Karamazov Count: FINISHED!!!

It is done. The words have been read, some have even been comprehended. So now I ask myself: "Was it worth it?" From the point of view of having completed an onerous task I didn't believe I'd be able to complete - yes. From the point of view of having read the most wonderful masterpiece of literature I could ever hope to read, I'd have to say - no.

Karamazov was Dostoyevsky's last novel, he completed it shortly before he died. The novel, which was originally published in serial form in a magazine, suffers from a lack of editing and a strong tendency to rambling and repetition, especially towards the end. The final quarter of the novel delves into, in excruciating detail, the trial for parricide of oldest Karamazov brother, Mitya, replete with lengthy witness testimonies and lawyer deliberations. And although, at times, there were hints of compelling Dostoyevsky insight, which allowed for some transcendence of an otherwise banal courtroom drama, I found this the hardest section of the novel (even harder than that most evil Grand Inquisitor!).

But, in fact, there were moments of brilliance throughout the novel. There were some strange passages, tinged with truth, which gave exaggerated (at times almost surreal) renderings of complex characters and issues of society, and dense prose dealing with philosophy and theology. It was a wild ride. All of which has made me realise I need to read Dostoyevsky's earlier work.

So, my Karamazov journey has, seemingly, reached its conclusion. I haven't yet conducted any proper research into the Karamazov phenomenon, eg I haven't read any essays (academic or otherwise), I haven't searched to find fan clubs etc. and I'm fully expecting another visitation from Mr D in the near future (once he sees this blog post). It's been an enriching experience on a number of levels, but I think the most important aspects have been an increase in my confidence at reading difficult literature, an appreciation for such literature and a strategy for reading it. However, I wouldn't recommend The Brothers Karamazov to people. I think it's really only for fans of Dostoyevsky OR for students of Russian literature/history/politics OR for people studying the effects of hypergraphia OR for people who can't get enough of words, all words, in any configuration.


The cover of my copy of Karamazov - published by Penguin Books - has upon it a most striking painting*; Refusal to Confess by Ilya Repin (1844-1930; "His [Repin's] realistic works often expressed great psychological depth and exposed the tensions within the existing social order"):


*Interestingly, this painting is named on the novel's back cover as "The Rejected Confession", which I had taken to mean that the priest had not forgiven the confessed sins of the stricken man (my Catholic interpretation), not that the man - possibly an activist - had refused to talk.

Crypticus Lyricus

"...it looks good,
it tastes like nothing on earth,
it's so smooth, it even feels like skin,
it tells me how it feels to be new."

(from Kyoto Song by The Cure)

This can only mean one thing, I'm listening to the album The Head on the Door by The Cure. I used to love this album. I hadn't listened to it for about 20 years, then I came across it again recently when I was going through my old cassette tapes. I immediately put it into the cassette player (yes, I have a cassette player - I also have a cassette player in my car, which I'm not at all embarrassed by) and discovered the cassette tape was completely fucked! I guess the technical terminology would be that the tape had lost its magnetic integrity or some such thing. Either way, it could only lead to one thing, my buying a brand new compact disc (well they don't sell cassette tapes anymore) of The Head on the Door - which, obviously, I have now done. Yeah. And I still love this album. And I'm still not sure if Robert Smith is singing off-key or flat or it's just that his voice is really unusual; it has a surreal, other-worldly quality which compliments the surreal, other-worldly quality of the music and especially the kooky lyrics.

Mountainous Magic

As the final pages of "The Brothers Karamazov" approach, I have been contemplating my life, post-Karamazov. Will there be a void and, if so, how will I fill it? It's only been a year since I brought Karamazov out from the back of the bookshelf and into my everyday life, but it seems (much, much) longer. I've grown accustomed to living each day with barely comprehensible literature. I don't know if I want to go back to my old ways; the desolate, easily comprehended wasteland, filled with crappy television, readable prose and the ever present temptation to set up my old PlayStation (maybe even buy the latest version...Nooooooooo!!!).

So I've decided that I can't let this word-insanity end. But don't panic! I'm not going to re-read Karamazov. Instead, I've chosen another (hopefully) barely comprehensible masterpiece of literature to read in the same fashion as Karamazov (2-6 pages per day): The Magic Mountain by Thomas Mann. I don't have too much knowledge about either the novel or Thomas Mann (other than that Thomas Mann won a Nobel prize (for literature - Duh!) and the novel was written in German (but, thankfully, it has been translated, as my German is about as good as my Russian, ie scheiss*)). I've decided not to do any research prior to reading so as to form my own impressions (I might look into things afterwards). There is, of course, the possibility that the novel is comprehensible, even a 'page turner', however, I strongly suspect this won't be the case. Other novels I've read by Nobel prize winners required varying degrees of "slow reading" in order to be with the comprehending.

So why The Magic Mountain? Why choose a novel I know very little about? How did this all come about? WTF??? Ummm...'cos it sounded pretty?

Well, it does (sound pretty). But, in actual truth, I came across the novel about 6 months ago whenst I googled "Magic Mountain" and there it was, and I thought unto myself: "I shall read this novel, one day...hmmm...why don't I read it after I've finished Karamazov. Groovy!". Of course, this begets the question: "Why were you googling Magic Mountain in the first place, pumpkin?". The reason, rose-petal, I was googling such words, is that, due to my having given the name "Magic Mountain" to a completely incomprehensible poem I wrote, and, thinking that the name sounded familiar, I wondered if there was a famous poem of the same name (there doesn't seem to be). And lo!, amongst adds for Magic Mountain Resorts and Magic Mountain Fun Parks, I beheld one Magic Mountain Novel. Oh, happy day! So I clicked onto the link (yes, it was to wikipedia), did a quick eye-to-brain scan of the entry and was immediately drawn to the novel's Incomprehensible Potential.

And so it continues...



* shit (in German)

"HAPPY FUCKIN' BIRTHDAY NICOLE!!!"

Thanks, James!

Can Everybody Please Stop Shouting!!!

Earlier today, through both the walls of my flat and the open windows, I heard my neighbour (in flat #2) having a "discussion" with her boyfriend. Here is a partial transcript:

Her: "Get the fuck out of here!"

Him: "I'll leave when you stop shouting!"

Her: "Get the fuck out of here!"

Him: "I'll leave when you stop shouting!"

Her: "Get the fuck out of here!"

Him: "I'll leave when you stop shouting!"

...etc...

I'm not sure how it ended or if it did actually end (although things appear to have gone quiet). Both the tone and volume of the conversation would suggest an imminent demise of their romantic relationship, but I've heard them screaming at each other like this in the past, on numerous occasions, over a number of years. They either have an incredibly passionate relationship or an incredibly fucked up relationship. Possibly both.

THEN, a few hours after the flare up in flat #2, there was (and still is) a flare up between the couple in flat #3. Unfortunately, I can't include any transcript of the conversation/yelling as it was conducted in Hindi, and my Hindi is very weak/not existent.

So what the hell is going? Is it the humid and stormy weather making everyone humid and stormy. Sure, that's a reasonable explanation, but I think it would be remiss, even cowardly, of me not to acknowledge the real truth. I blame myself. I should've been a better neighbour. I should've listened to them all when they bailed me up at the letterbox wanting to talk about their hopes and dreams and various medical problems, but instead I ran from them with my hands over my hears screaming: "Noooooooo!!!". And now, because of my heartless actions, everyone is yelling at everyone else. Selfish, selfish, selfish.

When There's No More Room in Hell...

...the dead will walk the earth (Dawn of the Dead).

Not infrequently, as I wander aimlessly about the confines of my flat, I will glance towards one of the windows fully expecting to see a zombie; either lolling around in the driveway, or the backyard, or with its decaying face pressed up against the glass, peering in at me (assuming it has eyes). I'm not entirely sure if I'm worried that zombies might appear or if I'm hoping that zombies will appear. Whatever the case, it's fairly apparent that I have watched too many zombie films.

Or else I haven't watched enough.