Fyodor Dostoevsky Blog

In Crime and Punishment, Raskolnikov is preoccupied, at least for some portion of the book, with his great man theory. In short, he thinks that the majority of people are weak-willed, malleable idiots who serve as fodder for a few great men. These great men are visionary geniuses, leaders who are willing and able to remake the world as they see fit. If these great men happen to step on a few (thousand) people along the way, so be it. In Brothers Karamazov, Ivan lays out his Grand Inquisitor theory. In short, he thinks that the majority of people are weak-willed idiots prone to sin and incapable of handling the burden of freedom and choice. To help the masses, the Grand Inquisitor proposes that such choices be handed over to a few capable men, who will take on the responsibility of freedom.

Raskolnikov tries to put his theory into practice by murdering an old pawnbroker and stealing her money. The story of C&P is about his failure to follow through with this idea completely. On p. 625, we can see Ivan facing the same difficulty of following through, as Smerdyakov states "You used to be brave once, sir, you used to say 'Everything is permitted,' sir, and now you've got so frightened!" Perhaps the comparison between the two of them sheds light on the question of Ivan as a murderer? Raskolnikov actually did commit a murder and then had trouble confessing it. Ivan seemingly did not commit a murder but then confesses to it in court. Hm. Maybe it doesn't.

Chapter Three, Book Eleven (“A Little Demon”) is very puzzling—especially since Dostoevsky never returns to Liza’s story, despite the blatant cliffhanger. It seems he did so very intentionally, as Madame Khokhlakov is also absent for the rest of the book. I had all but forgotten about this thread of the plot until it’s mentioned that Madame can’t come to court because of sickness, which made me think of the world of drama that must be occurring in the Khokhlakov household, assuming that Liza didn’t just “get better.” Of course, brain fever isn’t new to the world of Dostoevsky, but does it ever reach a point of such directionless destruction? What possessed Liza (literally or figuratively) to so thoroughly despise the world?

She runs to Ivan, the spokesman of reason, for guidance and judgment, but neither is to her satisfaction. I think Liza desperately wanted to be told she was wrong—that the boy’s crucifixion was not “good”—to restore some order to her senses of validity and truth. When she doesn’t receive this she punishes herself by smashing her finger in the door, but for what? Whose fault is it that she is so thoroughly lost in herself? Is it a “fit of passion” comparable to Dmitri’s alleged state during the murder, as her mother says?  Liza is an example of what happens when one is thoroughly consumed by their emotions and reasoning becomes impossible, but what is the solution? Dostoevsky himself leaves the question unaddressed. 

“You’re not stupid,” Ivan said as if struck; the blood rushed to his face. “I used to think you were stupid. You’re serious now!” he remarked, suddenly looking at Smerdyakov in some new way (633).

It is interesting, the relationship between Ivan and Smerdyakov. Throughout the novel Smerdyakov is abused as something lowly. And, in truth, he is. He is a murderer after all. But, though everyone looks down upon him, he seems to be one up on everyone. Or at least that is one perspective.

Honestly, I find Smerdyakov interesting because I’m not sure what to do with him. Ivan, in the quotation above, sees a change in Smerdyakov. Though whether it is Smerdyakov’s look or Ivan’s own realization can be disputed as the cause of this “change” in Smerdyakov. And that is what is interesting to me. In every scene where Smerdyakov is actually present—for he is often only mentioned as having done this or that, for instance in teaching Ilyusha to feed a pin to a dog—he is shifty, something of an enigma to those around him. Time and time again there are references, especially in Ivan’s case, that Smerdyakov cannot be read. And, in Ivan’s case, this is especially true.

Ivan spends the novel…well, being rather ambivalent toward Smerdyakov. We learn in the chapter entitled, “A Rather Obscure One for the Moment,” that Ivan was at first rather interested in Smerdyakov’s originality (266). But with time, Ivan grows to hate Smerdyakov. And why, he doesn’t really know. Ivan doesn’t even know, not really, what he is talking about with Smerdyakov before he leaves for Chermashnya. That is, he doesn’t realize what he was talking about until Smerdyakov reveals to him (in the chapter, “The Third Meeting with Smerdyakov”) that:

“'No, it wasn’t [Dmitri] that killed [Fyodor Pavlovich], sir. Look, even now I could tell you he was the murderer…but I don’t want to lie to you now, because…because if, as I see now, you really didn’t understand anything before this, and weren’t pretending so as to shift your guilt onto me right to my face, still you are guilty of everything, sir, because you knew about the murder, and you told me to kill him, sir, and, knowing everything, you left. Therefore I want to prove it to your face tonight that in all this the chief murderer is you alone, sir, and I’m just not the real chief one, though I did kill him. It’s you who are the most lawful murderer'” (627).

This speech by Smerdyakov, like he himself, can be read two different ways. The first would be to assume that Smerdyakov is telling the truth. This interpretation would be further collaborated by Ivan’s interview with the devil, his conflict with his conscious, and his eventual mental breakdown. But it would not make sense if Smerdyakov is really the superior intellect. For if Smerdyakov is the superior intellect then me is merely playing with Ivan. He is tricking him, torturing him. This, in my mind, seems to make more sense. It supports the idea that there is more going on in Smerdyakov’s head than anyone—including himself—is conscious of. And this would make further sense in that Smerdyakov is able to ingeniously plan out his murder and then lead the prosecution astray in their interpretation of the facts of the case.

Of course all of this is threatened if Smerdyakov’s suicide cannot be accounted for. After all, if Smerdyakov is the superior intellect, why does he commit suicide? If he can convince Ivan that he is guilty of killing his father, surely he can weasel his way out of a madman’s accusations. Presumably the answer to why Smerdyakov commits suicide is that he is a coward. This is supported throughout the novel (Smerdyakov’s passionate proclamation concerning the rational of renouncing one’s faith (chapter entitled, “Disputation” 127-131), and his discussion with Maria Kondratievna in the chapter, “Smerdyakov with a Guitar”). But, in the end, it is Smerdyakov, not any of his brothers, who actually kills his father. Perhaps that too could be differently interpreted (undoubtedly it could), but I happen to agree with Joyce Carol Oates when she wrote that:

"Smerdyakov, imagined initially as a kind of idiot, an epileptic "chicken" who has no courage, no intelligence, and who is capable only of echoing Ivan's radical ideas, emerges as superior even to Ivan: he is the killer of their father, Ivan's "instrument," but at all times shrewder and more perceptive than Ivan himself."

So is Oates right? Is Smerdyakov more intelligent and daring than anyone else in The Brothers Karamazov or is he a weakling, an epileptic chicken? What are we to make of Smerdyakov? In my final essay I intend to ask these questions and find some kind of answer regarding who is Smerdyakov in his own right (as opposed to being understood in relation to others) and how do the various ways in which his character can be read effect the dynamic of The Brothers Karamazov? For Smerdyakov is a Karamazov as well.

I found myself very drawn to Grushenka's story of the onion. The structure of the story--a wicked woman is nearly saved by one good deed, but then further proves her wickedness--is fairly common as a cautionary tale, but why an onion? An onion was not a particularly kind donation. It is not substantive to eat and, of course, its smell forces tears. When the onion is later used to save the wicked woman, it's absurd to imagine a small, peeling onion as a feasible rescue from a lake of lava. Yet Grushenka seems proud of the onion detail, proud that such a small unloved item was a good deed worthy enough to nearly save the woman.

An easy parallel with the onion's symbolism is Zosima's smell after death. The monks and the gathered masses are shocked by the smell of decay. As the smell gets worse and worse, the crowd forgets all of Zosima's goodness and assumes his entire wickedness. They overlook his kindness (the same basic kindness involved in the gift of an onion) and focus on his flaws (the natural smell of unsaintly death, just like the unloved tear-producing smell of an impotent onion). The onion offers divine protection and is accepted by God, though its unpleasant smell warrants earthly distaste. As Grushenka realizes she is judged most harshly by men, she can hope that her onion will save her in unearthly judgment.

I can understand why Grushenka enjoys the onion fable--it gives her at least a chance at redemption--but I can't understand why she so wholeheartedly wants to fulfill it. After all, the woman is left in quite the burning lake of fire. Are we meant to believe that Grushenka is wholly wicked, a 1:1 match for the fable? Or is she self-deprecating to avoid the disappointments of Zosima?

I just finished re-reading the conversation in the monastery about Ivan's article and Zosima's reaction to it. After our  discussion of the Grand Inquisitor today, I could not help but immediately think that in fact Zosima agrees wholeheartedly with the Grand Inquisitor's scheme: give the Church control over everything and even criminals will cower in fear of the Church/State's absolute moral and bodily authority. But after a little bit of consideration, I realized that I was extrapolating out of what Zosima actually says and unfairly connecting him to the G.I.'s terrible philosophy. What is the difference? Choice.

While we spoke at length today about the burden that choice puts on man and how the GI thinks that this weight should be taken off of common man's shoulders and put solely into the Church/State's hands (totalitarianism), Zosima is imagining something quite different. He is imagining a world where every man is part of the Church and that the Church is the State. In such a world, there would be only one moral aegis that each man would live by: his conscience as dictated by the Church's teachings. Such adherence to Church doctrine and inclusion under the Church's wing of all of society would prevent immorality in that people would not wish to completely cut themselves off from all of society (except for maybe the most extreme cases). In such a world, the Church/State would control both the spiritual and material bread for all the people and thus people would act morally so as not to miss out on either variety of sustenance. Perhaps in this conflation, the two different kinds of nourishment would become one and Jesus' vision (as laid out in the three temptations would be complete). Instead of the forced and very earthly imposition imagined by the GI, people would partake willingly in this communion.

But perhaps the two visions of Zosima and the GI aren't so different. If the Christian Church/State were the only organizing force of society and its morality permeated all  levels of it, would man really have a choice? It seems like fear -- of exclusion, of shame, of disconnection etc. -- animates the world that Zosima is imagining. If the choices in Zosima's world are inclusion in society or complete abandonment by everyone, is man operating morally or simply out of necessity and conformity? Totalitarian regimes also operate very strongly on fear, conformity and seeming monolithism. There are some fine distinctions that can be drawn between Zosima and the GI, but on larger levels, they seem to resist distinction.

The scene that concludes Ivan's poem-- Christ's kiss to the Grand Inquisitor-- is one we've seen before. We see it repeated quite literally a page later by Alyosha, but we've also seen similar acts before. This act by Christ is eerily similar to Father Zosima's act in Book 2 where he kneels down before Dmitri, touching his forehead to the floor. It is also eerily similar to the entire ending of Crime & Punishment, or to the moment when Raskolnikov drops to his knees in the town square of Petersburg. And again, this act of "deference" (I do not believe that word exactly captures what these acts symbolize, but it is the closest approximation I can conjure) occurs in The House of Dead, when Akulka's drunken husband bows down to the ground before her before going to the army. Though he has abused her, Akulka, remember, responds by forgiving him, remarking, "I love him now more than anyone else in the whole world!" (268)

All these scenes, I believe, are related. These acts of "deference" are the points from which Dostoevsky has, through his many works, attempted to untangle all the complexities represented in such situations. The acts of "deference" in these scenes destabilize the hierarchical relations that  previously existed, hierarchies that provided meaning and understanding for all characters involved. The Elder Zosima, remember, bows down before Dmitri while everyone is arguing; this act confuses every character, leaving each one to guess what his act represented. The Elder is silent during this act, much like Raskolnikov in the epilogue of his novel and Christ during his kiss.

Like the characters during the argument in Book 2, the Grand Inquisitor is also shaken by Christ's act of "deference." Ivan explains, "The kiss burns in his heart, but the old man holds to his former idea" (262). It is telling that, though Ivan presents his entire story with descriptions in the past tense, this line is given in the present tense, signifying that neither the "kiss" nor the "idea" have died or been resolved. If Ivan is a "riddle," it  is in part because he takes seriously both the "idea" and the "kiss," each of which are riddles Dostoevsky has explored at different parts of his canon.

What I found most extraordinary about the Grand Inquisitor scene is that both Ivan and Alyosha felt a silent kiss was an appropriate response to the story. When we discuss the Karamazovs as sensualists, maybe we need to keep this detail in mind. Though all the Karamazovs (aside from Alyosha) seem determined to erect hierarchical relations between one and another, maybe this drive works simultaneously with a drive for a certain sense of equality between one and another. Maybe the Karamazov sensuality is rooted in Ivan's poem and the dichotomy it establishes between freedom (equality) and security (hierarchy).

Also, on a related but different note, I wonder if I'm the only one who thought, while reading about the "weak, feeble" men in Ivan's poem, of Alexandr Petrovich's description of men: "Yes, man has great endurance!" (29). I  can only imagine the two are related somehow.

Two things.  First off, I think this is the right venue for me to say the following: This novel is not supposed to work the way it does.  I'm thinking primarily of the random chance and happenstance that is so central to the forward movement of the book's plot.  Events on which the whole work turns are so implausible that we really can only conclude that plausibility was not a particular concern of the narrator's.  I don't mean to say I'm falling into the same trap as the critics who have incorrectly condemned Dostoevsky for this same implausibility.  Rather, I think we should consider what the implausibility achieves or does not achieve.  I mean, it's hilarious.  Dostoevsky writes a book through the voice of a half-terrible half-funny hack journalist writing a completely blasphemous hagiography, and that latter work tells the story of a bunch of characters telling stories to other characters, mainly Alyosha Karamazov.  It is as if the narrator does not even care about discovering the factual events that connected his characters.  He is far more interested in the occasional loci of emotional or ideological power that manifest in conversation, or in the act of storytelling.  But then the hilarious part is that in a certain (anti-)formal sense, the story the narrator tells to the reader is actually not a very good one!

Or something.  In any case, another thing that struck me is that the dialogue in some of these scenes (I have read up through The Grand Inquisitor) is ceasing to make grammatical/logical sense.  I wouldn't say this is happening with all characters, but I do notice it specifically in scenes with Mme. Khokhlakov, Lise, Grushenka, and Katerina Ivanovna.  Some of the things Lise and Mme. Khokhlakov say to Alyosha are just crazy.  And they are always very passionate.  I think this linguistic weirdness (i.e. the fact that the language of many of the prominent female characters is almost nonsensical to Alyosha or the narrator) is related to the male characters' inability to understand the motives behind the female characters' decisions.  Note, for instance, how many times the word "caprice" appears.  The scene with Grushenka and Katerina Ivanovna is so totally bewildering and strange; the reader is transported out of Russia and onto the Isle of Lesbos, out of the Brotherhood of the Phallus and into the nebulous realm of the wandering Eve.  Not to mention the fact that Katerina Ivanovna speaks as "we" on page 150, as if she and Grushenka are halves of the same mercurial, enigmatic, and yet royal thing.  Meanwhile the men in the novel run around trying to enact their plans and have their fights.  I think Mitya Fyodorovich's slip on page 155 reveals this structure: "I see her, too, right through her, I see her, I see her better than ever before!  It's quite a discovery---all four cardinal points---all five, I mean."  The footnote tells us he is referring to the five continents known at the time of the book's writing.  The fifth of course being the dark continent of feminine sexuality.

“He had been sitting there for even a quarter of an hour when suddenly, from somewhere very close by, came the strum of a guitar” (223).

In the chapter entitled “Smerdyakov,” we are introduced to a “terribly unsociable and taciturn” character that displays an “arrogant nature” and despises everyone (124). And then, like the random strum of a guitar, he comes back into the narrative serenading a young woman with his “sweet falsetto” voice. Why these two very different pictures?

In “Smerdyakov” we are told that Smerdyakov was sent to Moscow to train as a cook but that he came back morally unchanged (125). That is what we are told. Yet in “Smerdyakov with a Guitar” we are introduced to a young man of twenty-four not only being sociable, singing songs, conversing over the utility of poetic verse, detesting the Russian people because of a Napoleonic conviction, and romanticizing a duel; but he is also all dressed up, pomaded, with patent leather boots. And this after we are told earlier that, “Smerdyakov spent almost the whole of his salary on clothes, pomade, perfume, and so on. Yet he seemed to despise the female sex as much as the male, and behaved solemnly, almost inaccessibly, with it” (126). What are we to do with this contrast?

Earlier the narrator spoke of Smerdyakov saying, “I ought to say a little more about him in particular, but I am ashamed to distract my reader’s attention for such a long time to such ordinary lackeys, and therefore I shall go back to my narrative, hoping that with regard to Smerdyakov things will somehow work themselves out in the further course of the story” (100). I find all of this rather interesting. Why the different portrayals of Smerdyakov? Is the latter the “working out” of the narrator story? He didn’t quite get it right the first time, but as his story goes on Smerdyakov becomes more and more accurately portrayed? Hmm…there needs to be some serious questioning of the narrator. At least, I think so.

I was particularly struck by the chapter that introduces Katya and Grushenka, especially in light of Berdyaev's essay and our discussion. The women we've been introduced to so far are quite unlike Grushenka. Although Nastasya occupies a completely different role than Sonya's positive spiritual influence, I think it's fair to say that even the destructive Nastasya is more like the savior Katya at the core of her character--she has integrity, intelligence, etc. Although Dostoevsky's women are never central figures, they are individuals whose personalities are at least developed beyond the confines of virgin/whore stereotypes. I'm at a loss when it comes to Grushenka, however. It was interesting to examine Nastasya; Dostoevsky created a strong willed individual, yet reduced her to a destructive (and secondary) force. Grushenka, however, appears to be a glaring manifestation of the femme fatale figure Berdyaev discussed, and in the worst possible way. She has been pared down to a purely sexual role; every description of her "personality" fits into a hatefully exaggerated, misogynistic vision of a dangerous seductress. Dmitri says: "She's the queen of all infernal women the world can imagine! Delightful in a way!...I...will run to her...don't blame me, I do agree that throttling's too good for her" (155). It is tormenting to read.  

The title of chapter 4, book 3 has to be the finest "Dostoevsky in a nutshell" I have ever encountered. Admittedly, I laughed for quite a while when I first read it; it so perfectly sums up Dostoevsky's storytelling. As I began reading The Brothers Karamazov, I was struck by the strong narrative voice in Book 1, the seemingly pointless arguments of Book 2, and the return to plot and Dostoevsky's beloved anecdotes in Books 3 and 4. Dostoevsky sets up our main characters (Book 1), tests their ethics (Book 2), then releases them into a bustling plot (Books 3+). His plot works because it is fueled by passionate characters whom we meet and understand through little stories: confessions in anecdotes.

As I read, I also couldn't help spotting religious allusions everywhere. Though momentarily proud of my keen critical eye, I soon realized that Dostoevsky's Christian insertions are not veiled in the slightest. Interestingly, the characters' religious beliefs are established before most other character traits. Dostoevsky uses religious clues to define characters early on. Grigory Vasilievich loves reading the book of Job, well-suited to his generally self-sacrificing character. Dimitri hails Aloyshka as an angel on earth. Ivan is an atheist. And so on and so forth. We seem to learn where a character might go on his final judgment day before we know him well enough to guess where he might go in town. 

Why is Dostoevsky so blunt about his religious discussion? Truthfully, I enjoy the frankness, but it is a definite stylistic choice after the symbolism of Crime and Punishment and the Idiot. Is this a result of Dostoevsky's last chance/last novel efforts or does the plot of The Brothers Karamazov uniquely require it?

I love the narration of The Brothers Karamazov. It's wonderful. It appears to be a perfect mix of so many of the narrative elements Dostoevsky played with in his previous works. What amazed me while going through Dostoevsky's canon was how varied his narrative style was from book to book. While each book may have called for a distinct style of narration, I cannot help but think of Brother Karamazov as the pinnacle of Dostoevsky's narration, drawing from his previous narrative experiments to discover a truly dynamic tone.

What I appreciate most about the narrator is his willingness to break through the action that's being described in order to distinguish himself. Take, for instance, some lines within the narrator's description of the scene where Dmitri  throws his father after being accused of stealing money: "And breaking away from Ivan, [Fyodor Pavlovich] again rushed at Dmitri. But Dmitri raised both his hands and suddenly seized the old man by the two surviving wisps of hair on his temples, pulled, and smashed him against the floor. He even had time to kick the fallen man in the face two or three time with his heel. The old man let out a shrill moan" (139).

This is really a peculiar way to describe this scene. The most striking detail, I feel, is the remark regarding Fyodor's "two surviving wisps of hair on his temples." It's almost funny, calling attention to Fyodor's hair-loss by remarking on the few hairs that have "survived." It immediately presents the reader with an image of Fyodor, yet Fyodor is "smashed" in the very next clause. Moreover, the narrator focuses not on the fact that Dmitri kicks Fyodor in the face, but on the fact that he has the time to do so, as if that is the extraordinary aspect of the scene.

For another example of the narrator's peculiar playfulness, take this section from the narrator's introduction of Dmitri: "Moreover, it so happened that the child's relatives on his mother's side also seemed to forget about him at first. His grandfather, that is, Mr. Miusov himself, the father of Adelaida Ivanovna, was no longer living" (10). The narrator follows a sentence about certain relatives forgetting about Dmitri "at first" with the introduction of Mr. Miusov, who was dead and clearly well past the stage of merely forgetting someone. Moreover, the narrator does not even say Mr. Miusov is dead but instead states he "was no longer living," a rather roundabout way to reveal someone's death. This circumventive style is exasperated by the sentence formation, which is filled with many dependent clauses and natural pauses, all of which making the ending words more surprising. I cannot help but think while reading such passages that Doestovsky, through his narrator, is playing with the reader, pushing him in different directions and eliciting different associations for no apparent reason.

This narrator style, while humorous, does not seem all that necessary. Yet I know it is. The slight diversions, the subtle jokes, the at-times authoritative tone in respect to some characters-- they all seem so purposely placed, even when certain descriptions almost painfully protrude beyond the action being described. I've yet to fully decide why this narration is so effective, though it is extremely enjoyable. I wonder how it will respond to the themes presented later in the novel.

Also, a quick note: the fact I can recognize and appreciate these aspects of the narration speaks to how strong the translation is. It also speaks to how attempts to "smooth out" Dostoevsky in the translation process is an awful, awful thing.

I’ve noticed more of the spectacle in this work than in Dostoevsky’s others. Zosima’s surrounded by pilgrims sticks out to me, as it is not quite as visually thrilling as Marmeladov’s family weeping over his body by a single candle flame, but I still find it harder to conceive as realistic, perhaps because of its placement in the book. He appears more idol than human because I have no emotional attachment to him. The scene seems too picturesque.

Dmitri reminds me of Nastassya Filippovna in that they are both willing to sacrifice their love because they believe themselves unworthy. Dmitri is also very fatalistic and resigned to a future of unhappiness, as if a life so based on sensuality could never be fulfilled. Furthermore, Dmitri is quick to blame his lineage for his problems (“My first thought was a Karamazov thought” 113). Many of his problems have stemmed and probably will stem from this blame because he has absolved himself of all responsibility and given himself over to a quality he could very well change.

Alyosha is even more vulnerable because he considers himself the same (109). Alyosha’s identification with Dmitri also bothers me because, on the surface at least, the two couldn’t be more different. So on what characteristics are people being judged in the Karamozov world if not those apparent to the rest of society? This could be a slippery slope to the muddling of good and evil later on.

I noticed the narrator has stopped referring to the town as “our” town, but for what reason?

Also, what makes a buffoon different from a fool? When does an idiotic action become endearing and forgivable?

200 odd pages into this book, I find myself strangely drawn to the character of Smerdyakov. On the surface, he is a strange, bastard child, a silent malcontent and fairly impassive observer of the world. Upon first meeting him, it seems like we will gain no access to his thoughts and his exterior will remain unpenetrated by the narrator's, or reader's, analytic gaze. But when he surprisingly opens up in the middle of a conversation, his input is a fascinating perspective on the question of faith in the novel.

When Dostoevsky gives us a biography of Smerdyakov's life early on the book, it seems as if the first cursory glance will prove correct. Although Dostoevsky gives us a little description of his character, the most notable aspect of Smerdyakov's biography was that he went all the way to Moscow and appeared unaffected by the experience, "Came back much changed in appearance...but morally he was almost the same...Moscow itself interested him somehow very little, so that he learned only a few things about it" (125).  From the experience, Smerdyakov seems much older and better-dressed, but other than these surface changes, he is still the same sullen person he always was.

In particular, his lack of moral change seems to me the most disturbing. His disconnection from the world and uncaring attitude about all of those around him sets off warning bells in my mind as a reader of Dostoevsky: anyone who is so apart from the world has serious problems. When Smerdyakov finally does speak up, my perturbation proves to be correct. The thrust of his argument in the end boils down to his opinion on miracles. Smerd's faith is entirely dependent on miracles: he needs to see a physical manifestation of God's power (the moving of mountain tops) to believe in His existence. Lacking this awesome display, Smerd is just as happy to renounce God and then bank on His forgiveness rather than keeping the faith. Smerd thinks only in the short-term in this case: keeping the faith will not result in his immediate salvation, the saving of his skin, while renouncing God will. Smerd is cynically playing the sides of God's greatness, saying that he would take advantage of God's power if he could but barring that, will just depend on His capacity for forgiveness. Of all the forms of faith, atheism, and impiety we've seen so far, this one strikes me as the most nakedly impure.

It is clear from the first 200 pages of The Brothers Karamazov that Dostoevsky is once again obsessed with the ideas of truth and honesty. The most wicked character, Fyodor, is a terrible, unabashed liar. The most honorable character, the elder, gives a speech about the horrible consequences of lying, especially lying to oneself. It is nowhere clear what the truth actually is. Almost every character seems to be either lying outright for self-interest or lying to themselves out of perplexity. Katerina Ivanova is a perfect example. She tells herself that she loves Dmitri, when this is not true. Alyosha accuses her of lying to herself out of pride in order to "continually contemplate your high deed of faithfulness, and to reproach him for his unfaithfulness" (192). Whether she believes the lie or not, her love is false and motivated by self-interest.

This begs the question: how do we judge when someone is being genuine? Throughout the semester, I've noticed that Dostoevsky is constantly describing people's eyes. Every new character, without fail, is introduced with a description of their eyes. It seems like every other page someone is crying, tearing, or sobbing. While their minds and their words may lie, Dostoevsky's characters tell the truth through their eyes. 

For example, Fyodor says to Ivan "'What are you staring at me for? What kind of look is that? Your eyes look at me and say: 'You drunken pig!' Suspicious eyes, malicious eyes ... You came here with something in mind. Alyoshka looks at me and his eyes shine. Alyosha doesn't despise me'" (136). Nothing needs to be said by Ivan or Alexei; their eyes give them away.

And then on the next page, Alexei's "eyes burned" (137) as his father belittles the memory of his mother. Immediately after that, "The flashing of his [Ivan's] eyes startled the old man" (138) as Ivan gets angry that his father forgot that "the shrieker" was his mother too. Later, the angry school boy look at Alexei with "large, dark eyes" (178), while  the boy could tell "at once from Alyosha's eyes that he was not going to beat him" (179). 

Of course, whenever you think you've found a pattern in Dostoevsky, he immediately casts doubt: "His voice trembled, and tears glistened on her eyelashes. Alyosha started inwardly: 'This girl is truthful and sincere,' he thought, 'and ... and she no longer loves Dmitri!'" (188). While Alexei had been incredibly perplexed as to the true feelings of Katerina Ivanovna, he concluded from her tears that this moment must be genuine. However, just a few pages later we are left to question this conclusion: "'Don't believe in women's tears, Alexei Fyodorovich'" (194). At this point, I still don't know what to believe.

'Above all, do not lie to yourself. A man who lies to himself and listens to his own lie comes to a point where he does not discern any truth either in himself or anywhere around him, and thus falls into disrespect towards himself and others. Not respecting anyone, he ceases to love, and having no love, he gives himself up to passions and coarse pleasures, in order to occupy and amuse himself, and in his vices reaches complete bestiality, and it all comes from lying continually to others and to himself. A man who lies to himself is often the first to take offence.'

Zosima, who uttered these words to Fyodor Pavlovich, was the character whom I found most intriguing, as he seemed to most truly embody the characteristics of what Dostoevsky felt was the highest development of human personality. But given his physical weakness, it seems that he won't be making it to the end of the novel with us, so my question actually extends to Aloysha. As the alleged hero of our story, he seems so far the least despicable and most similar to Zosima. In The Idiot, we saw how Prince Myshkin's failure to communicate increasingly caused him problems despite his intentions. Zosima seems to set Aloysha a similar task by going out into the world, to 'seek happiness in sorrow. Work, work tirelessly'. It is puzzling that Dostoevsky has set himself a similar task again, of sending a 'good' man out into the world, and I am rather curious as to how Aloysha's fate will differ from that of Prince Myshkin. Will Aloysha, as Rakitin suggests, become yet another such Karamazov as described by Zosima? Will he succumb to the 'family sensuality carried to the point of fever'?