Seven Articles from Time and Epoch (1860-1862)*

Writing involves the whole person.  Commitment to the literary endeavor must involve a denial of self-promotion.  Dostoevsky believes that fiction at its best is concerned with Living Truth, that is, something higher than the writer.  The more an author elevates self over this Living Truth, the more doomed that author will be to write nonsense.

Here are some of the the clamors of grandiosity that Dostoevsky mentions as inhibiters of the progress of art:

1.  Fear of the condemnation of established writers and publishers.  This arises from a craving for success in the literary world.  In other words, I can’t write truthfully if I’m over-focused on having a successful career.

2.  The desire for making money.  Turning writing soley into a commercial enterprise will naturally shove aims concerning the Living Truth to the background.

3.  Skepticism.  “A skeptical view,” Dostoevsky says, “kill[s] everything, even the view itself, and in the end lapse[s] into complete apathy and the sleep of death.”  If I write only from a place of criticism and not from hope and love, I will deflate the tires of my literary vehicle.  Building is  more difficult than tearing down, but more important.

Dostoevsky believes in writing about current social issues, but here too, an egotistical tendency to dominate others can get in the way of progress.  This can happen when a zeal for reform can lead to a superior tone.  Rather than persuading, this writing tends to make readers even more resistant, even over issues that hadn’t previously cared that much about until they felt told what to do.  Readers can smell out an agenda.  

My writing at times can drift this way, but Dostoevsky offers some helpful ways to get back on track:

1.  Prefer truth to victory.  Denial of destructive egotism must take the form of praising my opponents when they’re right.  Dostoevsky’s journalism is remarkable in how tenaciously he seeks out and clings to common ground with his bitterest rivals.  He believes that progress can only be found not in forcing one group’s interests over another’s, but in pursuing common interest.

2.  Admit mistakes.  Key to recovery is awareness of illness.  Key to writerly growth is a willingness to examine where I am wrong.

Dostoevsky also believes that too firm an insistence on understanding truth gets in the way of the Living Truth.  The egotism here is demanding that the universe be small enough to fit inside my head.  Dostoevsky’s favorite word for his opponents is “theoreticians” and his greatest critique is that they are out of touch with real people.  He disclaims theorizing as merciless, impatient, and too consistent.  He dislikes blanket application of universal ideas because it overlooks the unique humanity of the individual. 

Dostoevsky seems to think that this drift towards dehumanizing theory can be checked in fiction by the use of specificity.  He praises Edgar Allan Poe for the power of his details.  Poe’s fiction lives through the vividness if its particulars.  In his art, life triumphs over blurred generalizations.

But Dostoevsky also believes E.T.A. Hoffmann to be a superior artist to Poe.  Poe’s grasp of the world has no sense of a higher reality, like Hoffmann’s does.  Poe’s universe has a lower ceiling.  The progress of literature will still be hindered if an author merely wants to render the world in its more superficial aspects.  While the theorist demands the universe be no bigger than my head, the materialist demands that the universe be no bigger than my five senses.  But art can reach deeper than the material.  

This might be part of what makes reading Dostoevsky such a full experience.  He is concerned with what is good and what is evil.  “Much on earth is concealed from us,” Dostoevsky will later write in The Brothers Karamazov, 

“But in place of it we have been granted a secret, mysterious sense of our living bond with the other world, with the higher heavenly world . . . [Earth] lives and grows only through its sense of being in touch with other mysterious worlds . . .”

This “mysterious sense of our living bond with the other world” seems to be one of Dostoevsky’s great guiding lights as an artist.  He says that his existence truly began when he was walking along the Neva river and had a vision where 

“columns of smoke rose like giants from all the roofs on both embankments and rushed upward through the cold sky, twining and untwining along the way, making it seem as if new buildings were rising above the old ones and a new city was forming in the air . . . It was as if my eyes were opened to something new, to a completely new world, unfamiliar to me and known only from obscure rumors and some mysterious signs.”  

It was for this world that he became willing to sacrifice his cravings for wealth, for accolade, for domination, and commit to art.

*Articles referenced: “Petersburg Visions in Verse and Prose,” “Two Camps of Theoreticians,” “Introduction to Three Tales of Edgar Poe,” and “Four Manifestoes from Time and Epoch.”

Five Articles from Time (1861)

A chainsaw is great for felling trees.  It isn’t a great pillow.  Getting to know a chainsaw’s strengths and weaknesses can help me use it more effectively.  The same is true for fiction.  Dostoevsky explores what fiction does well in articles he wrote for his journal, Time.*  

What Fiction Does Well

1.  Creating an Impression

“Talent is given to a writer for the sole purpose of creating an impression.”

The impression the story leaves is what makes the story well written.  If it leaves the reader cold, the writing hasn’t been effective.  But the great storyteller brings dead facts to life—facts the reader may have encountered hundreds of times before but were transformed by the story’s telling.

2.  Arousing Sympathy

“The more sympathy a poet arouses in the masses, the more he justifies his appearance as a poet.”

In other words, the best fiction strikes a chord within its reader, addressing an intuitive need.  The reader may not even be aware of this need, but the fact that the story interests the reader signifies that it may be providing medication for an undiagnosed illness.  This is what Dostoevsky here means by “sympathy.”

3.  Entertaining

“The best book, whatever its subject, is always entertaining.”

Dostoevsky does not believe in separating art from entertainment.  Amusement is palatable to the reader partly because the reader feels respected by the writer, that the reader’s enjoyment is noticed.  Dostoevsky sees himself as the reader’s equal, wishing to render a service by giving the reader pleasure.  When he was in the military, he enjoyed reading adventure stories to the soldiers.  He sees the ideal writer as someone who craves to live among his readers and converse with them endlessly.

This is one of the reasons why Dostoevsky thought that stories often fail when their aim is to enlighten.  Readers hate to be looked down upon, and instruction embedded in storytelling often feels that way.  

4.  Providing an Approach to Reality

“Art is always true to reality to the highest degree.”

Dostoevsky sees fiction as an art that can explore reality, particularly the realties of human nature, in ways that philosophy and psychology can’t reach.  More rational disciplines have a tendency to distort reality in order to fit it into their systems, but fiction, unencumbered by constraints of theory, can feel out reality with all the versatility of experience.

5.  Evoking Beauty

“Beauty . . . is always useful.”

Fiction has this advantage over analytical writing: theories can be wrong.  And if they can be wrong, they can be harmful.  Mercury was once believed to cure yellow fever.  The theory was wrong, and many died from the treatment.

Great fiction, on the other hand, is always helpful.  Its guiding light is beauty, and people are regularly benefited by beauty in ways that theories can’t keep up with.  For example, I know that my life has benefited from reading The Brothers Karamazov, even though I can’t totally articulate how.

Dostoevsky sees art as having a life of its own, and for it to flourish, it can’t be dictated to, not even by the artists themselves.  He sees his creative spirit as existing separately from his own aims.  The greatest artists learn to ignore the demands of critics and the ridicule of fellow writers and learn to sacrifice even their own pre-made ideas in order to follow this spirit.  “Man’s creative ability,” he writes, “can have aspirations other than those to which the man himself aspires.”  

*Time Articles Referenced: “Introduction,” “Mr. —bov and the Question of Art,” “Pedantry and Literacy; First Article,” “Pedantry and Literacy; Second Article,” “The Latest Literary Controversies.”

The Village at Stepanchikovo (1859)

A quick glance out my window will tell me that the leaves beyond it are green.  But if I take the time to study those leaves, I will notice all sorts of shades within that green.  The same is true of any field.  What are just teeth to a layman are to my dentist and hygienist distinct varieties of incisors, canines, and molars.  They have them all numbered, and they have cryptic discussions over my bibbed, spotlit mouth about my “number twenty-four.”

To make progress in any field, I must have a way to move from the general to the specific and to apply the peculiarities of the specific to the general.  I must learn to see not just teeth, but number twenty-four, and yet to see number-twenty four not as a wholly unique entity, but as a tooth.

The same is true the field of the novelist—human nature.  So if Dostoevsky is to study his subject in depth, he must find ways to delineate differences.  In The Village of Stepanchikovo, the chracter of Foma is a good example of how Dostoevsky does this.  

Foma is gushing with vanity.  If the boy Falaley didn’t dream one night about the subjects Foma demanded, Foma felt affronted.  

Now, I go into this novel with assumptions about what vanity should look like.  The category of “vanity” is in my mind like a solid block much like the category of “teeth” to a non-dentist.  My understanding of this block of human experience can be summed up in words like spoiled, privileged, sheltered.  

Foma is none of these.  Foma spent his formative period as a downtrodden outcast.  For years he was forced to humiliate himself by impersonating different animals for his tyrannous employer.  And he’s vain not in spite of his background but because of it.  This means I can’t use my generality-block to understand Foma.  Dostoevsky forces me to cut a slice off of my “vanity” block and label it “Foma.”  I must take Foma as a highly specific individual, yet one who nonetheless falls into this larger category.

But specificity is meaningless in isolation.  I have no sense of gradations of green without comparison.  But it’s not enough to have some flashy blue come swaggering in.  I won’t see kelly green unless I compare it with lime green and seafoam green.

The same, of course, is true of human nature. My vanity-block is still a solid block if its only resident is Foma.

This is where Rostanev comes in.  Rostanev is the other main character of Stepanchikovo.  Rostanev’s vanity is the inverse of Foma’s.  Foma’s vanity is nurtured by a sense of victimhood.  He constantly imagines that everyone is insulting him, and his dignity rises with his martyrdom.  Rostanev, on the other hand, suffers from a displaced vanity.  He can’t bear for anyone one else to be insulted except for himself, and so he tries to assume blame for everything.  Foma’s mantra could be “everyone is against me,” while Rostanev’s is “it’s all my fault.”  

Once could hardly imagine two more drastically different men, yet they both seem primarily motivated by a similar characteristic, a block I’m calling “vanity.”  By the end of the novel, my understanding of the vanity-block of human nature has become more complex, containing as it does such a variety of slices as Foma and Rostanev.

But Dostoevsky doesn’t stop there.  To become a thorough student of a subject requires not only an in-depth examination, but a commitment to continued examining.  

My dentist has an expertise about my number twenty-four not only because he fiddled his little hook around it specifically, but because he continues to do so every six months for many years.  And not only has his little hook come back to my number twenty-four, but also to who knows how many others.  I can only imagine that it’s through this process that a dentist acquires rigorous teeth-knowledge.

Dostoevsky has a similar commitment across his novels.  He continues to rehash many of the same types.  One could draw a family tree of his characters across his novels because of how each generation of characters passes on traits to the next.  The examples are too many to write without risking tedium, but here’s one: Rostanev, an extreme parody of Sermon-on-the-Mount docility, has clear ancestors in the title character of “Polzunkov” and in Vasya from “A Weak Heart.”  He also is himself an ancestor of Prince Myshkin from The Idiot.  Each new generation of this personality is more complex, more profound, more lifelike than the last.  Dostoevsky spent decades rehashing many of the same characters, determined to render them truer with each pass.

Dostoevsky not only fixates on a similar cluster of characters, but also on nearly identical situations.  Seeking to marry someone with severe mental disabilities is a prominent situation in Uncle’s Dream, The Village to Stepanchikovo, The Idiot, and Demons.  Foma theatrically rejects a wad of cash, just like Nastasya Filipovna in The Idiot and Captain Snegiryov in The Brothers Karamazov.  The open-eyed abuse of an innocent child occurs in more of his works than it doesn’t.  Again, the examples are too numerous to list.  But what’s interesting is how certain situations won’t leave Dostoevsky alone.  He keeps wondering why someone would do certain actions, and he provides deeper explorations of motives in each subsequent book.

Uncle’s Dream (1859)

Nothing is as it appears in Dostoevsky’s novella, Uncle’s Dream.  Marya hides her Machiavellian viciousness under the guise of a gracious hostess.  She and her arch-nemesis act like besties.  Her husband looks imposing in his white cravat—until he opens his mouth and reveals he’s an adorably absurd man-child.  The Prince looks young but is really old, and he prefers his coachman, who grows a magnificent beard, to wear a false one because, as Mozglyakov (Zina’s false suitor) says, “Art is superior to nature.”  Even the snow covers the desolate steppe “like a dazzling shroud.”  

The town’s appearance is so unreliable because none of its inhabitants live in reality; each person is preoccupied with a daydream.  Marya is possessed with the idea of becoming rich and powerful, Zina with sacrificing herself for her dying lover, and so on.  As I read, I craved to find someone awake so that I could get a sense of truth beyond all these delusions.

Dostoevsky knows that he’s creating this craving, yet he postpones satisfying it until the end.  In the meantime, he shows that while everyone is dreaming, not everyone is having the same dream.  Marya’s dream is material and practical—she wants tangible prosperity.  Zina’s dream is romantic—that is to say, she implicitly trusts the impulses within herself that she deems noble and finds them infinitely more important than any practical or material considerations.  Marya’s and Zina’s dreams demonstrate opposite views of reality that are equally extreme and distorted.  This difference of delusion, while it doesn’t articulate reality, at least gives us a sense of the reality beyond their exaggerations.

I say that the two views are equally distorted, but in truth, the novella seems inclined to favor Zina’s view.  Zina is a more sympathetic character—of all the liars, she’s perhaps the most honest, and so she, as imperfect as her view is, becomes a sort of moral center, even though Marya is the main character.  In this story brimming with irony, all of the earnestness hovers around Zina.  

Because of this, I sense that Zina’s romantic view is dearer to Dostoevsky than the material one.  A lesser writer would simply have made Zina’s view correct and stacked the reality to reinforce this.  The fact that Dostoevsky doesn’t do this is one of the things that makes him great.

A remarkable trait of Dostoevsky is how much wiser his fiction is than his letters or his journalism.  His own voice and thoughts are less profound than what emerges from his characters.  As an artist, he cultivated a technique that allowed him to transcend his own prejudices.  It is simply this: when I find myself writing about something dear to me, I must get in touch with the shadow-part of me that doubts that dear idea and give it voice so that it can mercilessly attack the worldview I find sacred.  “Dostoevsky,” Rowan Williams writes, “could expose his own most passionate feeling to the acidity of his own irony.”

Dostoevsky does this by populating the scenes with a mocking crowd.  At the key scene, Marya’s parlor is bustling with people eager to laugh at anything sincere.  He also shows the absurdity of Zina’s view through her lover, Vasya, who kills himself out of an excess of romance.  Romance may be a pleasanter dream than pragmatism, but it’s still a dream.

Attacking my own better judgement is, of course, a dangerous thing to do.  To give free vent to the discordant voices in my head can easily lead to courting seductive delusions and moving even further from the truth.  It also involves the risk of harming readers.  If I present all sides of an issue too well, won’t readers be in greater peril of choosing incorrectly?

These dangers are serious, but I must pass through them if I want to write something that approaches honesty.  Dostoevsky had enough respect for his readers to let them choose what to believe without trying to force their hand.

Does this mean that great writing must be a cacophony of differing views in which none gets the upper hand, that is to say—where the author leads the reader only into greater confusion rather than greater truth?  No.  It only means that fiction must operate by the principle that what can be shaken must be shaken so that only that which is unshakable remains.  When worldviews are subjected to a fair fight, truth will out.  Rowan Williams puts it this way:

“What would make the words more than a cliché would be not that they command such veneration or carry such manifest authority that they are incapable of being ironized.  It would be that when subjected to this disrespectful treatment they do not disappear, they do not become contemptable or ineffectual.  And Dostoevsky can only find out whether this is so by subjecting them to the harsh light of irony.  Truthfulness . . . has to show that it can sustain itself against assault . . . But we shall discover this in narrative form only by letting [it] be assailed as relentlessly as can be.”

In this world of clashing daydreams, truth outs through the clash.  In the novella’s final catastrophe, the differences between the daydreams are brought to a head, so that characters are ripping off each other’s masks.  Dostoevsky sets his characters at odds, and puts them onto a course where they will most clash, and in the clash, each can’t help but have their own blindsides exposed.

Writing this way is painful.  That which I hold most precious I must barrage more persistently than any other elements in the story.  But this seems to be happening in Uncle’s Dream.  The narrator regularly takes Marya’s side even though Marya’s perspective is often morally repugnant.  This gives the story a moral coldness that fosters in me a deeper thirst for goodness.  But Dostoevsky never makes the story so ambiguous that I lose all sense of right and wrong.  “There is no abiguity at all,” Rowan Williams says, “about the destructive character of evildoing.”  Through the narrator’s contradictions or through the protestations of Zina, we always have some idea of how things really are.

It’s interesting to note that of all the characters, none seem to change, except one: Zina’s imposter-suitor, Mozglyakov.  That the story ends with him is surprising because he’s its most despicable character.  He isn’t a towering evil, just paltry and petty, which makes him even more annoying.  But in the final paragraph, he seems to pass from dreams to reality, which is what I had been longing to see the whole book.  This happens after the dream of his vanity—that he would be leaning, forlorn, on a column at a ball with Zina—comes true, yet Zina pays him no notice.  He comes face to face with his own foolishness.  That Dostoevsky chose the unlikeable Mozglyakov for the longed-for awakening is interesting.  Reality favors neither extreme of the idealogical dialectic of the story; instead it shines its dawn on the one most humiliated.  It’s exactly the sort of upside down triumph one finds beyond the confines of a daydream.

Letters 1849-1859

A few years ago, I read several craft books that left me with the impression that the best writing was improvised—that the real authors were like jazz musicians who could just jam with a natural flow.  I heard that Robert Frost quote: “No surprise in the writer, no surprise in the reader,” and took from it: to plan is sin.

So I tried to improvise.  My results were often irrelevant wanderings from the story, or else just spattering sludge.

To my relief, I discovered that Dostoevsky spent much time planning.  He described to his publisher maps of whole novels he was only beginning.  He considered works written at once, in a fit of inspiration, immature.  He believed in revising over a long period of time in order to let the ideas take shape. “Believe me,” he says, “Work is necessary in everything, and an enormous amount of it.”

It would be easy to take from this: to not plan is sin.

But sometimes Dostoevsky would simply chuck all his plans and just blunder into the draft.  He often mentions ideas and even drafts of novels that never came to anything, and his projects were almost universally more ambitious in the planning stages than when published.  It’s clear that he never slavishly followed outlines and that he had an agile willingness to hop off his own tracks at the first hint of a better way forward.  An episode from a failed novel became a short story.  His imagination had a way of starting with his intention and twisting it until the story had a life of its own.

Witnessing his process from his letters, I get the impression that he had no consistent, efficient method, only an intuition for the next thing to try.  This is bad news and good news.  

Bad news because I want a neat system to control the process.  Fiction is scary because it’s such a gamble.  I have no idea if I’m headed toward a cliff.  But if I’m going to follow after my hero, I must be willing to stumble along in the dark.

But it’s also good news.  When all I can do is what seems to be the next right step—now outlining, now freewriting—I’m forced to let go of the results.  And when I do that, a morning of scribbling just might turn out to be fun.

“A Little Hero” (1857)

“A Little Hero” has a marvelous ability to render a breadth of situations and characters that give the story a lifelike quality, all the while unifying it all through a central theme, much like Netochka Nezvanova.  This theme of the dangers of the attention we can pay each other is well explored, yet “A Little Hero” isn’t as compelling as it could be because of its authorial dishonesty.

Fiction is a strange task.  In it, we are fabricating a reality, but not willy-nilly.  The best fiction invents in such a way that sheds light on The Great Reality.  My mind is full of stories, many of them toxically false.  The art of fiction writing has to do with uncovering the stories that ring true—stories that shed common delusions so that we can have a fresh experience of the real.  This kind of writing requires an abhorrence for delusion and a commitment to inner honesty as one enters the dark forest of the imagination.

“A Little Hero” sinks into authorial dishonesty when it fails to maintain the tension between the self and the other.  Ironically, the story describes its own pitfall well when describing Monsieur M.’s type: “All nature, the whole world for them is no more than a splendid mirror created for the little god to admire himself continually in it, and to see no one and nothing behind himself.”

When I become self-obsessed, I lose all sense of otherness.  All others become reduced to what they think about me.  A tell-tale attitude of this sort of delusional imagining is: “There’s the world and everyone in it.  And then there’s me.”  I view myself as separate from the human family, either seeing myself as superior to them all or else more pitiable.  In several places, “A Little Hero” falls into the latter.  The narrator regularly describes himself as an excluded outsider who is only met with ridicule from society, which he characterizes as a mocking crowd where only egoists can flourish.  

This problem often happens when I over-identify with one of my characters.  In other words, when I can’t distinguish the character from a fantasy I have about myself.  If I have a character in my story whose consciousness is more dominant than the others, I must cultivate some sense of seeing this character from the outside, otherwise that character’s consciousness will swamp the whole story, and the narrative will have no sense of reality but will be a slave to the delusions of the character (the most powerful of which is perhaps that sense of being flawlessly correct).  I will “see no one and nothing behind” myself.  A sense of reality requires at least two points of perspective.

The I’m-an-outsider-in-a-hostile-world attitude is textbook delusional thinking.  If a character is constantly giving off I’m-so-great-but-they-won’t-let-me-succeed vibes, that character will often fall into the author’s vicarious self-pity unless the author is able to establish some sort of distance from the character.  That isn’t to say that real groups never actually exclude people, or that I can’t write about this experience.  What I mean is that me-versus-the-world stories normally veer toward narcissist delusions unless the author can keep in mind that humanity doesn’t exist solely for the sake of either praising or excluding some special, central person.  If the author fails to do this, the other flattens into a mirror.

My mind is so keen to believe that I am an under-appreciated star that I must approach relatable outsider characters with an effort at objectivity.  Dostoevsky does this masterfully in Notes from Underground.  The Underground Man says, “I am one, and they are all,” but Dostoevsky, through use of irony, maintains enough distance from his creation to allow the reader to see the Underground Man as he really is—one of the other human beings.  And perhaps even more profoundly, the Underground Man allows me to see my own delusion.

The self-obsessed imagination not only over-identifies with protagonists, it also under-identifies with antagonists.  They, too, can’t be viewed as one of the other human beings but are reduced to their negative impact on the protagonist.  As an author, I have first-hand access to only one human experience: my own.  Thus the only way I have to bring life to characters is to find some aspect of myself within them.  When I refuse to find myself in a character, I suck the life out of them.  That doesn’t mean that I can’t write villains—it only means that if I am to write a villain well, I must find the villain in myself.  Ironically, if I can’t find myself in my darker characters, they end up like me anyway, only in less compelling forms—projections of my pet peeves, or even sloppy renderings of my problems that I’m unable to face.  

In a self-centered mindset, I must be constantly and universally adored, and when (inevitably) I’m not, the reason must be personal, and so I assume the world is hostile.  Thus hostility is characteristic of the narcissist’s world.  

Since the setting of “A Little Hero” is one of these hostile worlds, it’s not surprising that the Hero starts to romanticize deceit.  When Madame M. lies with such charming innocence to her husband about meeting another man in secret, the Hero suggests that innocence can’t do otherwise than lie when husbands are so pompous and society is so eager to condemn.  Thus the vicious world of “A Little Hero” naturally lends itself to valorizing deception, which is what riddles the action with nonsense.  A story that champions deceit cannot be honest.

I enjoy fiction that makes me feel like I’m getting somewhere, like I’m moving toward truth and not away from it.  This is a tall order, and to throw away honesty—the only compass I have—bodes poorly.  If I, as an author, can’t commit to being honest with myself, I can’t expect my stories to land anywhere other than in a tedious, distorted house of mirrored self-delusions.

Netochka Nezvanova (1849)

One of the marvels of great fiction is its ability to embrace the complexity of experience and at the same time to shape it into a meaningful unity.  Part One of Dostoevsky’s Netochka Nezvanova is a masterpiece of such complex unity.  It opens with Efimov, Netochka’s step-father.  Efimov is both focused and complex.

He’s focused around his dream of apotheosis.  In the Biblical story, the serpent tempts Eve with the forbidden fruit by telling her that “ye shall be as gods.”  Few temptations are so alluring as this ambition to be superhuman.

Efimov meets his own serpent, a jaded ex-conductor, who teaches him violin and tells him he’s an under-appreciated genius.  This dream intoxicates Efimov, and he becomes obsessed with achieving the highest success. 

His extreme ambition hampers him from keeping jobs because he always feels his employer is undervaluing him.  He falls into debt, which inhibits his progress up the ladder of the music world, and the more he’s inhibited, the more he fixates on dream rather than his actual situation, and his fantasies begin to displace practical plans.  

Soon he’s unwilling to even touch his violin because the reality of his playing gets in the way of his dream that he’s the supreme artist of the world. 

The more Efimov flees reality for the comfort of his dreams, the more painful reality becomes.  To overcome the money obstacle, he marries a widow with a small inheritance.  But the widow also has a small child, Netochka, and Efimov finds himself pulled toward reality by the obligations of family.  Efimov can’t bear this pull.  He does nothing for his family—he lets Netochka’s mother work to the point of illness and lets them all to fall into miserable poverty.  

The pain of what Efimov is doing to little Netochka makes reality even more unbearable.  He sometimes gets a glimpse of what he’s become and is overwhelmed with fear—and then quickly seeks vodka and fantasy.  Conscience is a powerful agent of reality—one that is hard to drown out.  Efimov, in order to not face the pain of the harms he’s doing to those closest to him, must believe in his delusions of grandeur.  If he were the world’s great genius, he thinks, all would be excused.  The urgency of his need to delude himself, aided with drink, causes him to start to sink into insanity.  

The tightness of Efimov’s character around this single theme of the dream of apotheosis is matched by the complexity with which he responds to it.  He’s a combination of the most grandiose ambition with the most self-shaming despair, and his relations to others alternate between the extremes of arrogance and servility.  

His portrait is compelling because it’s a fuller picture than common conceptions of self-esteem.  It’s easy for me to see someone acting arrogantly and think all they need is to be taken down a notch or to see someone struggling with low self-esteem and to think that all they need is a boost.  Efimov complicates such tidy fixes.  His two distorted senses of self are not opposites; they spring from the same problem.  Efimov hates himself because his ambitions are so high that he can’t bear that he hasn’t achieved them; he’s ashamed for not being superhuman.  His self-loathing is then so painful that he tries to console himself by imagining himself still more superior.

Efimov’s version of the ambitious artist is more complex than the norm, and it rings more true.  I’ve read many stories where an artist is so ambitious that they are willing to sacrifice conscience and all other normal bonds to reality to achieve greatness.  But Efimov’s tragedy demonstrates that art is reality beyond one’s self, and to lose reality beyond one’s self is to lose art.

This dream of apotheosis not only unifies Efimov’s complex character, but the other characters as well.  Because they all revolve around this central theme, they clash dramatically on their most crucial points.

Netochka’s mother becomes preoccupied with the dream that she can be “the firm guiding hand and support of a genius”—to be the god’s goddess.  She’s trying to make him rise, but he uses her as an excuse for a lack of success.  He convinces himself that once she dies, then he will achieve his dream.  Thus they are at perpetual odds, and his animosity toward her becomes necessary to him.  Thus the mother’s dream, on which she’s staked everything, is constantly dashed by Efimov’s behavior.  The mother’s despair is so crushing that she grows more and more ill, closer and closer to death.  Yet her despair is just as complex as Efimov’s ambition—it manifests itself not in passivity but in more and more angry demands for control.

This constant battle becomes its own stasis, which is disrupted by Netochka.  Her relation to the dream is different because she’s nine years old.  Her first memory is of her (assumed) father caressing her for standing up for him against her mother.  She’d rarely received affection, so this caress becomes a crucial link to her sense of reality.  She longs for the reality she found in Efimov’s affection, but this is immediately complicated by Efimov’s delusion—that all will be made right once Netochka’s mother dies.  He infects little Netochka with this dream.  

The characters are so tightly wound around this dream that the action unfolds with precision.  Efimov is desperate to maintain the delusion of his musical divinity.  But the law of nature is that reality will out.  So there inevitably arrives in Petersburg a true genius violinist: S.  Efimov must see S. perform to convince himself that he is better than S., but the performance costs twenty-five rubles.  He asks Netochka to steal the money from her mother.

This request hits Netochka in her tenderest spot—the tension between her dream and her reality.  She knows that her mother is ill and is desperate for that money and that the strain of the loss could kill her.  Netochka thus feels that by agreeing to her father’s request, she could kill her mother—which, in light of the dream she’d inherited from her father, she’d secretly both hoped for and felt guilty for hoping.  Her conscience—that pure contact with reality—revolts from such an action.

But Efimov knows exactly where she’s most vulnerable.  When she refuses, he says, “It means you don’t love me, eh?  All right!  I’ll leave you now.”  Being loved by her father and going on with him to a better place is crucial to all her hopes.  She complies, and what follows does lead to the mother’s death.  Netochka’s dream comes true, but the reality of it is a nightmare.

Each character clashes around their common obsession with an impossible dream.  These clashes inevitably lead to an intrusion of reality into that dream.  The nightmarish quality of Part One’s ending is a result of this collision.  The dream is a desire to control, but reality cannot be controlled, and so the place where the dream and reality meet is in nightmare—the dream gone out of control.

The way Dostoevsky describes the final scene encapsulates the nightmarish clash between the self’s desire to control and reality’s wildness.  It intensifies how we experience reality—not through the cold mechanism of a camera, but through emotional personality.  

As Netochka faces that night under such duress that the world around her takes on heights of significance beyond mere sense-input, yet at the same time, she experiences uncanniness through a heightened awareness of her senses.  When Efimov takes the dead mother’s money, Netochka remembers it this way:

“At first he put the money in my hand, then took it back and thrust it in the top of my dress.  I remember shuddering when I felt the silver against my body, and I think it was then that I first understood the meaning of money.”

The cold metal against her body has a heightened vividness compared to the novel’s normal level of description, yet it is coupled with the enigmatic phrase “I first understood the meaning of money.”  She doesn’t say what the meaning is, yet the intensity of how it feels takes on mysterious significance.

Similarly, when they discover the mother dead, Efimov gets out his violin and starts playing.  Netochka remembers it this way:

“[I]t was not music [. . . ] they were not notes of the violin, but the sound of a terrible voice that was resounding through our room for the first time.  Either my impressions were incorrect or delirious, or else my senses were so thrown by all that I had witnessed that they were prepared for frightful, agonizing impressions—but I am firmly convinced that I heard groans, the cries of a human voice.”

The weird humanity the violin in Netochka’s ears feels as if Netochka’s experience is withdrawing from reality and at the same time as if the wildness of reality is breaking in on Netochka’s dream of control.  She’s sensing the strain of living too long in delusion.  Both Netochka and Efimov hoped that their own constructed fantasies would always obey their creators.  But the dreams themselves seem to have their own laws, their own reality outside of the conscious self.

Of course, as a child, Netochka’s not responsible for the monstrousness of her inherited dream, but as the novel shifts focus from Efimov to her, she takes on the consequences of his mistakes.  Yet she doesn’t succumb to the dream like Efimov did.  Perhaps the horror she experiences is the adventure of health.  The night seems to be more nightmarish for her than for Efimov, and she also displays more agency—he seems as if he has already been lost to his delusions and is beyond the reach of the healing pain of reality.

Netochka, on the other hand, emerges as a heroine.  Her devotion to such an unlovely step-father causes her childlike purity to shine all the more in its ghoulish surroundings.

It’s a shame Dostoevsky never finished Netochka Nezvanova.  It has that great-novel quality about it—that diamond of clashing characters around a complex but focused value.  As an exploration of the allure of playing God and the backlash of nature—even the nature of our own minds—Netochka Nezvanova makes a valuable offering.

“White Nights” (1848)

I often think of desire as a fundamental element of fiction.  In most stories, a character wants something, but an obstacle hinders fulfillment.  The vast majority of stories operate this way.

But there’s a snag to this sort of storytelling.  It just doesn’t square with my experience.  To want something wholly, with no reservations whatsoever, seems to be the sole privilege of a rare maniac.  The rest of us find even our strongest desires riddled with doubts.  Thus, after reading a book, I can feel like I’m missing out if I’m not experiencing a supernatural romance, or I can attribute to passing passions something more fundamental than they actually possess.

Not so when I read Dostoevsky.  Perhaps the reason I find the two main characters in “White Nights” so compelling is that their desires are just as fragmented as mine.  The Dreamer seems to prefer his fantasies to real life.  He sees the world as dull, cold, sullen, and hostile compared to his magical, opulent dreams.  Yet at the same time, he sees his life whiled away in daydreaming as pathetic, poisonous, cursed.  Sometimes he feels like he would trade all his fantasy-filled years for one day of reality, no matter how gloomy.

When he tells Nastenka of this, she relates, but in a different way.  She has spent her life hovered over by her Granny, who pushes her toward romance while simultaneously forbidding it.  Their two backstories run parallel—The Dreamer’s fantasies and Nastenka’s Granny are slowly destroying each of them by splitting their desires.

But this is only the beginning.  Nastenka is waiting for the return of a man she wishes to marry.  While waiting, she meets the Dreamer, who quickly develops feelings for Nastenka.  The crucial question then becomes: who is Nastenka going to pick?

But the further the story presses into this question, the more unclear I feel about which man Nastenka prefers.  She herself doesn’t seem to know.  Trying to get to the bottom of her desires is like trying to get to the bottom of a staircase designed by M.C. Escher.

But how can such a story be told?  Desire is the thrust of fiction.  These characters’ desires are so contradictory that the narrative should grow inert and die.  Contradictory desires cancel each other out, so in terms of moving the plot forward, contradictory desires should function the same as no desires.  Without the wind of desire, a story can’t sail.

Yet “White Nights” does.  Why?  Dostoevsky is able to cultivate in me a sense of hope that the instability in these characters isn’t too stable itself—that there’s something solid beneath the ambiguities that’s worth investigating.  

First, the tone of the story is one of contagious curiosity.  The writing feels energized with a sort of dogged determination to get to the bottom of the matter.  Nothing about the tone seems to suggest that sort of despairing throwing up of the hands that says, “Well, I guess we’ll never know.”  Dostoevsky is determined to get closer to a why.  The Dreamer spends two evenings racking his brains trying to discover why his room made him so uneasy.  He examines his walls and furniture in detail.  And when he tells his story to Nastenka, he tells much of it using only “why” questions.  Again and again, Dostoevsky invites me to interrogate his characters’ motives.  I can’t but help but hope that all this interrogation won’t be in vain.

Second, Dostoevsky lays out tantalizing patterns of theme.  There are two major themes in this story—that of dreams versus reality, and that of lingering moments versus the quick passage of time.  He returns to both of these themes in almost every paragraph, so I can’t help but wonder how these themes are related.  Once again, he gives me a fragmentation and a longing to fuse together the pieces.  And he offers me abundant opportunities to do so.  He often mentions how time passes differently in dreams versus reality.  

The Dreamer finds spring in Petersburg so ephemeral that he hasn’t time to fall in love with it.  He dislikes how reality consists of moments that pass by.  He finds it morbid and associates it with death.  For a dreamer, a moment isn’t enough.  But a moment is all reality has to offer—it can only be experienced that way.  In his fantasies, on the other hand, he can prolong moments; he can rehash them and squeeze out all their sweetness.  But because of this, there are no real moments in his dreams.  They are a blur of noncommittal superficiality.  The Dreamer can’t commit to the dying moment, thus he can’t truly know grief or sacrificial love.

By presenting us with these two separate but cross-talking themes, Dostoevsky gives us another layer of patterns by which we can come to a deeper understanding of his characters.  

As usual, Dostoevsky doesn’t come out and say what desire lies at the bottom of these equivocal characters.  But he does give us enough material to make progress with what seems to be the crucial question of the piece: what does it mean to love?

One thing that’s amazing about these characters is that they aren’t rational, but this irrationality isn’t a mere flaw but a sign of something deeper.  There’s more to their desires than their own logic and understanding of their well-being.  They both have a need for love to be stable, but the romance where they are trying to find it isn’t—it’s breaking apart beneath the weight of their need.  Romantic attraction comes and goes, but the need behind it is something pure, something profound.  

“You can’t help believing,” The Dreamer says, “that there is something alive and palpable in his vain and empty dreams!”  Who hasn’t felt that need, that need for a moment, yes, but a lasting moment, a moment that doesn’t die?  Who hasn’t felt that need to love like they do in the stories, to love purely, with no contrary strains, no adulterations?  When romances fail and dreams go sour, that need remains.

A Christmas Tree and a Wedding (1848)

The basic outline of “A Christmas Tree and a Wedding” is quite conventional.  The affinity between a boy and girl is threatened by the girl’s grotesque suitor, whose social position enamors the girl’s parents.  I’ve heard variations on this theme many times.  But Dostoevsky’s version has some odd tweaks.  Here are three:

1.  In a typical version of this plot, the boy and girl are adults.  In Dostoevsky’s take, they are children, yet the powerful suitor is middle-aged.  

2.  Conventionally, the narrator reports and comments on the situation but has no power to get involved.  ‘A Christmas Tree’s narrator, however, is on the scene.  He has the ability to engage, but he doesn’t.  Instead, he only laughs.

3.  This type of plot normally ends emphatically.  Either the boy and the girl get together or they don’t.  ‘A Christmas Tree,’ however, ends ambiguously.  An end may be implied, but the central tension remains unresolved.

Why did Dostoevsky make these alterations?  The answer may have to do with Dostoevsky’s commitment to a certain kind of honesty.  French philosopher Simone Weil claims that literature shines brightest when the author is laboring under the sort of honesty that admits that any of us, at any moment, could lose everything.  This is the honesty of Job, of Oedipus, of Lear.  It’s this honesty that allows one to stand stripped naked of all of one’s illusions of control.  

Whenever I read a story about evil, I naturally want to distance myself from it.  My mind crowds with rationalizations to soothe me.  That couldn’t happen to me, I tell myself.  I want to be somehow immune to such pain.  Like Oedipus, I can’t give ear to a prophet who says “You are the murderer of the king whose murderer you seek.”  The question then becomes how can I move from King Oedipus to King David, who, when the prophet says, “You are the man!” David listens.  

Each of Dostoevsky’s three tweaks bring me closer to David by confronting three of my biggest rationalizations:

1.  “The problem isn’t that bad.”  

Dostoevsky’s decision to make the protagonists children ups the stakes; their vulnerability is too stark for cloudy justification; to be profit-oriented with them is to be sinister.  I like to tell myself that acting on my own interest while ignoring the interests of others isn’t a big deal, but Dostoevsky forces me to take my actions more seriously by showing how they can effect children.  What I thought was reasonable indulgence, when brought into the light of childhood innocence, looks more like cruelty.

2.  “The problem belongs to someone else.”  

That the narrator could watch this scene unfold and do nothing but laugh implicates the narrator.  This brings to mind the fact that I too, am watching, and that I too, do nothing.  Without the narrator’s callous laugh, I could too easily read this story blaming no one but the monstrous suitor.  But the story is told in a way that implicates me in it—I have no way of separating myself from the suitor’s stink. 

3.  “I can fix the problem.”  

The first line of the story presents me with a contradiction: “The other day I saw a wedding . . . but no, I had better tell you about the Christmas tree.”  Here Dostoevsky employs metanoia (one of his favorite rhetorical devices), where he has the narrator correct himself.  The narrator says he’s going to tell us about a wedding, but then he changes his mind.  The wedding is even promised in the title.  But this is the last I overtly hear of the wedding.  This creates a tension in the story.  I’m waiting to see who gets married.  I assume that the girl either must marry the suitor or the boy; the text seems to imply that the girl marries the suitor, but it never says explicitly.  I begin with the tension of the wedding, and I am left with it, which is unsettling.  I want to hear that justice triumphed, but I don’t even find out what happened.  I am left with urgent questions but with no answers.  In short, I am left in an impossible situation.

Dostoevsky often ends his stories this way.  He leaves me between the horns of a dilemma that is so urgent that it doesn’t even leave room for a despairing cop-out.  What is my responsibility to those suffering around me?  Well, what is it?  To ignore the question is cruel.  To do nothing is oppressive.  But what can I do?  Positive actions often feel more symbolic than satisfactory, and the proffered answers often seem to just point the cruelty in another direction.  I feel as though I have been brought to the point that I must act, but I am paralyzed.  

And this is where Dostoevsky leaves me.  Why?  I can’t answer for him, but one reason I keep coming back to these stories is because I find this impossible state one of spiritual fertility.  When I come to the end of my answers, I finally become willing to cry out for help.