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“This was one of the first really classic works of literature that I ever read. I was just twelve years old when my mother bought me it for Christmas, and it became a sort of touchstone to me, a standard against which to judge all other works of fiction. The characters in the book became also the prototypical range of human identities to me—which suggests how bleak, even at that age, my view of human nature was. I knew in my heart that I was supposed to love Alyosha—but I couldn’t much warm up to him. He was too good—too gentle, too self-sacrificing, too meek. He bored me. He got on my nerves. The only times I actually liked him were when the girl flirted with him and when the young children threw stones at him. I hated the book’s ending. I disliked Ivan for entirely the opposite reason. He was for me the type of the cold, calculating intellectual snob, completely absorbed in his own self-interest. I found Svidrigailov, the epileptic son, repulsive. The father too was repulsive in his own way, and yet he fascinated me. Watching him operate was a bit like watching a snake devour a rodent. I admired Dostoevsky’s creativity in imagining so realistically such a loathsome sensualist. The character I loved was Dimitri. To this day I feel a bit like a Dimitri myself. I understand his impulsiveness, his passion, his recklessness. He knows the accusations against him are false. He didn’t do what he’s accused of. Yet he accepts his fate. He’s done worse things. His life is a series of betrayals. He’s given up trying to justify them or vindicate himself. He leaves goodness to the little priest, Alyosha. ”
peter b wrote this review Monday, February 25 2008.
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