The Brothers Karamazov by Fyodor Dostoevsky
My rating: 5 of 5 stars
Don’t you think I should do something long for the Brothers Karamazov. One on one with their names which are tremendous to me. The portraits they make in the long hallway. I’m on this moving sidewalk down the hall. I’m on my new Kindle. And the word is ‘nasty’ all the time, as in doing “nasty things” donning a “nasty thin, red beard” because “it’s nasty here”–who uses that word that way? And the Devil in Ivan’s room I so thoroughly enjoyed–good god, for that part alone we should all be running up the mountain to stare down. So I am on the mountain and there they are. And it’s funny that I don’t know what to say. It’s not so much thunderstruck or godlike up here. It’s pleasant to be lonely, it’s tyrannical, it’s sweet with smoke — and flapping below erstwhile everything flaps and asks and answers ‘each to each’ one might say if one was a bastard like me. That bastard ‘self-laceration’ you’ll have to take up with Dostoevsky when you finish your quadrillion kilometers and reach the door and fall apart. I’ll tell you what tho. That this mess is a kinship. That it’s winking and ramshackle despair. And as far away from punctuation as possible, it is enough to fill your lungs with and blow hard and be done like an onion in somebody’s hand.
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