Just finished a re-read of The Idiot. I think Dostoyevsky is like an anti -Dickens - he doesn’t do architecture- instead the text is always on the verge of collapse. Ramshackle narratives, wild digressions, seemingly pointless characters. At one stage I put it down and really did wonder what I was reading and was it worth it. There’s something wild eyed that sustains it. A kind of mania. I’m uncomfortable with the ending but I do wonder if he had any idea where he was going at any stage in its conception and execution
I read Cynthia Ozick saying something similar in
an interview the other day.
The author I came back to
My aversion to Dostoevsky was once enduring. His lurching from one extremist position to its opposite, his stubborn bigotries and fanaticisms, the untamed wilderness of his sentences, the freakishness of his protagonists, even, or especially, their feverish moral assertions, were all repellent – in contrast to Tolstoy, his contemporary, whose characters, however askew in temperament, are always instances of recognisable human truth. Joseph Frank’s Dostoevsky: A Writer in His Time turned me around. Through this masterly biography, I came to see that it is only by means of Dostoevsky’s anguished, surreal and delirious art that he can hope to rebuke the devil himself.