This Blog Deserves An "A"...

...however, it would probably get a B or C if it were being assessed by the killjoy teachers who marked my essays in high school - "Don't use 'I' in a formal essay" - pfft! The instructions were to DISCUSS; I often preface my discussions (formal or otherwise) with "I think" or "in my opinion" or "shut up and listen". For example: "In my opinion, Dostoyevsky's The Brothers Karamazov needed a shitload of editing to give it even a modicum of readability". See. I mean, this is only my opinion, it isn't gospel - is it so wrong for me to indicate as such? There are people (strange people, living in dark, dark caves of delusion) who would stridently disagree with my opinion on The Brothers Karamazov, who may even think that the novel could use more words (God forbid!). I believe they should preface their essays with "I think" or "In my opinion, Nicole is not only wrong, but she is also a raving idiot". But I digress...back to praising my blog (which is the point of this blog entry)...

I love my blog and it loves me. My blog's love is unconditional. My blog doesn't judge me. It doesn't lecture me if I use inappropriate language. It doesn't laugh at me if I misspell a word. It doesn't make snarky comments if I use incorrect grammar. It doesn't get all elitist if I experiment with my writing style (in fact, it encourages free form expression). And, most importantly, it doesn't grade me. There are no passes or fails with my blog; no ego-enhancing "A"s or ego-deflating "F"s. There is only the freedom to say whatever I like, however I like, without the fear that my blog privileges will be taken from me because I write verb-less sentences ...(well, unless I write incredibly offensive, verb-less sentences).

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.

Karamazov Count: Page 800

ONLY 92 MORE PAGES!!!

Praise the Lord (and I say that with all the faith of an atheist). The end is in sight. But I need to stay calm. I need to stay focused. I haven't yet reached the finish line. The Brothers Karamazov is a marathon read, not a sprint. These last 92 pages could well be the hardest. I may yet find myself plummeting into the depths of an even more terrifying literary hell than I did with 'The Grand Inquisitor'. I may yet need to draw upon the very last vestiges of my inner strength and endurance and dignity. I may yet find myself overusing expressions like: "I may yet".

But I'm psyched. I'm confident I can handle it. I've cleaned my glasses and I'm wearing comfortable pants. I'm ready for whatever Dostoyevsky throws at me.

Karamazov Count: Page 700

I've picked up the Karamazov pace quite a bit during the last couple of months; not being at work has helped greatly with this. Actually, not being at work has helped greatly with many things - my physical health, my mental health, the environment (I'm not driving my car as much, I'm doing more cooking - ie buying less packaged foods), my cat is happier, society is happier, I'm happier. In fact the only areas not being advantaged by my non-working are my bank balance and the taxman, neither of which bother me as I currently don't have great demands of my bank balance and I could give a stuff about the taxman.

And what does any of this have to do with "The Brothers Karamazov"? Absolutely nothing. (I've never stipulated that the title of a blog entry has to have any relationship to its contents).

Karamazov Count: Page 600 (Yet Another Tangent)

Oldest Karamazov brother, Mitya, has been taken into custody for the murder of his father (pg 589). I, the reader/masochist, don't believe he did it. In fact, I'm now beginning to suspect that nobody murdered papa Karamazov. I'm greatly aided in my suspicion by the upcoming chapter heading "Nor was There Even Any Murder" (pg 848) - the drunken muddle-headed madcap probably fell over, knocked himself unconscious and bled to death (a fitting demise). However, there's no point worrying my pretty little head about it at the moment as I've still got another 248 pages to read before I get to the chapter.

So, meanwhile, back in the hypergraphic mire...having left me hanging with Mitya's torment, Mr D has gone off on yet another tangent...something about a neighbourhood boy...intelligent but naughty (rascally?)...I'm sure it's important, and it is vaguely interesting, but I want to get back to the main story.

And speaking of annoying but (mostly) lovable obsessive-compulsive genius-type persons, here is a disturbing clip from the TV show "The Big Bang Theory" (nerd humour rocks!) featuring theoretical physicist, Dr Sheldon Cooper, and his long-suffering neighbour, Penny (who is nursing him during his time of dire illness; he has a cold):






"...little ball of fuuuuurrrrr!"

Karamazov Count: Page 500 (Murder! Most Rascally)

(blog entry challenge: include the word "rascal", or variations thereof, as often as possible, without being gratuitous)

He is dead! Fyodor Pavlovich Karamazov, patriarch to those rascally Karamazov brothers, no longer walks this (fictional) mortal coil. He is a deceased muddle-headed madcap (though some would call him a rascal).

And about bloody time!

It appears he has been murdered. But who is the murderer? All roads (and evidence) point towards the oldest (and most rascally) brother, Mitya, who literally has blood on his hands. But is it really his father's blood? The blurb on the back of the book states: "it is Mitya's passion for two women that contributes to disaster, and it is he who inwardly accepts the guilt of his father's murderer" - which kind of, pretty much, suggests Mitya didn't actually do it. It's all very intriguing, and thankfully, there's only 400 more pages to go to find out the truth, or the denouement (as literary types would say). I'm quite hysterical with excitement; anticipating the lengthy convolutednesses Mr Dostoyevsky will employ to denoue his novel. He's such a rascal. He's a rascally writer. A rascally Russian writer. Or, as Elmer Fudd would say, a wascally Wussian whiter...

...(I suspect the character of Elmer Fudd is politically incorrect and possibly offensive to people with speech impediments and thus I probably shouldn't have included the last bit - but I couldn't stop myself, and besides, Monty Python did something similar with "release Roderick" in "The Life of Brian", a film not at all offensive to anyone). Still, I have some lingering doubt (but yet don't want to delete the Elmer Fudd reference) so, as a form of penance (once a Catholic always a Catholic) and as a sufferer of myopia, I offer Mr Magoo.

Karamazov Count: Page 400

Almost halfway through (to be precise; 45% of the way through - going strong). And STUFF is happening; incrementally. However, I don't feel like discussing Karamazov just now, so I won't. But why then, oh sageness, did I give this blog entry the title "Karamazov Count"? Because I'm a crazy-kooky-wild-unpredictable gal...Actually, due to an incurable anally-retentive-obsessive-compulsive need to document my Karamazov progression and, in particular, the 100-page milestones (eg page 100, 200 300...400! etc), I had little choice but to give this blog entry the "Karamazov Count" heading, regardless of its content...So get to the feckin' content already!

Um, sure...What to say? What can I possibly say that hasn't already been said? How about: "river pink fallen tomorrow chromatograph necessary". I suspect many people will disagree with this statement but I stand by my words, or at the very least, next to them.

I think it's becoming blatantly apparent that I have nothing to say at this particular moment of my seemingly never-ending existence. The problem is that my mind, with its vast limitations, is very near to neuronal-synaptic capacity; it's just able to organize the rest of me to function day to day. Is this due to a hectic life? By the standards of the society I live in, I'm not especially busy; by the standards of me, I'm busier than I'd like to be (mainly due to work). And my current brain-ruminations, which are somewhat distracting, aren't things I'd be comfortable putting onto Effulgent13. Hence the blank.

So, instead, here is The Dream by Salvador Dali:

My Karamazov Journey Brings Unexpected Revelations

I'm making my way, somewhat arduously, through Book VI: The Russian Monk. It's all about the Elder Zosima; his childhood, his youth, his transformation from cranky military officer to cuddly monk. And Mr Dostoyevsky, as usual, doesn't skimp on words. No sir-ee. Why use a succinct and pithy sentence when a rambling, overly ponderous one could be used to lesser effect. Clearly, Mr D lived by the adage: EDIT is a 4-letter word.

However, an interesting by-product of Mr D's loquacity is a number of extraordinary sentences of dubious meaning. Even making allowance for "lost in translation" or "distorted in translation" or "translation untenable", Mr D had some kooky goings-on in his writing:


Quote1: "I was his master and he my servant, yet now that he and I had exchanged kisses lovingly and in spiritual tenderness, between us a great act of human unity had taken place." The Brothers Karamazov, pg 365

"...a great act of human unity...". Bonking! Shagging! Making of the Love! Oh yeah. (And is there a hint of BDSM)? And since Karamazov was written in the olden days, a time when one was not permitted to write explicitly of matters carnal (and triple that for gay matters carnal), those naughty authors had to use metaphor or allegory or just plain old obscurity to get their characters some action. (Except for DH Lawerence, he just splodged all over the page (with his WORDS), the dirty bastard.)

OK, OK, there is the small possibility that Mr D meant for this incident to be read straight (uh... pun intended) or at least, without any subtext. And it is certainly possible that, in 19th century Russia, it was a social normality for men to kiss each other; in a manly way. But to "exchange kisses lovingly"? I'm still a little sceptical.


Quote2: " God took seeds from other worlds and sowed them upon this earth and cultivated his garden..." The Brothers Karamazov, pg 369

Ah, this sounds familiar; humans evolved from alien DNA. See also The X-Files: Black Oil, or Scientology.


Quote3: "If around men who are malicious and unfeeling and unwilling to listen to you, then fall down before them and beg them for forgiveness, for verily you are guilty of the fact that they do not want to listen to you." The Brothers Karamazov, pg 370

So I'm guilty if mean bastards won't listen to me. Verily my ass! If I'm around people who are malicious and unfeeling and unwilling to listen to me...well, I'm going to convince them be less malicious and less unfeeling and less unwilling to listen to me, using my charm and charisma. And when that doesn't work, I'm damn well gonna walk away and find some nicer people.

Karamazov Count: Page 300/The Grand Inquisitor

My mind is mulch. I'm still tackling the dense and almost paragraph-less chapter "The Grand Inquisitor", which has taken me over the 300 page mark of "The Brothers Karamazov". Fyodor's hypergraphia must have possessed him with a reckless intensity during the writing of this chapter/manifesto. My back is bent, my hair is falling out; I wouldn't be surprised if I start weeping tears of blood.

The Grand Inquisitor. A veritable ecstasy of verbosity and barely restrained incomprehensibility is Ivan Karamazov's theological tale set during the height of the Spanish Inquisition, with an anachronistic Jesus Christ being questioned/berated (rhetorically - Jesus can't get a word in!) by a Catholic Cardinal. Page after page of unyielding diatribe - lots about loaves of bread and freedom, and especially about the Catholic Church's powerful, sometimes despotic, influence over humans (my analysis is not very indepth due to the torpid word-boiled state of my brain). In case there is any doubt about the obtuseness of this chapter, here are two excerpts (featuring the craziness of the loaves and freedom):

"No science will give them bread while yet they are free, but the end of it will be that they will bring us their freedom and place it at our feet and say to us: 'Enslave us if you will, but feed us.' At last they themselves will understand that freedom and earthly bread in sufficiency for all are unthinkable together, for never, never will they be able to share between themselves! They will also be persuaded that they will never be free, because they are feeble, depraved, insignificant and mutinous. You promised them the bread of heaven, but, I repeat again, can it compare in the eyes of the weak, eternally depraved and eternally dishonourable human race with the earthly sort?" (The Brothers Karamazov, pg 291)

"Receiving loaves from us, of course, they will clearly see that what we have done is to take from them the loaves they won with their own hands in order to distribute it to them without any miracles, they will see that we have not turned stones into loaves, but truly, more than of the bread, they will be glad of the fact that they are receiving it from our hands! For they will be only too aware that in former times, when we were not there, the very loaves they won used merely to turn to stones in their hands, and yet now they have returned to us those very same stones have turned back to loaves again. All too well, all too well will they appreciate what it means to subordinate themselves to us once and for all!" (The Brothers Karamazov, pg 297)

"The Grand Inquisitor" Alert

Book V: Chapter 5: The Grand Inquisitor
(The Brothers Karamazov, pg 283)

I am one page away from the much lauded "The Grand Inquisitor" chapter of Karamazov. My spleen is tingling with excitement, which is odd as it's usually other parts of my body that tingle when I'm excited...I didn't mean for that to sound quite so dirty.

In the past "The Grand Inquisitor" is a section I've tried (& failed) a few times to read. THIS time however, I understand what's going on (mostly), and the pages leading up to this chapter have set the tone. The "Grand Inquisitor" will continue the philosophic D&M*, begun in the preceeding chapters, between the 2 younger Karamazov brothers, Ivan and Alyosha - though it would be more correct to say it's the continuation of Ivan's moody ramblings, with the occasional comment from Alyosha.


*D&M: Deep and Meaningful conversation - when I was at high school the D&M was a highly revered occurrence, one which I experienced only infrequently due to my shallowness.

Karamazov Count: Page 200

I’ve now read 22% of "The Brothers Karamazov" by Fyodor Dostoyevsky. I'm becoming quite involved in the lives of those wacky Karamazov brothers (Dmitry, Ivan and Alyosha), and their obnoxious, lecherous, boozy father. It's a little tense at times. On page 160, the oldest brother knocked the crap out of papa Karamazov - they're both hot for the same woman (of course, being lecherous, papa Karamazov is hot for ALL women). But the story-telling is a little too slow at times. I'm noticing a definite over-meandering of words, a distinct inability, by Mr Dostoyevsky, to GET TO THE POINT.

But I will persevere. In fact I’m feeling extra motivated at the moment having been visited, last night, by the ghost of Dostoyevsky. We talked well into the night - he doesn't lack for words. It was a little unsettling though (my cat kept running through him, then meowing accusingly at me!). I wondered how I was able to understand him – perhaps my Russian is improving. He agreed with me that some of the events in the novel seem to take a long while to unfold (eg. 80 pages for one meeting!). But he explained that the slow pace and obsessive attention to detail are all part of the Karamazov Experience. He wasn’t too happy about my 2-pages-per-day reading technique. “Karamazov,” he ranted, “must be read as one, no intermissions! You children of the 20th century are weak and lazy. You are slaves to the infernal internet and the soul-eating television. There must be revolution!” Then he waffled on about how, when he was alive, he was nearly shot by a firing squad before being sent to a labour camp in Siberia, because he stood up for his principles. Bloody do-gooder.

Towards the end of the visitation, he showed me two possible futures: one where I don’t finish reading Karamazov and one where I do. It was very interesting. Apparently, if I don’t finish Karamazov, within the next 2 years, all of Dostoyevsky’s works will spontaneously combust, and all knowledge of him will disappear from the world. But if I do finish Karamazov, within the next 2 years, the ghost of Dostoyevsky won’t come back to haunt and torment me for the rest of my living days. (I’m beginning to suspect this was some kind of thinly veiled threat.)

In case anyone wonders how unnerving being visited by the ghost of Fyodor Dostoyevsky is, here is a photo of the crazy fucker…I mean, brilliant writer:




That is one spectacular beard. I have to admit to a little beard-envy. If I were a man I’d definitely grow a massive beard, at least once in my life. I do have one whisker though, which grows on the lower left side of my chin. But this whisker is really due to my kooky, pre-menopausal hormones, rather than any conscious effort on my part. I don’t know if many women have successfully grown beards. But some have tried. Read here about the valiant attempt of one woman to grow a beard.

Karamazov Count: Page 100

Yee-Hah!

I am Genius.

This is cause for celebration. There will be much drinking of Vodka and eating of Khalva. (Actually, there will be much drinking of Irish Whiskey, 'cos that's what's in my booze cupboard - which also functions as my cat-food cupboard - and eating of chocolate wheatens, 'cos I really like chocolate wheatens). I think I have eaten Khalva, or a version of it, but it was pronounced "Halva" and it was provided by an ex-housemate who is of Israeli-Jewish heritage. It was very tasty but very rich, not something I could binge-eat in celebration.

In honour of page 100 of Karamazov, here is a quote from said page, one which encompasses the themes of alcohol, the struggle of workers and the greediness of those with power:

"Look at all the bottles the fathers have set up...And who has supplied all this? The Russian muzhik*, the toiler, with his calloused hands, brings hither his earned groat**, snatching it from the bosom of his family and the state's requirements! Why holy fathers - you leech upon the common folk!" (The Brothers Karamazov, pg 100)

*muzhik: Russian peasant
**groat: a silver coin

And speaking of groat, I finally received my 'economic stimulus package' (or cheque, as would be more accurate) this week. It seemed to take awhile getting here. So I've bought...uh...Irish Whiskey (well I was running low and I knew page 100 was coming up). But whiskey is also good for combating winter illness (it's just the thing for that swine-ish flu). When I was little Mum gave us a whiskey based home-made medicine: a mixture of honey, lemon juice and whiskey, one teaspoon as needed. Now that I'm a responsible adult I make my own medicine: honey, lemon juice and whiskey, but without the honey or lemon juice, straight from the bottle, as often as possible***.

Economic Stimulus Package Tally:
1 bottle Jameson Irish Whiskey $39.99
(only $860 more to spend)


***Lush: Nicole

Wisdom from Karamazov

In regards to love, Elder Zosima says this:

"Fanciful love thirsts for a quick deed, swiftly accomplished, and that everyone should gaze upon it...Active love, on the other hand, involves work and self-mastery, and for some it may even become a whole science." (The Brothers Karamazov, pg 62)

Go Elder Zosima, you're the (holy) man.

Or is it me?

A few weeks ago this is what I thought (Banalities from my life):

-I keep finding myself attracted to men with idealistic views of romantic love

-I keep finding myself attracted to men who won’t get involved in romantic love because they don’t want their idealism shattered

I'm wondering if maybe I was a little harsh with my comments. There could be other reasons for someone not wanting to get involved with me. They could be busy. They could be involved with someone else. Maybe they're not comfortable with my strange ways (hell, sometimes I'm not comfortable with my strange ways). I guess it's possible, though extremely unlikely, that I'm not as gorgeous as I've always led myself to believe.

But something that's been playing around (huh?) in my mind is this: maybe I'm a little idealistic about smoochy love myself. I certainly was in my 20's. I was somewhat fickle. I wasn't a stayer (or a slayer). I tended to rush into relationships, then rush right back out when things weren't working. Although, I think the problem was more the rushing in - being all starry-eyed and believing in 'magic' (not that I was hexing people, my powers weren't that strong back then - I mean the whole: "she/he is the one, la, la, la, I'm sooo happy now"). And there was some level of peer-conformity pressure going on; people around me were all paired up, especially the females, and some of my friends were married by their mid-twenties. I could barely feed myself in my mid-twenties, let alone work out what qualities were important to me in a partner. And what qualities were important to me in me.

But now, at 41, resplendent with many grey hairs, dodgy knees and exciting middle-aged skin, I should be wise and knowledgeable about everything, especially lurv. My eyes shouldn't be drifting into starriness...or, at least, only rarely drifting into starriness (I think some starriness every now and again is good for the soul; just be careful not to damage your retina).

And, in honour of starriness, here is a picture of a moderately famous painting called "Starry Night" by Vincent van Gogh - with spectacularly hallucinogenic stars, which will definitely damage your retina (but in a good way):





Karamazov count: pg 52 (I'm actually reading 2 pages every day, as it's easier to start at the top of the left-hand page each time - so my revised total length of time to finish the book is now 446 days or 1.22 years)

Banalities from my Life: Home, Work, Love and Karamazov

I hope my new neighbours in the front flat stay for awhile. The last tenants/ssssss kept changing every few months, eventually numbering about 15 people over a year. They were nice an’ all, but I found it unsettling not knowing who was living right next door to me (our front doors are very close – they’re practically married).

I’m inappropriately lusting after my married neighbour (speaking of married), who lives (with his wife!) in one of the flats on the other side of the building. My bouts of lust are sporadic. I only get to see him if I catch him putting clothes on the line or when he takes his bike out for a ride.

I live in a square block of 4 flats, 2 facing north and 2 facing south. I don’t see the people on the south side very often, but I can hear the people with whom I share a corridor wall. They are a family consisting of: one 40-something mother, one 20-something daughter, occasionally her identical twin sister, often the 20-something’s passionate, but obnoxious, boyfriend and another, pre-teen, daughter. And a pug-dog. In a compact 2-bedroom flat. And they fight a lot. All of them. Loudly and with bad words. Even the dog. I haven’t watched the Australian show “Packed to the Rafters”, but a much better and more realistic show would be one based on my neighbours.

The pre-teen daughter (I think she’s 10 or 11) tries to play with my cat. It would be nice if my cat would play with her, instead of running away – my cat is a little neurotic (much like her owner).

Sometimes, when I’m at work, I feel claustrophobic and experience a strong desire to run away.

Sometimes, when I’m at work, I’m bored shitless and feel a strong desire to run away and find something meaningful.

Sometimes, when I’m at work, I enjoy being bored and not having to run away or to think about meaningful things.

I keep finding myself attracted to men with idealistic views of romantic love

I keep finding myself attracted to men who won’t get involved in romantic love because they don’t want their idealism shattered.

I’m comfortable being on my own – this doesn’t make me evil – it does, however, make me a weird loner.

My maniacal plans for the destruction of planet earth are what make me evil.

I used to be sad that I didn’t have children. Now I’m slightly relieved:
-I don’t have the HUGE responsibility,
-I don’t have to worry that I’ve brought children into a world that seems to be racing into destruction (even without my maniacal plans),
-I don’t have to follow societies' “rules” quite so much,
-My attitude to this world is radically different, and much more comfortable, to what it was when I wanted children (although this may have alienated me from some people/friends)
-I have more time to work on my maniacal plans

My internal flame isn’t warming me the way it used to, it’s beginning to flicker and fade. I think it needs a new wick.

Karamazov count: page 16 - ahead of schedule - bonus.

Call Sign: Karamazov

If I ever become an elite fighter pilot (like those thrill-seeking wild boys in the movie Topgun) my call sign will be “Karamazov”.

Yes…my obsession with the, when-too-many-words-are-barely-enough, novel “The Brothers Karamazov”, by the hypergraphic Fyodor Dostoyevsky, continues. I’m thinking about trying to read it again. I thought I’d extracted it from my consciousness with the cathartic Incomprehensibles list, but I was wrong. Foolishly, I decided to look up The Brothers Karamazov on the internet and my obsession has been rekindled. I admit that doing an internet search on the novel is probably something I could have done some time ago, but unfortunately, ‘some time ago’ I viewed the internet only as a tool which provided me with cheats and walkthroughs for my playstation addiction (go Tomb Raider). It’s only recently that I’ve discovered its other uses.

But getting back to Karamazov – 3 things:

• Apparently, The Brothers Karamazov is held in high esteem by many people and is considered, by some, to be the greatest novel ever written. I’m not fond of the expression: “The greatest…novel/song/movie/device…ever…written/sung/made/invented”. I think it’s limiting and parabolic…no…inflection point…no…hyperbolic…over-the-top. And we, the semi-literate masses, need many authors writing great novels, novels that speak of the myriad themes of various lives. Although, there are some who think Dostoyevsky covered everything in Karamazov. I don’t think it’s wise to get my entire myriad themes of life from one person (unless it’s from me).
• Apparently, Fyodor Dostoyevsky suffered from bouts of hypergraphia (an obsessive need to write and write and write down every synapse-crossing electrical impulse traversing his brain), possibly brought on by his epilepsy.
• Apparently, there are a number of english translations of The Brothers Karamazov and it’s important to read the best one. Wikipedia recommends sampling different translations before deciding on which text to read. And this would be fine if I was going to live to be 250. I think the best thing to do is to read it in its original language – so I will have to learn Russian.

For the time being, however, I’ll have to be content with the edition I have (translated by David McDuff, first published in 1993). So far I've managed to re-read the opening paragraph, which I commend for its use of the expression “muddle-headed”, an expression for which I am keen to discover the Russian translation. Here is a heavily abridged excerpt of the opening paragraph:
“Aleksey Fyodorovich Karamazov was the third son of a landowner in our district, Fyodor Pavlovich Karamazov, so noted in his time for his tragic and fishy death…he was a strange type…the type of man who is not only empty and depraved but muddle-headed – belonging, though, to the class of muddle-headed men who are perfectly well able to handle their little property affairs…he had persisted all his life in being one of the most muddle-headed madcaps in the whole of our district…the bulk of these madcaps are really quite sharp and clever – but plain muddle-headedness, and, moreover, of a peculiar, national variety.” (pg 3)

If I read one page per day (which is about all I can handle), I’ll have the book finished in 893 days or 2.45 years – I think that’s do-able.

The Incomprehensibles

I would have trouble making a list of my favourite books. I don’t think I’ve read enough books, or enough books that I really like. Years have gone by when I hardly read any fiction - everything on the bookshelves seemed shite to me. I may have been looking at the wrong bookshelves. And, in fairness to books, years have gone by when I had an all-consuming addiction to playstation and hardly did anything else. But something I have acquired over the years is a list of books I’ve attempted to read but couldn’t understand. The Incomprehensibles. Here is the list in chronological order of reading and with explanatory notes:

A Clockwork Orange by Anthony Burgess. My first ever incomprehensible. With it’s wacky ‘nadsat’ speech, I suspect it would make many people’s lists. It’s possible I would be able to read it now; I’ve seen the film, which would help with the comprehending. But I don’t know if I want to read it. It’s not very nice. Apparently, drinking milk and listening to Beethoven can turn you into a violent, psychotic rapist. That’s right isn’t it?

The Brothers Karamazov by Fyodor Dostoyevsky. You bastard. You seduced me with your promise of murder, passion, family rivalry and religion. Your cover mesmerized me with its haunting picture of an anguished sinner cowering before a priest – all dark and moody. And while I was initially daunted by your large number of pages (approximately 900) – and there were other books by your author, thinner books - it was for you that I’d come to the bookstore. I’d gotten it into my head that I had to read you. I’m not entirely sure why. I’d seen references to you in other books, it seemed like you were important, somehow.

So I bought you and took you home. I tried to make it work, tried to love you, but you were very difficult, very demanding. And I never really understood you. At one point I wondered if maybe Russian translated into English becomes incomprehensible. So I read “Anna Karenina” by Leo Tolstoy. No problem. With the exception of a few of boring chapters on collective farming, it was completely readable.

It’s been 10 years since the brothers came into my life. Occasionally I try reading it again. I don’t get very far. It seems like there are too many words describing too many things and my brain can’t follow. Perhaps I need a new brain.

Heart of Darkness by Joseph Conrad. I may not have given this one a proper chance. The sentences mostly made sense but my mind kept drifting away. It seemed like it was going to be hard work. I decided that since I’d seen “Apocalypse Now” and the documentary about the making of the film, I already knew all I needed to know about the “Heart of Darkness”. Plus, I couldn’t find ‘the horror, the horror’ or ‘terminate with extreme prejudice’ – maybe they’re not in the book.

Naked Lunch by William S Burroughs. I think this book is meant to be read while under the influence of mind-altering drugs (I believe it was written under the influence of mind-altering drugs). I wasn’t prepared to do this; I don’t want to mess with the delicate chemical balance of my brain. So I went in cold. It didn’t work. I gave up. However, over the years, I’ve found myself picking it up (say when I’m waiting for rice to cook), flicking to a random page and reading for a short period of time. If the page that I’m on isn’t making sense I flick to another page, and so on, until I find a page that makes sense. It seems to be working. I’m slowly reading “Naked Lunch” sober, but in a non-linear fashion. I may eventually have to remove it from the incomprehensibles list.

The Sound and the Fury by William Faulkner. I’d heard that William Faulkner wrote southern gothic stories. I was really excited; it sounded like my kind of story. And maybe it is, but I couldn’t tell from this particular novel – there were sensible words, but they seemed to be all turned around and in the wrong order for the making of the sense.

Paradise Lost by John Milton. I was trying to get me some literary culture. Fuck that. Read the summary in wikipedia.

Honourable Mentions:

My Honours Thesis: “Flash vacuum pyrolysis of oxindoles substituted at N1 and at C3”. While it is a fascinating tale of scientific intrigue and has some interesting speculative chemistry, it loses some impact in its style. It gets bogged down in technical detail; too many facts and figures. There is very little nuance or sub-text. I believe it would have benefited from a more surreal approach. I’m thinking about re-writing it in the style of magical realism.

A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man by James Joyce. Joycey (as he was known at the pub) chose a somewhat pretentious title for his book. His prose is also somewhat pretentious. It is dense and lyrical and surreal. It is packed full of vivid imagery and catholic guilt. There are some brilliant passages about eternity and hell and sin – and, Joycey’s favourite, eternity in hell (because of sin).

I haven’t completely given up on it. I’m thinking I might give it the ‘Naked Lunch’ treatment of random reading. Flicking through the book I came upon this endearingly catholic exchange:

“I…committed sins of impurity, father.
The priest did not turn his head.
- With yourself, my child?
- And…with others.
- With women, my child?
- Yes, father.
- Were they married women, my child?” (pg. 154)

Why is it important to know if the women were married? I guess as much detail as possible in the confessional makes for a more informed priest (especially on matters of impurity). Then there’s this comforting passage (spoken by a priest):

“…Consider then what must be the foulness in the air of hell. Imagine some foul and putrid corpse that has lain rotting and decomposing in the grave, a jellylike mass of liquid corruption. Imagine such a corpse a prey to flames, devoured by the fire of burning brimstone and giving off dense choking fumes of nauseous loathsome decomposition. And then imagine this sickening stench, multiplied a millionfold and a millionfold again from the millions upon millions of fetid carcasses massed together in the reeking darkness, a huge and rotting human fungus. Imagine all this, and you will have some idea of the horror of the stench of hell.” (pgs. 127-128)

This is why I gave up catholicism. Also, I couldn't cope with all the guilt. Or the praying. Or sitting on hard wooden benches in cold churches listening to cranky clergy. Jesus! (...Mary and Joseph).