I told Andrew that I didn’t like The Idiot (by Fyodor Dostoevsky), which I believe is one of his favorite books (or so I understood), and he asked me to explain. So here it is.
The reason I didn’t like The Idiot is this: it paints a hopeless picture of the world. After finishing the book, I was left with a sense almost of despair. It left me not wishing that the story hadn’t ended, but with a feeling of relief that is was done, although it was a bittersweet relief, because the ending is so depressing that it doesn’t even feel right to end it there. I understand the Dostoevsky was an existentialist, and so this is what I should expect, but even in the extremely dark book Brothers Karamazov, there was at least hope in the end. Things started toward a path of redemption: Characters grew better, not worse; their struggles and conflicts and mistakes ended up being redeemed, not culminated in destruction; the moral of the book seemed to be one of faith and perseverance, rather than emptiness and perversion.
(At this point, if you haven’t read The Idiot, you can probably skip this paragraph and not really miss anything.)
Maybe I’ve misunderstood what Dostoevsky was saying in The Idiot, I don’t know. I’m not very experienced in interpreting fiction or picking up on what the author was really trying to convey–I’m very willing to admit that–but the primary feeling I got from reading the book was simply depression. I mean, everything just seems to go horribly wrong. The main character goes from healthy to sick again, form totally innocent to morally confused, from simply naïve to socially embarrassing, from in love with a either a madwoman or a whore (it’s hard to really say which–even the characters are quite undecided on this one) to in love with a spoiled brat, and in my opinion from mostly likeable to completely incomprehensible. And you know, I never really understood how Mishkyn (the main character) is any sort of Christ figure at all. I just don’t see it. Oh, and another thing: I feel like Dostoevsky’s portrayal of humanity is even worse than we actually are. I mean, everyone (with the exception of Ganya’s family) is totally absurd. I know (God is great, beer is good, and) people are crazy, but I feel like he’s pushing it a little too far. Some of the things his characters do and say are so off the wall it’s hard for me to relate.
(End rant about everything I didn’t like about the book. I’ve already covered way too much for Andrew to respond to at once.)
I guess this is what it boils down to: when I picked up the book, I expected, as I do with all (fiction) books, to be caught up in the beautiful language, captured by the depths of the characters, engaged by the twists and turns of the plot, and overall–this is the main one–encouraged by the essence of the story. When I read a book, I want to be transported to another place, which perhaps is not always easier or more pleasant or nicer or “better” than the real world, but at least is a place where things go right. If I want to see things go wrong, I don’t have to look very far: the news, the world and our country and our city and the Church and my own heart are full enough of prime examples of things going wrong. When I read a story I want to be reminded that things won’t always be this way. That one day, when the King returns, all things will be made right, and the ground will yield fruit and crops instead of thorns and thistles, and the lion will lie down beside the lamb instead of eating it, and the son will love his brother instead of killing him. That one day, there will be no more tears caused by suffering and grief, that there will be no more scars left from hurt and pain, no more destruction caused by wicked people (us) doing wicked things. That one day, things won’t be broken anymore.
I know I’ve probably said before (and I probably said it in a really snobby, arrogant way–sorry for my stupidity) that “I hate cliché stories, where the good guy always wins and gets the girl, and that I prefer more realistic books, where bad stuff happens and sometimes the bad guy wins, because that’s how it goes in the real world”. I sincerely apologize if I said something like that to you. I see the error of my ways, and I understand now why so many stories end in that “cliché” way. It’s because that’s how they should end. If this world was how it should be, the good guy would beat the bad guy and get the girl. And so we keep reading those books and watching those movies because it reminds us of the world how it could be, and should be, and will be one day.
So the reason why I didn’t like The Idiot is that there was no hope. And because of God’s grace in Christ Jesus, there is always hope for us. So while I appreciate a realistic view of man’s depravity, a story is not realistic that does not include hope. Because “hope does not disappoint”.
So there you have it, Andrew. Feel free to rebut any and every part of this post that you see fit.
June 30th, 2010 at 3:35 pm
When I finished The Idiot originally, I felt something similar to what you describe. I liked the book from start to finish, but I was haunted by the ending. I kept reading it and trying to figure it out. Finally, I came to a peace about it. I’ll try to explain how I feel about the book as best I can. Of course, I’m not trying to invalidate your opinion, or even to convince you that you should like the book. I’ll just try to explain what made me love it so much, while keeping your criticisms in mind.
The main character goes from healthy to sick again, form totally innocent to morally confused, from simply naïve to socially embarrassing…
It’s easy to be confused by Myshkin, as every character he comes in contact with is bewildered by him. They are both fascinated by him and repulsed by him. In the case of Aglaia, her relationship with Myshkin is both one of affection and hostility. Dostoevsky paints many ambiguities into Myshkin, making him extremely interesting and also terribly frustrating.
I don’t believe Myshkin undergoes much change over the course of the novel. I don’t think he was ever innocent or naive. He is extremely compassionate, and he allows others to trample on him at times, but I don’t think it’s because he is blind to their faults. Myshkin is incredibly perceptive. There’s the story early on about him giving money to the man (whose name I forget) even though he knows that the money will be wasted. People sometimes cheat him, but they do not fool him. Myshkin is probably the only person in the novel who recognizes how much Nastassya suffers, and he does so before he even meets her. He sees a picture of her and immediately recognizes how broken she is. This is a woman who was sexually abused as a child, and is treated as an object in adulthood, and yet nobody seems to recognize it because Nastassya retreats behind a defensive wall that fools everybody except for the Prince.
It isn’t that Myshkin “sees the good in everybody” or believes people will always do the right thing eventually, it’s just that he sees something worth redeeming in others. He hopes for the good, and struggles for it.
I never really understood how Mishkyn (the main character) is any sort of Christ figure at all.
It’s hard to nail it down. There are tons of small parallels. Dostoevsky apparently came up with the character after he saw a painting of Christ lying dead in the tomb, with the scars, bruises and dried blood still on him (it’s a painting he references during Myshkin and Rogozin’s meeting at the beginning of the book’s second part.
The most obvious parallel I saw was with Marie at the beginning of the book. She’s a prostitute who children throw stones at, and Myshkin sees it and feels compassion for her. Not only that, but he teaches the children to love her as well. She undergoes a kind of resurrection. When she dies, it says she is completely happy, and the children continually visit her grave as if she were still alive.
Other than that, Myshkin takes on the role of a Christ figure in the way he recognizes the hurt in others, the way everybody feels some kind of intimate connection with him, the way society is both delighted and enraged by him (depending on the day), the way he identifies closely with the outcasts, the way he seemingly bears the suffering of others, etc. His progressive breakdown in the second half of the book is physical, but it is connected to Nastassya. Ever since his first interaction with her, he is overcome with compassion and empathy. They eat at him and eventually undo him when Nastassya dies.
Obviously, “Christ-figure” does not mean “Christ.” Myshkin is human, and he doesn’t have the power to save or redeem anyone, but he believes he has a duty to everyone he meets. When Rogozin asks him whether or not he believes in God, Myshkin replies that “the essence of religious feeling does not come under any sort of reason or atheism. There is work to be done. There is work to be done in our Russian world.” The Eastern Orthodox Church places great emphasis on the Incarnation, and I took that statement to be bound up in the idea that Christ did His work here – resurrected here. Some simply hope for heaven and for the next life, but anyone who really understands Christ understands that the Incarnation demands our faithfulness on this earth (which, as an aside, seems to be the primary focus of the Christian existentialist project).
I feel like Dostoevsky’s portrayal of humanity is even worse than we actually are. I mean, everyone (with the exception of Ganya’s family) is totally absurd. I know (God is great, beer is good, and) people are crazy, but I feel like he’s pushing it a little too far. Some of the things his characters do and say are so off the wall it’s hard for me to relate.
I didn’t get that impression, but maybe if I had examples, I’d remember it better. Rogozin is pretty awful, but I took him to be a devil figure. And in him even, I got the sense that there was a part of him that wanted to be good. He tells Myshkin that he cannot help but love him, and that he feels they are brothers. After he kills Nastsassya, he lays on the floor crying. Other than that, I don’t remember the characters being especially terrible. Many are pretty petty, but I didn’t think it was excessive.
So the reason why I didn’t like The Idiot is that there was no hope.
Here, I do think you’re actually wrong. You’re right to say that there is no “Hurrah for Karamazov!” moment at the end, and things do end pretty bleakly, but I think there’s something beautiful in it. Hopefully I don’t tie myself in a knot trying to explain it.
There’s a great quote from Myshkin right before he has one of his fits. He says, “How can one talk to a man and not be happy in loving him? Oh it’s only that I’m not able to express it. . . And what beautiful things there are at every step, that even the most hopeless man must feel to be beautiful! Look at a child! Look at God’s sunrise! Look at the grass, how it grows! Look at the eyes that gaze at you and love you. . . ” He is also reputed to have said, “Beauty will save the world.” Whatever Dostoevsky himself was feeling when he wrote the novel, it is clear at least that Myshkin hopes for the world, and that he believes there will be victory in the end. But that’s before the end of the novel, of course.
The scene at the end when Myshkin lays on the floor with Rogozin, cradles him, and holds him so close that Rogozin’s tears roll down Myshkin’s cheeks was an incredible moment. It’s incredible on so many different levels. The visceral, human response to that moment is that Myshkin should have taken revenge, or at least sought justice, but instead, Myshkin lies down with the murderer and holds him close. Even in that moment, Myshkin does the right thing. He cannot abandon anyone. A cynical reading might say that madness overtook Myshkin and he didn’t know what he was doing, but I believe that staying with Rogozin was his last sane act.
The staggering thing about hope is that it has to prevail even when things get terrible. There is not always an “Into the West” moment at the end of a story. There is not always victory. As Christians, we believe in final victory, but it doesn’t mean that we reign victorious at the end of every day.
One of the tasks we have in this fallen world is the preservation of goodness and light. It is the struggle for Good that matters, not necessarily the achievement of it. In the words of Tolkien, “there’s some good in this world, and it’s worth fighting for.” I think about the small army that rode out to the black gate facing almost impossible odds. Would they have been less noble if their plan hadn’t worked? One of my favorite moments in the films is when Barad-Dur comes crashing down and a tear rolls down Gandalf’s face. He didn’t even believe it was possible. But he went, and was willing to fight to the death, for the smallest glimmer of hope.
You can look at Myshkin in a few different ways. On the one hand, you can see him as naive. In this reading, he stumbles onto everything that happens to him, not understanding or perceiving what is happening, just experiencing. In this reading, it’s a very sad story, and hopeless. You can view Myshkin as an egoist with a Messiah complex, someone who thinks he has to fix everyone. There’s some truth in the idea that Myshkin bears undue burdens for other people. In this reading, you can say that Myshkin got what was coming to him, and it’s hopeless. You can view Myshkin as a very good person who takes on a worthy and noble mission but fails miserably. In this case, it’s a sad story about how good doesn’t have the power to overcome evil and it’s hopeless.
The way I choose to read Myshkin is that he is a person who loves and cherishes the world around him, and longs to see it put to right. He knows he doesn’t have the power to usher in the final victory alone, but feels that he has a duty to do the right thing regardless. His duty is tied to other people, and he loves them for their faults as well as for their good. In the end, everything falls apart, but he is not a failure. He did what he felt was required of him, and he did it without regard for himself and without regard for how things might end. For Myshkin, love is an end unto itself.
I think Lizaveta is important, though it’s hard to lay it down in concrete terms. She tells Myshkin that she believes he was sent for her, and she is the one who is with him in the end. He awakens something in her, and her dutiful care of Myshkin at the end is really remarkable once you think about it. It would be very easy to blame Aglaia’s self-destruction on Myshkin, and most mother’s would, but Lizaveta tethers herself to Myshkin. It’s really beautiful to me.
I think Myshkin is a character that Dostoevsky wrote again in The Brothers Karamazov. It’s not hard to see the parallels between Myshkin and Father Zossima. Some have tried to read The Idiot as a deconstruction of the idea of Good for Good’s sake, but I don’t think that’s true. He gives the idea its victory in his last novel, and it’s a very fine victory.
“Though lovers be lost, love shall not/ And death shall have no dominion.” – Dylan Thomas
June 30th, 2010 at 10:58 pm
Thing number one: if you never get published one day, there is something terribly wrong with this world.
Thanks for your explanation. Per usual, you are much better at reading fiction correctly than I am, and I appreciate your shedding insight into the book. I think I may actually like it now. Maybe I’ll go back an reread it at some point trying to read Myshkin like you do.
I particularly like when you said: “The staggering thing about hope is that it has to prevail even when things get terrible. There is not always an “Into the West” moment at the end of a story. There is not always victory. As Christians, we believe in final victory, but it doesn’t mean that we reign victorious at the end of every day.” I think that’s very insightful, and maybe explains something I’ve felt in the past, an innate dislike of the cliche happy ending. Maybe after all the reason why I don’t like typical happy endings is because life in the real world is only hopeful for the “plodding visionaries” (as Kevin DeYoung called them in a recent sermon), who keep on hoping through the dark days when nothing goes right, and who win the victory not in dramatic, heroic fashion, but in ordinary, everyday life. So thank you for shedding light on where the hope is in the book. It makes a lot more sense now.