The Idiot by Fyodor Dostoevsky, translated by Eva Martin (1869)

“Haha! But how can one love two at once, with two different sorts of love? That’s interesting. Poor idiot. What will become of him now?” (Part 4, Chapter 9)

For the fourth book of our Siblings’ 2018 Book Club, we chose this Russian classic. And I’m the only one of six who stuck it out to the end! Again, I can’t decide whether that says more about us readers than it does about the books we’ve selected, but I don’t fault anyone for choosing not to finish this book. It’s long and laborious and far more focused on dialogue than readers of today’s fiction would prefer.

The story follows Prince Lef Nicolaievitch Muishkin—a young heir considered an idiot by anyone who knows him only partially—in his pursuit of a troubled beauty named Nastasya Filipovna. My overall impression as I finished Part 2 and slogged my way through the rest of the book was, “This is just a romance filled with dialogue that likely mattered to Russians, once upon a time. But for this American in 2018? No reason for me  to spend my time thinking too deeply about it now.” Thus, as a novel it’s semi-enjoyable, but as literary piece written with the goal of teaching, it’s outdated.

Because I cannot possibly recall everything that I had read (and I certainly don’t want to skim through it again for reminders), this review will be a far cry from literary criticism. Instead, I’ll discuss merely our initial impressions and some themes that I thought were important.

I noticed early on the importance of dialogue in this book, and Dostoevsky’s ability to paint a scene very quickly, so that the reader knows where he is and can then focus on the message of the text. It’s almost as if he were writing a drama in prose. In fact, because he almost never moved his characters from one location to the next within a chapter, it’s truly like watching scenes in a play. For example, in Part 1, I noted the setting or subject of each chapter thus, and could easily recall even the conversation and attitudes therein:

Chapter 1, the train; Chapter 2, the front room; Chapter 3, the General’s study; (Chapter 4, a background of N.P. and Troist); Chapter 5, the General’s women (a very funny chapter); Chapter 6, Marie; Chapter 7, departing for Gania’s; Chapter 8, lodgings; Chapter 9, N.P. meets the family; Chapter 10, Rogojin’s band; Chapter 11, Gania apologizes; Chapter 12, drunk General; Chapter 13, to the party; Chapter 14, the game and decision; Chapter 15, the proposal; Chapter 16, to Rogojin.

I did not continue this note-taking throughout the book, but I imagine that if I had, I could recall the entire novel with far greater clarity, for even now as I write, Part 1 is returning to me as if I read it just last week.

When I was 80% of the way through the book, I had categorized it in my own mind as “romance dealing with social issues”, and that’s just not a normal read for me. Key themes and topics that were repeated throughout the novel were those of love-and-marriage, suicide, and capitol punishment. In fact, as I neared the end of the book, I really hoping for a wedding. Or at least an execution.

Regarding Capitol Punishment, for example, Dostoevsky writes through the words of the Prince:

I believe that to execute a man for murder is to punish him immeasurably more dreadfully than is equivalent to his crime. A murder by sentence is far more dreadful than a murder committed by a criminal. The man who is attacked by robbers at night, in a dark wood, or anywhere, undoubtedly hopes and hopes that he may yet escape until the very moment of his death. There are plenty of instances of a man running away, or imploring for mercy—at all events hoping on in some degree—even after his throat was cut. But in the case of an execution, that last hope—having which it is so immeasurably less dreadful to die,—is taken away from the wretch and certainty substituted in its place! There is his sentence, and with it that terrible certainty that he cannot possibly escape death—which, I consider, must be the most dreadful anguish in the world. You may place a soldier before a cannon’s mouth in battle, and fire upon him—and he will still hope. But read to that same soldier his death-sentence, and he will either go mad or burst into tears. Who dares to say that any man can suffer this without going mad? No, no! it is an abuse, a shame. (Fyodor Dostoevsky, The Idiot, 21)

Perhaps the most interesting scene of all was that of the invalid reading his own suicide note aloud to a crowded room. Not a politically correct scenario or result, and definitely one that grabbed my attention! I just wasn’t ever able to figure out “the point.” Perhaps Fyodor Dostoevsky had no point to make by including this subplot, but I find that hard to believe. After all, his protagonist says of himself, “I think I am a philosopher, perhaps, and who knows, perhaps I do wish to teach my views of things to those I meet with?” (60) That seems to be the author’s main goal in all his discussions—as well it should be—so even the shameless invalid who cannot find pity, even in his most desperate act, has a purpose. I just don’t know what his purpose was.

Overall, I find that I’m happier to say, “I read The Idiot” that I’m happy that I read The idiot. Having done so does not make me pine for more Dostoevsky, and the accomplishment is very low one indeed on my list of life’s goals. Nevertheless, “I read The Idiot“, and you can be as proud of me as you like. I recommend it only to those who don’t mind really long, outdated romantic dramas.

One final note: I don’t recommend reading every piece of dialogue in this book with a Russian accent. That gets terribly exhausting, terribly quick.

©2018 E.T.