logo
Wrong email address or username
Wrong email address or username
Incorrect verification code
back to top
Search tags: The-Idiot
Load new posts () and activity
Like Reblog Comment
show activity (+)
review 2017-07-06 18:20
'The Idiot' by Fyodor Dostoevsky
The Idiot - Fyodor Dostoyevsky,Larissa Volokhonsky,Richard Pevear

Now that I’ve reached the end of Fyodor Dostoevsky’s The Idiot (this edition translated by Richard Pevear and Larissa Volokhonsky) I have begun to see it as the story of a man scandalized by a world that disappoints nearly every effort at goodness. A man, the prince and maybe the author, who, having ventured into the world, extended sympathy out to the people he saw but has been broken by them and retreated to a shell of conservatism and safety.

 

The (relatively brief) synopsis: A young man of the Russian aristocratic class, Prince Lev Nikoláevich Mýshkin, arrives in St. Petersberg after having been raised in Switzerland where he was treated for what we assume is epilepsy. It’s told that he has seizures and was an “idiot” as well, mute and developmentally challenged as a child from the sounds of it. Arriving back in Russia he becomes known for extending sympathy and withholding judgement and for this naivete the label follows him throughout the novel as a term of abuse. He encounters several groups of people his first day back that become the basis of his social circle in Russia. Among these, a rich merchant Rogózhin, who is bullish and immediate in pursuing his desires, the Epanchin family that serves as a sort of “straight man” (or family) tumbled about by these external forces, the Ívolgin family, and Nastásya Filíppovna, a beautiful young woman who has been sexually abused by an adopted father-figure and has grown to be a troubled figure who tends to sow chaos.

 

Driving the story along is a  tortured love triangle between the prince, Rogózhin and Nastásya Filíppovna, with Agláya Epanchin, the youngest and most beautiful of three Epanchin daughters, eventually being thrown into the mix.

 

This is all hardly a skeleton of this 610 page story and if I had one piece of advice to impart before reading this book it would be to remember that it was published serially and to view it more like a television series than today’s more plot-driven novels. Chapters, much like episodes, are little stories within themselves that involve our main characters but often do not move the main story arch forward, much like a sitcom that weaves tidbits of larger romantic plots into the self-contained 30 minute adventures.

 

So if you find yourself wondering how a 20 page reading of the suicide note of the prince's consumptive neighbor ties into these primary goals, it doesn’t really, but not everything has to. Much of it is a way to imagine the simple, kind prince into contemporary — for its time — debates and conversations, which can make it feel dated. But while the specifics have changed, the conversations never change that much: faith, government, sexual mores, frivolous lawsuits, and stab-happy rival suitors.

 

The prince handles himself well in many circumstances, though is often scoffed at for some reason not necessarily related to the argument. But stepping back now and taking the novel as a whole, especially the ending, the story leaves a rather bleak impression.

 

If you are one to read the introduction or footnotes you should be tipped off by the association between this book and “Christ’s Body in the Tomb,” a painting by Hans Holbein depicting a gruesomely realistic dead body about which the prince says, “A man could even lose his faith from that painting!” Dostoevsky seems interested in what it would take to do just that.

 

The sensitive characters of this story: the prince, Nastásya, even Aglya and Ippolit, get ground down by the world they encounter. It’s a world they wish to embrace but one that is full of awful people and acts, where goodness is nigh impossible. While those who thrive in this story are the savvy and amoral. They are practical folks like Iván Fyódorovich Epanchin or cynical like Gavríla Ardaliónovich, Lebedev and Evgény Pávlovich.

 

Rogózhin seems a special case to me, too sensitive to be practical but certainly not sympathetic. In the end, he too gets broken down but he recovers mentally if not financially. He lives in a passion for the now and these can bring him as far as the breaking point but he is not introspective and doesn't really care for others so he is not haunted by the deaths and misfortunes of others. Nastásya proves almost too much for him and drives him to a sort of ruin for him though he lives and even recovers his wits. He chases a desire, lets it consume him even to disaster, but he picks himself up, dusts off his shoulders and runs headlong into the next disaster.

 

I don’t know how soon I could read this again after the couple months I spent in this world, but I would be interested to. Dostoevsky uses many long monogoues broken up only with brief descriptions of tone or intention in the character that more often confused me than enlightened. I wouldn't be surprised if whole scenes turned on a new impression of how Aglaya, Varvára Ardaliónovich, Gavríla, and others spoke or bore themselves in these conversations if I were to read them again with foreknowledge and in a different mood. Were they mocking or playful, obtuse or merely cautioned.

 

Lizavéta Prokófyevna Epanchin (Aglaya’s mother) may be the most fascinating character to revisit as she is in so much of the book and may be the most dynamic character. Lizavéta is drawn strongly to the prince and seems fascinated by him, is dedicated to being his friend, but at times it seems she is ready to throw him over for his lack of social savvy and too forgiving nature. Aglaya too acts and speak in a way that confounded me often and as she became a love interest I wondered if her feelings was genuine or cruel or something else.

 

This confusion may stem from many things, the author’s intention, different understandings of the world over 100 years apart, but leading them is a narrator whose role wasn’t entirely clear. Dostoevsky, like Charles Dickins in A Christmas Carol, let the narrator fade in and out of the story and gave them unclear powers. The narrator is not a named character, but is self-aware. They break the fourth wall,  referencing what we know or can know and even expressing difficulty in describing characters or situations. They seem omniscient, recounting private goings on and the inner thoughts and motivations of various characters, but then at moments take up a voice and explain why they do or do not know the content of some conversation or event. One story came through some reliable gossips in town and seemed the most likely version of the story, another was recounted in testimony or written in a letter. At one point the narrator says they can’t know what was said in a private conversation though just pages before they write word-for-word a long private discussion between the prince and Nastásya.

 

It can frustrating in its inconsistency, but I’m being generous and will take for granted that Dostoevsky was using the uncertain narrator to heighten moments when other characters are kept in the dark. When our protagonist is trying to learn something, when the author wants to build tension for a reveal by leaking that something is coming but making you read through to discover what it is.

 

If you’re a fan of Russian literature I hardly need to encourage you to pick up a Dostoevsky novel but if you’re not I’m not sure this is the best introduction. The best I can offer is that it is very much of the 19th century, and if you enjoy society types such as Henry James, I think you’ll find much to like in The Idiot, only a lot more of it and perhaps a bit more philosophical. Don’t treat it as a race to the finish and allow that this novel could take a while. But overall expect a thought provoking and often moving story.

Like Reblog Comment
review 2017-06-01 10:14
Der lausigste Luzifer aller Zeiten
Devil Said Bang - Richard Kadrey

Satan. Herrscher der Hölle. Gottes ewiger Widersacher. Eine Position voller Macht und Prestige. James Stark alias Sandman Slim will den Job trotzdem nicht. Was nützt all die Macht, wenn ihm der Tag regelmäßig durch Budgetbesprechungen, sinnentleerte Rituale und lächerliche Attentatsversuche versaut wird? Nein, Stark will raus. Schließlich hat er sich nie um die Stelle beworben; der originale Luzifer trickste ihn aus und genießt jetzt Ferien im Himmel. Toll. Einfach Fabelhaft. Seit er Gebieter der Verdammten wurde, sucht Stark unermüdlich nach einem Weg, die Hölle zu verlassen und nach L.A. zurückzukehren. Ganz so simpel ist das nur leider nicht. Die Verdammten hassen ihn und wenn es nach ihm ginge, könnten sie ihm alle getrost den Buckel runterrutschen, aber die Hölle braucht einen Anführer; jemanden, der den Papa spielt und Händchen hält. Also, was macht man mit einem miesen Blatt? Richtig. Bluffen, was das Zeug hält und die erste günstige Gelegenheit beim Schopfe packen. Dummerweise wird Starks glorreiche Heimkehr nach L.A. von einem serienmordenden Geist überschattet, der offenbar im Auftrag einer Fraktion der Sub Rosas handelt, die die Realität umschreiben will. Diese Idioten schaffen es doch tatsächlich, ein Loch ins Universum zu reißen. Da sehnt man sich fast nach der bizarren Idylle der Hölle, nicht wahr?

 

Stark als Herrscher der Hölle. Ich muss immer noch in mich hineinkichern, wenn ich daran denke. Mein Kumpel Stark als Satan. Tut mir leid, aber das ist zum Brüllen komisch. Ironie des Schicksals. Es war doch wohl von Vornherein klar, dass das schiefgehen muss. Natürlich ist Stark ein lausiger Luzifer. In den vorangegangenen Bänden machte Richard Kadrey unmissverständlich klar, dass sein Protagonist nicht das Zeug zum Anführer hat und seine Eskapaden in „Devil Said Bang“ bestätigen diesen Eindruck zweifelsfrei. Stark hasst die Hölle, weil sie das Schlechteste in ihm zum Vorschein bringt. Er weiß genau, sucht er nicht so schnell wie möglich das Weite, wird die Verlockung, sein inneres Monster das Ruder übernehmen zu lassen, eines Tages zu groß sein. Er muss gehen, weil er sonst nie mehr geht. Mal davon abgesehen, dass mich Kadreys Darstellung der Hölle als bürokratischer Albtraum samt Meetings, Komitees und kleinlicher Politik köstlich amüsierte und ich die Idee, ihre Bewohner_innen als selbstmordgefährdet zu charakterisieren, fantastisch und erstaunlich naheliegend finde, bewundere ich vor allem seine einfühlsame Beschreibung von Starks Gefühlen, die Ambiguität seiner Empfindungen. Er ist sich vollkommen im Klaren darüber, zu was er fähig, wie tiefschwarz ein Teil seiner Seele ist. Er kämpft dagegen an, obwohl die Versuchung ach so süß ist und ihm eben diese Facette seiner Persönlichkeit wer weiß wie oft den Hintern rettete. Er gibt sich keinen Illusionen hin und ist trotzdem bestrebt, ein besserer Mensch (na ja, Nephilim) zu sein. Er will kein Monstrum sein. Seine Fähigkeit und Bereitschaft, sich permanent selbst zu hinterfragen und Kritik anzunehmen, beeindrucken mich jedes Mal aufs Neue. Daher macht es mir auch nicht allzu viel aus, dass sich dieser vierte Band wie ein Zwischenspiel anfühlte. Ich denke, dass „Devil Said Bang“ innerhalb der übergeordneten Handlung wichtig, für sich selbst aber eher belanglos ist. Das Buch ist keines von Kadreys besten Werken; ich stolperte durch eine Geschichte, die mir von arg vielen Zufällen geprägt und daher nicht überzeugend durchdacht erschien. Die Auflösung wirkte hastig und einige Szenen wurden ausschließlich durch Starks unvergleichlichen Humor und seine herrlich schlagfertigen Sprüche gerettet. Kadrey verdankt es seinem Protagonisten, dass ich nachsichtig bin und 3 Sterne vergebe. Ich fühle mich mit Stark einfach viel zu wohl, um die Bände der „Sandman Slim“ – Reihe nicht zu genießen, unabhängig davon, wie ungelenk die Handlung daherkommt. Nur eines kann ich meinem Kumpel nicht verzeihen: seine Beziehung zu dieser fürchterlichen Schnepfe Candy. Ich kann sie nicht ausstehen. Sie ist wie eine 14-Jährige mit einem Waffentick und einer Schwäche für große böse Jungs. Sie bringt Stark in Gefahr, weil für sie alles nur ein Spiel ist. Ich wünschte, er würde sie endlich abschießen, denn sie ist definitiv nicht die Richtige für ihn. Ich warte nur darauf, dass er erkennt, wie ungesund ihr seltsames Techtelmechtel für ihn ist und dass er jemanden braucht, der all die Konflikte in seinem Inneren versteht und beruhigt, statt sie anzufachen und zu verschärfen. Candy ignoriert den Krieg in seiner Seele bewusst. Ich hoffe, dass er bald eine Frau findet, die ihm Frieden schenkt. Bitte Stark, schick die blöde Gans in die Wüste!

 

„Devil Said Bang“ ist meiner Meinung nach bisher der schwächste Band der „Sandman Slim“ – Reihe. Ich hätte das Buch vermutlich noch weit kritischer bewertet, empfände ich nicht eine fast schon lächerlich intensive Nähe und Bindung zum Protagonisten Stark. Er ist mein Kumpel. Ich bin sein größter Fan. Trotzdem erwarte ich von Richard Kadrey, dass die Handlung des nächsten Bandes „Kill City Blues“ besser ist. Überzeugender. Ausgereifter. Nach der Erfahrung mit „Devil Said Bang“ bin ich ehrlich besorgt, dass die Reihe fortschreitend an Qualität einbüßt. Das möchte ich wirklich nicht erleben, denn es wäre tragisch, bedauerlich und ein Verbrechen des Autors an seinem Zugpferd. Stark ist eine herausragende Figur, die einen ebenso außerordentlichen und außergewöhnlichen Rahmen verdient, um sich nach Belieben auszutoben. Ich weiß, ein einziger mittelmäßiger Band bedeutet noch lange nicht, dass es mit der Reihe bergab geht und ich möchte den Teufel nicht an die Wand malen, aber ich habe so etwas schon viel zu oft durchgemacht, um die ersten Anzeichen zu ignorieren. Ich flehe Sie an Mr. Kadrey: lassen Sie Stark und mich nicht hängen.

Like Reblog Comment
quote 2017-05-10 14:27
But a certain dullness of mind, it seems, is almost a necessary quality, if not of every active man, at least of every serious maker of money.
The Idiot - Fyodor Dostoyevsky,Larissa Volokhonsky,Richard Pevear

Fyodor Dostoevsky p 327

Like Reblog Comment
show activity (+)
review 2017-04-09 21:44
The Courts of Babylon
Courts of Babylon - Peter Bodo

As many of you know, I like tennis.

 

Where I live, spring has finally sprung, and this means tennis season is back on. I usually try to read a tennis themed book in the run up to the European season, and today it just felt right to chill my tennis-tired bones after two days of matches (who doesn't go over-board on the first chance of playing outdoors?!) with an attempt to finish off some current reads. One of those was Peter Bodo's The Courts of Babylon, first published in 1995.

 

I usually like to start of my reviews with a quote, but in this case I simply could not find any meaningful, witty, or interesting quote that was not offensive in any way.

 

Which brings me to the issue I have with this book: While there are some interesting tidbits about tennis in the 1980s, much of the book is made up of yellow press gossip, and Bodo's own - VERY frustrating - notions on not only the the game and politics of tennis in the 80s, but also included his own judgement of the private lives of players, which was incredibly biased. And when I say biased, I do mean full of patronising, imperialist, sexist, and bigoted comments.

 

Here are a few examples:

 

Let's start with an innocent generalisation:

"Professional tennis players are rarely well-rounded individuals. Many of them are result-oriented, rule-addled, lavishly compensated victims of a totalitarian way of life."

Not to mention the constant assumptions about people's motivations or state of mind:

A few years ago Steffi Graf bought a lavish duplex in a new, fashionable building near Union Square in Manhattan. This was a remarkable choice for a thoroughly German girl going on twenty-three whose only other personal residence was a room upstairs in the enormous house she built for her family in her native Bruehl, Germany—a room that her agent Phil De Picciotto once described as “a really, really neat room.”

And don't get me started on what the hell he might supposed would be more "appropriate" for a "thoroughly German girl"...

 

But while we are at it, let's look at more national stereotyping:

This was not the only fashion error promulgated by Adidas, the German company that once produced tasteful, bold, and above all sporty clothes for characters as different as Stan Smith and Ilie Nastase. At about the same time that what-you-see-is-what-you-get Stef, Citizen Stef, was dressed like a walking Rorschach test, Adidas had leggy, petloving, family-centric Steffi Graf wearing shirts that came directly from the Salvador Dali school of design. One of those shirts appeared to be made from strands of genetic material, suggesting that maybe the Germans were up to their old tricks again, trying to revive some Uberfrau theme from their dark past.

This is the point where I would like to call the author a few names, but there is more (oh, so much more...)

Australians, whose only conscious national dogma is informality, like to call their nation “Oz.” Being a literal bunch, the Aussies don’t appreciate how accurate—and funny—that characterization is. But the problem with Oz—or other fantasy lands such as Disney World—is that spending too much time there becomes, well, boring. You might be oblivious to that fundamental fact of life if you live there, but it is brought home dramatically when you visit. Spend enough time in Oz, and you can feel the boredom creeping into your days with tidal consistency. That’s when you realize that there are disadvantages to developing as Australia did, in natural isolation from the peppery cross-influence enjoyed by the other, contiguous continents. On the surface, Australian people seem a lot like Americans. They inhabit a vast, underpopulated nation rich in natural resources and they have a rich store of frontier myths and sprawling suburbs. The Australians exterminated aborigines, the continent’s indigenous people, with a relish that even American settlers were hard put to match. Besides, while walking around in some quaint European city, you could easily mistake an Aussie for a Yank at fifty yards. They share an affinity for ghastly T-shirts, short pants, white socks pulled up to the knee, and running shoes that allow you to see if not hear them coming from a mile away. Australians surf. They drink beer. They barbecue. They drink beer. They like their own elementary version of football (Aussie rules). And they like to live in one-story, ranch-style houses with big garages and little windows that look out on identical setups where other people barbecue and drink beer.

Still with me?

There was a point during this part of the book where I still thought that maybe Bodo just wanted be cheeky-charming. It obviously didn't work.

 

Where I completely lost it with Bode, tho, was when he honed in on Women's tennis, the WTA, Billie Jean King's sexuality, oh and Martina Navratilova's too, you know, because the public portrayal of their personal lives is so erosive to the sport, whereas male players are mere eccentircs.

 

Let me make this clear: I don't object to the mention of elements of the personal lives of players, but the chapters didn't contain anything worthwhile - absolutely NOTHING - about tennis.

 

I should have thrown in the towel on this book when Bodo commented as follows on King's match against Bobby Riggs as follows:

"On that day, Billie Jean probably got 80 percent of the American population momentarily interested in something that was marginally about tennis. And that is a heck of an achievement.

But the important question is: Was that Battle of the Sexes a significant event in the growth of tennis and society’s march toward equality and female empowerment, or was it a chimerical happening that evaporated not long after the last ball was struck?"

The above are just a few of the passages that I had a problem with. There were many, many more, that I don't want to bore you with.

 

Overall, Bodo makes a lot of statements and assumptions, but few of them seem to be discussing issues from any perspectives other than his own bias. And trying to save his insults with a paragraph or two about how great certain players are does nothing to rehabilitate his self-congratulatory, dumbass comments, because the statement that they are or were great players does not require Bodo's validation - their respective titles and match records evidence this already.

Like Reblog Comment
show activity (+)
review 2017-01-15 04:44
The Spy Who Loved Me
The Spy Who Loved Me - Ian Fleming

I WAS RUNNING away. I was running away from England, from my childhood, from the winter, from a sequence of untidy, unattractive love-affairs, from the few sticks of furniture and jumble of overworn clothes that my London life had collected around me; and I was running away from drabness, fustiness, snobbery, the claustrophobia of close horizons and from my inability, although I am quite an attractive rat, to make headway in the rat-race. In fact, I was running away from almost everything except the law.

That is not a bad start for a book, is it? It's intriguing. It tells of a backstory that is about to be revealed, and it foreshadows whatever else is going to happen whilst the character is on the run. 

 

To be honest, when I started the book, I was really looking forward to reading this. Not just because it was the beginning of another fun buddy read, but also because I had not read The Spy Who Loved Me before. I knew the film, of course, but the film, I was advised, bears no resemblance to the book. Not even close. So, after a few decent Bond stories that followed the abysmally bad From Russia With Love, I thought Fleming had maybe found his template. That maybe From Russia With Love was him scraping the bottom of the barrel, and that surely ANY other book had to be better.

 

Well, I was wrong. I was so wrong. 

 

Also, when reviewing that hot mess that is From Russia With Love, I did mention that it would have been helpful if Fleming had provided a bit more insight into the internal monologue of the books female lead. Yes, I bemoaned that Fleming did not write any part from the female perspective. 

 

Well, folks, it goes to show that I should be careful what I wish for because Fleming did exactly that in The Spy Who Loved Me, and it does not work. What Fleming gives us is Viv, a young Canadian whom we again learn very little about other than she's been in some seriously messed up relationships. Yes, Fleming defines her through the relationships she's been in, mostly being taken advantage of.

What doesn't work about this is that Viv's own account is just dripping with Fleming's misogyny. At one point, he has her describe an abortion as follows:

It was as mentally distressing but as physically painless as I had expected, and three days later I was back in my hotel.

That is all Fleming has Viv say about it. Doesn't sound convincing, does it. 

 

Fleming tries to sell her history as a tough backstory and which is supposed to set Viv up for a resolution to stop being a push-over, be more confident, and not be groped at every turn.

Well, that was the end of that! From now on I would take and not give. The world had shown me its teeth. I would show mine. I had been wet behind the ears. Now I was dry. I stuck my chin out like a good little Canadian (well, a fairly good little Canadian!), and having learnt to take it, decided for a change to dish it out.

So, Viv ends up "on the run" in rural New York, stuck in a short-term motel job, where again she first falls prey to the husband of the owner and then ends up being held for five hours by two thugs who beat her up and threaten her with rape every five minutes. And for a large chunk of the book, this is all the plot there is. Until Bond turns up and saves the day, upon which Bond claims Viv as his reward. 

 

Let's recap: Viv had just undergone severe beatings, rape and death threats, and the one thing on Bond's mind is to have sex with her.

 

The idiotic thing - well, another one, is that Viv, who previously had resolved to escape from abusive relationships, feels she had to go along with Bond's request.

But I knew in my heart that I had to. He would go on alone and I would have to, too. No woman had ever held this man. None ever would. He was a solitary, a man who walked alone and kept his heart to himself. He would hate involvement. I sighed. All right. I would play it that way. I would let him go. I wouldn’t cry when he did. Not even afterwards. Wasn’t I the girl who had decided to operate without a heart? Silly idiot! Silly, infatuated goose! This was a fine time to maunder like a girl in a woman’s magazine! I shook my head angrily and went into the bedroom and got on with what I had to do.

WTF??? Why???

 

This is the point in the book when I no longer asked myself if Fleming lost his mind, but whether he had one in the first place. 

And as if this wasn't sick enough, it actually got worse:

I think I know why I gave myself so completely to this man, how I was capable of it with someone I had met only six hours before. Apart from the excitement of his looks, his authority, his maleness, he had come from nowhere, like the prince in the fairy tales, and he had saved me from the dragon. But for him, I would now be dead, after suffering God knows what before. He could have changed the wheel on his car and gone off, or, when danger came, he could have saved his own skin. But he had fought for my life as if it had been his own. And then, when the dragon was dead, he had taken me as his reward. In a few hours, I knew, he would be gone – without protestations of love, without apologies or excuses. And that would be the end of that – gone, finished. All women love semi-rape. They love to be taken. It was his sweet brutality against my bruised body that had made his act of love so piercingly wonderful.

Seriously, what utter bullshit! I have not felt so nauseated and enraged by a book since

From Russia With Love. I had hoped Fleming got his act together in the books that followed, but clearly he was a leopard that could not change his spots, which is a shame because the premise of the book was great. It is just that a misogynist dumbass writing from a point of view he has no interest in understanding or even exploring will inevitably end up with a book full of misogynist dumbassery.

 

Avoid at all costs.

More posts
Your Dashboard view:
Need help?