Works, such as the novels Crime and Punishment (1866), The Idiot (1869), and The Brothers Karamazov (1880), of Russian writer Feodor Mikhailovich Dostoyevsky or Dostoevski combine religious mysticism with profound psychological insight.
Fyodor Mikhailovich Dostoevsky composed short stories, essays, and journals. His literature explores humans in the troubled political, social, and spiritual atmospheres of 19th-century and engages with a variety of philosophies and themes. People most acclaimed his Demons(1872) .
Many literary critics rate him among the greatest authors of world literature and consider multiple books written by him to be highly influential masterpieces. They consider his Notes from Underground of the first existentialist literature. He is also well regarded as a philosopher and theologian.
The Landlady is much so the best with all the lengthy describing of the protagonist's mental state and experiences, even if some pages of Notes from Underground were the most interesting, but in general I'm weirdly quite appealed to by Dostoevsky's own preoccupations while just not being invested by any of the interactions, maybe to the exception of said best's peculiar mood for how it makes use of his methods. I am however getting closer to what's delayed me with his works (whether or not that disquiet will flip into appreciation once i understand), whether the tonal weakness in that (as his narrator says, for all his extremity) "not a single syllable of what I have been jotting down enjoys my confidence", that it hits in fact too close to me with their anti-social inclinations if not I'd hope their incalculable pettiness, aesthetic details like the unpleasant amount shown of paternalism (most blatant in The Gentle Maiden, whatever intent can be argued for not mattering to my loss of curiosity), or that the drama really just is as shallow as the in-each-portrayed alternate but extreme self-elevation or self-degradation that can have no convincing mask of being keen, if the thoughts can't always follow the same circles should they want to maintain their veneer of being reasonable. Particularly in the first two I have little liking for, internal self can be recognized in no one else for however much the protagonist makes of it in his own spirals.
Tell me all all, all. For whom did your youthful heart first ache? Upon whom did you first bestow it? What must I give you in order to win that heart for myself? What must I give you in order to possess it completely? Tell me all, my little sweetheart, the very light of my eyes, my dearest sister! Tell me how I may reach you and touch your affections.
One would almost suppose my eyes were scorching you! You know, when one is in love- But what am I saying? From the first moment that I saw you I allotted you a warm corner in my heart. If you are ill I will tend you as l would myself.... But you must not be ill any more. No. When you are quite well again we will be as brother and sister to one another. Will we not? Would you like it? A sister is such a difficult person to find when God has not given one one.
By the end of the final story, I was so tired of this book. All the protagonists are neurotic men who do nothing for themselves, fall in love with women completely randomly then proceed to fail to express their feelings when it is necessary. The book is full of regret, and despite the story focusing on the men wallowing in sadness, these main characters are written so two-dimensionally. At no point in any story did I feel curious about the protagonists of the stories. There was a bit of intrigue towards the other characters, and their stories were interesting. This action and storytelling was great but lacking in the overall narrative.
This entire review has been hidden because of spoilers.
4.25 stars. Both were really interesting and had me hooked. They depict, in very different ways, the way women can be abused and taken advantage of. Both also have a main character that is madly in love and ends up causing the ruin of their lover. I recommend them a lot.
For a moment or two I remained where I was— alone with the litter, the leavings, the dregs of liqueur, the spilt wine, the odds and ends of cigarettes; alone with the fumes and the fever in my head, and the aching depression in my heart; alone with the waiter, who, having seen and heard all, was now staring at me with intense curiosity.