpose to live. He recovered somewhat from his feverishness and seemed happy for once.
He’s going to have some explaining to do to his family, now that they’re here and he has mortally insulted his sister’s fiance. (Now THAT was funny!)
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