"I can see the sun, but even if I cannot see the sun, I know that it exists. And to know that the sun is there – that is living."

- The Brothers Karamazov, Fyodor Dostoevksy, Book IV

The Brothers Karamazov by Fyodor Dostoevksy responses. Part IV.

i.

I am having an interesting time trying to find the consonance between Zosima and Ivan's perspectives on the sinlessness of children ("like angels" per Zosima, or "not yet guilty of anything" in Ivan's words) and the lives of the children we encounter in this section of the book. Childhood innocence and guilt are a complicated matter in the lives of Ilyusha, Kolya and Lise, each full of contradictory and troublesome impulses; capable of wildness and cruelty, each with sudden desires to torment lesser beings. The simple portrait of children as vulnerable victims of poverty (similar to Zosima's thoughts on the serfs and peasants) or parental neglect seems not to fully explain the nature of the young characters. In both Kolya and Lise, impoverished surroundings are not to blame; Ilyusha has a deeply loving, if not entirely effective, father, and yet all three seem compelled to test the limits of their power, both in thought and action. Maybe their innocence has less to do with purity and more to do with transparency and ultimately, humility.

Ilyusha in his illness would seem to embody the pain of innocents, which for Ivan is evidence that there cannot be a God who would allow such arbitrary cruelty. But Ilyusha himself believes he is being punished for having hurt the dog, Zhuchka, and humbles himself before his father's grief and his friends' attention. Kolya, like Dmitri, seems to act rashly with cold cruelty while simultaneously upbraiding himself for it: he feels one thing and does its opposite. All the same, he is desperate to have his true good nature witnessed by Alyosha, confesses all his sins promptly, and struggles quite transparently with the child he is and the person he is pretending to be. Lise appears to be infected by a darkness even more nihilistic than Ivan's, but does not want to carry it alone--she shares it with Alyosha, seemingly the person who would understand it the least, and yet finds he does understand her and admits to confronting darkness in himself. In every case, we encounter children as more aware, more developed morally and socially than the adults assumed them to be.

Alyosha is the key, here, but on so many levels that I haven't quite grasped the meaning in its entirety (I am also writing this before finishing all the assigned pages; I was so disturbed by the scene with Lise that I slowed down for a moment--). Zosima says that children "live to bring us to tenderness and the purification of our hearts and as a sort of example to us", which on its face seems to imply that it is their pure goodness that prompts this. But the events give us something denser to chew on. For one it's almost a parenting lesson from Alyosha (perhaps in the role of Christ or a confessor): that a child in turmoil can be intercepted from a cycle of violence by an adult who listens without judgement and with compassion, and offers forgiveness. The child is freed from the intermittent darkness that is part of being human. The conscious adult is made to pay attention in her responses; she may have to reconsider aspects of her own self and her ways of thinking; she may have to acknowledge darkness in herself (as Alyosha does to Lise) in order to engender the child's better nature.

Think of this in contrast to Grigory saying to Smerdyakov, "You think you are a human being?" Alyosha is essentially saying, to everyone really, "Don't worry. You are a human being, in all its contradictions, but I believe in you."

A bit messy in my logic (and writing!), still thinking.

ii.

Children and animals are treated in such a unique way throughout the book. Dostoevsky treats the innocent, both children and animals, with a certain kind of care. I don't think it's a coincidence that most scenes involving children also involve Alyosha; the only brother who consistently operates from a place of goodness and consistently assumes the best of the people around him. While Dmitri is motivated by passion, and Ivan is motivated by his ideals (or lack thereof), it's Alyosha who treats all people he meets with consistent kindness, even and maybe especially when it's not returned.

In part three, when we are introduced to Kolya and reintroduced to Ilyusha, Dostoevsky immediately emphasizes the way Kolya (who is a child himself) treats the younger children and animals around him, with precocious respect. His dog loves him and so do the kids; this is instantly so telling, not just for characters but for actual people. The opposite is Smerdyakov manipulating the impressionable Ilyusha into harming and perhaps killing a dog. But in these chapters, seen through Alyosha's eyes, there's more shame and guilt demonstrated by children than really any adult in the novel. Ilyusha, already sick, is driven crazy with guilt over what he's done to an innocent dog. When Kolya visits him, he attempts to assuage this guilt with another dog and with the same precociousness that endears other characters to him. This is another example of more conscience being demonstrated by a child than most of the adult characters. Alyosha, who is clearly committed to helping the people around him, also treats children and animals with respect. A few chapters later, he remains calm and polite to Liza despite her "fit of passion," which for me immediately called back his mother, the "shrieker."

Dostoevsky seems to revile the suffering of children and animals. The reader isn't left feeling that Ilyusha is truly the one who abused an animal; we're aware that it's Smerdyakov, this sinister player behind the scenes, taking advantage of a little kid's innocence and impressionability. So the stories of the child characters start to mirror those of the adult characters, and they're all sort of happening in front of this same sinister backdrop, which is so sinister not just because of large-scale sinister events like the murder, but because of the smaller ones, like a dog swallowing a pin, or a little boy's suffering, or even Dmitri's visceral shame when the investigators make him undress. Harming the innocent is taken seriously.

iii.

I will again touch upon how much in this reading I have been moved by Dmitri. Moved not because he is the "ideal" person – but because of how wrong, immature, and reckless he is, yet comes to understand all of that in himself and still suffer the greatest misdeed that can be done to a person – be wrongly convicted of a crime, the worst crime, of taking a life. All of that being said, it happens through the most comedic and absurd outbursts and speeches that he makes – full of life, vigor, and crassness. As here in the beginning of the trial:

"I plead guilty to drunkennesses and depravity, to idleness and debauchery. I intended to become an honest man ever after, precisely at the moment when fate cut me down! But of the death of the old man, my enemy and my father–I am not guilty! Of robbing him–no, no, not guilty, and I could not be guilty: Dmitri Karamazov is a scoundrel, but not a thief!"

Another thing, I don't want to go in again on the whole Dostoevsky and Jews matter, but I just found it funny how, Alyosha, the priestly hero, responds in such a way to Liza's question.

‍
"Alyosha, is it true that Jews steal children on Passover and kill them?"
"I don't know."
‍

Well, he can't be sure...

iv.

What happened to Alyosha? The novel sets him up to be a great hero of this story, slowly developing his capacity to work in human affairs the way his Elder did, yet he felt almost non-existent in part 4. I have not read the epilogue, which I assume will tie together the arch with Illyusha and Koyla, but it was noticeable of how little use Aloysha was in the trial of his brother. This part of the novel really reminded me of Demons in reagards to ideas spreading and possessing individuals. Liza suddenly rejects Aloysha in favor of the ideas that have possessed Ivan and yet she still calls for Aloysha to save her. Liza has left me very confused, especially regarding the sudden crushing of her finger upon Alyosha’s departure.

Ivan’s rebellion first at felt irrefutable in a logical sense, for there is no real answer for why god torments children, but this part of the novel refutes his argument by demonstrating the consequences of believing such ideas. All the characters who believe in these ideas seem to become more and more miserable, with Ivan losing his mind completely and Smerdyakov committing suicide. However, I do think it is important that Smerdyakov's suicide was not caused by regret for the murder. Ivan goes from being disgusted by Dimitri to attempting to destroy himself to save his brother. This was a very beautiful thing to see despite the fact that his attempt to prove Smerdyakov’s guilt was the catalyst for Dimitri's demise. Ivan does not seem to be capable of living with the consequences of what he believes in. The psychological ramifications of his complicity or ‘approval’ in the murder of his father are enough to drive him mad. Smerdyakov’s confusion towards Ivan’s expression of his humanity, conscience, and desire to do right felt comical due to the disparity between the person Smerdyakov had considered Ivan to be and the reality of who he was.  

v.

"An Adulterer of Thought" is interesting because, well, first of all, what is adultery of thought? Pevear's gloss, that Fetyukovich commits adultery of thought by quoting Colossians 3:21 ("Fathers, provoke not your children to anger, lest they be discouraged") but omitting the preceding verse ("Children, obey your parents in all things: for this is well pleasing unto the Lord") is helpful, although I'm not sure how selective quotation is analogous to adultery, and anyway I'm not sure it exhausts the possible meanings. But this chapter is also interesting because Fetyukovich, in his defense of Mitya, deals explicitly with one of the questions shadowing the novel: what do children owe their parents and parents their children? Fetyukovich's takes the idea, widely accepted today, that children owe their parents the same measure of love that they have received to its logical extreme. If the father cannot give a satisfactory answer to "Father, tell me, why should I love you? Father, prove to me that I should love you," then

"the family is finished then and there: he is not a father to his son, and the son is free and has the right henceforth to look upon his father as a stranger and even as his enemy" (791).

In the same passage Fetyukovich raises a different idea, in the mouth of the son demanding explanations from the father and in a jeering tone, but he nonetheless raises the possibility of unconditional love: the father loves the son before he is born, before he even knows the child's sex, and that kind of love cannot be accounted for by reasons. This kind of father would be even less equipped to answer the question "Father, tell me, why do you love me?" than "why should I love you?" I think the question Dostoevsky is grappling with here, in the particular case of fathers and sons, is whether love can or should be made to answer "why?" He doesn't make it easy to endorse the idea of unconditional love either by bringing up the Finnish girl who abandoned three of her children in a chest in the attic, so the question isn't resolved but sharpened by posing the two possible answers in their most exaggerated, grotesque form.

vi.

The fourth part brought so many half-formed thoughts and connections, I’m going to attempt to make sense of some of a couple here. The first thing I noticed is that, in contrast to the wet snow of previous Dostoevsky works (most notably, Notes from Underground), the snow in The Brothers Karamazov is dry (515, 620). It is accompanied by a “sharp, dry” wind, which, according to the notes, is a reference to the poem “Before Rain” by Nekrasov. The “rain,” I like to imagine, is Mitya’s trial. This invokes harshness, a coating of surfaces, and impaired vision. The latter especially reflects the overall mystery of the book, for it is not the slush and dampness of wet snow, but a different environment that is no less inconvenient, only more obscure.

The second detail I noticed was the physical ways that spiritual shifts manifested in both Alyosha and Grushenka. It is particularly significant that these changes take place in the two of them, given that moment of understanding and respect for each other regarding Zosima’s death. The ways that they change are interesting, too. Alyosha seems suddenly grown up and composed:

“Here, incidentally, we must note that Alyosha had changed very much since we last saw him: he had thrown off his cassock and was now wearing a finely tailored coat and a soft, round hat, and his hair was cut short” (533).

While Alyosha’s change appears more in how he presents himself, Grushenka’s is more physical, as though her inner growth has had a sudden urge to make itself known:

“Something firm and aware seemed to have settled in her eyes. Some spiritual turnabout told in her; a certain steadfast, humble, but good and irrevocable resolution appeared. A small vertical wrinkle came to her forehead… giving her dear face a look of thoughtfulness concentrated upon itself, which was even almost severe at first glance” (563).

Alyosha finds her “even more attractive” now, and this parallel shift that occurs in both of them in response to the general upheaval seems to further deepen their solidarity beyond that provided by Alyosha’s ability to connect with everyone.

vii.

WTF Has Immortality Got to Do With It: a response

A major overarching theme and question in The Brothers Karamazov is faith and doubt. The question of faith seems to come into doubt over this concept of “immortality.” I am having an issue here, and I’m not sure if the characters themselves are having the same issue; what exactly is meant by immortality? Of course, I may have missed it, but nowhere in the text of The Brothers Karamazov have I found what is meant by “immortality of the soul.” Perhaps even more troublesome for me, is that I have not been able to discover or infer what, regarding faith, morality, the characters’ choices, and lives, is at stake when questioning whether the soul is with or without death. Why, in this text, is faith contingent on the belief in the existence of an immortal soul? I am left wondering how Ivan, for example, would change if he had faith in the immortal soul. It might seem that he might find this as his basis for acting virtuously. But why?

When considering our lives as embodied beings, sensualists, if you will, grappling with the questions of whether there is any meaning at all or whether we ought to faithfully be virtuous, we are creating such cognitive dissonance and inner discord that our lives in the material realm become wrought with confusion, doubt, misdeed and consequently, a general lack of peace and direction.

Essentially and in plain English, in grappling with the question of faith contingent on the belief of an immortal soul, certain characters’ lives kind of suck—in this material realm—where they are already alive. So why are we concerned with life after death? Is it a question of any consequence? Is the ambiguity of whether this matters an intentional decision of Dostoevsky’s? To illustrate the general muddleheadedness that ensues from embodiment itself?

The character’s questions and doubts about immortality, and their need to believe in the immortality of the soul to have faith and for virtue to matter at all, creates confusion, misery, and misdeeds. Is the inclusion of faith in the immortality of the soul as a prerequisite to faith and virtue used to serve as a tactic to show how these lofty, ill-defined questions distract them from the messes of their lives that exist even without these questions? To distract them from finding a solution within this lifetime? Again, I may have missed something, but I am inclined to believe that this was an intentional decision.

In the Bible itself, it is open to interpretation what is meant by immortality and life eternal. One possible interpretation is that these concepts could pertain to life in the material realm. Where living could mean living peacefully, and death could mean suffering. In that interpretation, faith in Christian values alone could lead to immortality—a life without suffering.

Throughout the course of my reading, I have seen so much conflict and discord on a merely social level. When the questions of faith, doubt virtue and immortality come up I see the conflict and discord multiply. It begs the question, why don’t these people see that vice itself is polluting their present experiences? Why need faith in immortality? Because their embodied lives suck so much that they would only need virtue so that they could have a better afterlife?

If all were to act virtuously and with “Christian values” they would see their embodied lives become more peaceful. Then would they not gain faith in Christian values? I think so.

The problem then becomes, it may not be a realistic expectation to get everyone on board with that notion. The reason for that, I’d say, is quite perfectly expressed in the discussion of Ivan’s article on the ecclesiastical courts and his rejection of church and state. I would like to go into depth on that section at another time, but to address the problem, Ivan states that if the church were transformed into the state, all crime would be permissible, but it would be discovered by the masses that punishment lies in the acknowledgment of one’s own conscience. If all were to recognize this notion, if the church were transformed into the state, there would be unity and harmony based on shared understanding, shared experience, and shared values. But, since the church has not transformed into the state; since there is no shared understanding, or experience, or values—we are divided, we have conflict, and we riddle ourselves with wonders over whether we should be virtuous because our souls are immortal? I’d like to reiterate that it is not clear what immortality after physical death has to do with faith or virtue for whatever period that we spend living as physical, sentient beings in a material realm with agency.

The question of immortality is unanswerable. It’s a riddle. The search for the basis of faith in immortality is the perfect conundrum to allow anyone to remain lost and confused; living the same today as yesterday, uncertain of the value of virtue until they can answer the unanswerable. It wouldn’t be until the church transformed into the state that all could come to recognize that punishment and suffering lies in the acknowledgment of each one of their own consciences. Though he may sound less than optimistic, he does state it as a possibility, even “if only at the end of time.

This exploration has really piqued my interest in the character of Ivan, often referred to as a nihilist. When I contrast Ivan from So be it! So be it! with Ivan from Rebellion, and the Grand Inquisitor I do not see a nihilist. I see a complex character trying to reconcile ideals with realities all while living the muddled life of an embodied human who is still subject to and affected by the sins of the flesh. I hope to explore this topic further and come to my own decisive conclusion.

viii.

Everyone's responses are so wonderfully insightful and I'm just here thinking about some simple words. Belief, belief, belief keeps coming into my mind. Belief in one's innocence, belief in the world after, belief in each other as people and so on and so forth.
To me, Aloysha is the ultimate believer. He seems to just mesh into the idea, whether it is with a stranger, a mentor, or a brother. He understands, even if he doesn't and he believes there's a reason that he doesn't. That holy fool continuing to thrive.

"'Then it was Smerdyakov? But why Smerdyakov, precisely? And precisely why did you become so utterly convinced of your brother's innocence?'
'I could not but believe my brother. I know he would not lie to me. I saw by his face that he was not lying to me.'
'Only by his face? That's all the proof you have?'
'I have no other proof.''" (Pg 677, Fortune Smiles on Mitya)

And then, the opposite word, which I mentioned as a theme last time.. doubt. There's such an incredible amount of doubt. Doubt that one will be rewarded, doubt that there is a world after this, doubt that he will be believed, doubt that the woman will love him, doubt that someone is innocent. It's a scale, and in the end, I think we're left still, in the middle. I feel like Dostoevsky is sharing a bit of existential dread/crisis with the reader. In Book 11: Chapter 9 Ivan is faced with the devil, who also hysterically looks like a middle aged dude who seems to be late on the newest fad (clothing wise.) They discuss faith, God, and belief. I can't help but relate this devil man to Fydor (daddy issues) and Ivan's brain fever/anxiety about the after life.

"'I'd be glad of it in a way, because my goal would then be achieved: if it comes to kicks, that means you must believe in my realism, because one doesn't kick a ghost. Joking aside: it's all the same to me, abuse me if you like, but still it would be better to be a bit more polite, even with me. Fool, you lackey— what sort of talk is that?... 'By abusing you, I'm abusing myself!' Ivan laughed again. 'You are me, myself, only with a different mug. You precisely saw what I already think...and you're not capable of telling me anything new!'" (pg 638)

Then, by the end we read:

"The knocking continued. Ivan wanted to rush to the window; but something seemed suddenly to bind his legs and arms. He was straining as hard as he could to break his bonds, but in vain. The knocking on the window grew stronger and louder. At last the bonds broke and Ivan Fyodorovich jumped up from the sofa. He looked around wildly. The two candles were almost burnt down, the glass she had just thrown at his visitor stood before him on the table, and there was no one on the opposite sofa. The knocking on the window continued insistently, but not at all as loudly as he had just imagined in his dream, on the contrary, it was quite restrained.
'That was no dream! No, I swear it was no dream, it all just happened!' Ivan Fydorovich cried, rushed to the window, and opened it." (Pg. 650)

Ivan battles this conversation of the mind and spirit out, most likely with himself, and in the end, he is convicted it was real.

Finally, that last chapter, the final end, we know that Mitya (sorry spoiler alert) is found guilty.  And I'm still pondering. He says in his last speech to the jury,

"'If you spare me, if you let me go — I will pray for you. I will become better, I give you my word, I give it before God. And if you condemn me— I will break the sword over my head myself, and kiss the broken pieces'." Another added bonus that Dostoevsky gives us right before is the way that Mitya appears at this point in the trial. "He seemed to have experienced something that day for the rest of his life, which had taught and brought home to him something very important." (Pg. 750)

It's almost like... what can become of a person who has allowed their beliefs to outweigh their doubts? Aloysha has an everlasting faith, and Ivan, has chosen to submit himself to the torment of faith. But here, in the end we see Mitya, although defeated, accept both in a very new way. Maybe that's that "something very important."

Or maybe these are just some simple words, but hey, it got to me for sure.

ix.

On Part III: Spree and great torment...

I've been thinking a lot lately about installment, how the way we read Dostoevsky's work is so drastically different from how it would have been read contemporarily in Dostoevsky's time... Or is it?
The Brothers Karamazov was published over almost two years in serialized installments. Now we have the full text at our immediate disposal, and we can feverishly tear right through it in a matter of weeks. How much, then, of the madness perceived in Dostoevsky, is really the madness of the reader, who foolishly, rapidly devours this text in a kind of spree, trying to grasp hold of what is too great to ever perceive in a lifetime maybe, and was firstly intended to be read over a much longer, measured duration of regular installments? But then, the only way to read even now, is in periodic installments. One cannot, of course, read The Brothers Karamazov in a single sitting; we must pick it up, put it down, and then resume again; and in our class discussions too, we can only hope to cover as much terrain of the sprawling scope of this story as we have limited time for. But then, when we do pick up The Brothers Karamazov, we are so often immediately installed into the world of the novel. The reader installs themself into the voice of the narrator, and in the life of the characters, who then install themselves in the reader, as voices, whether we want them to or not; in fact, sometimes I do begin to feel almost as though possessed by demons—and at other times, in the presence of something ethereal and sacred... it's those slanting rays of light that I remember most of all, and I try to hold onto that imagery as I read on into the depths of the novel.

I think I'm just trying to make sense of how profoundly jarring and dreadful I found the hard shift in the novel from Alyosha to Mitya, and why I strangely find myself missing Ivan's cool rationalism, which now seems it would be a welcome relief in contrast to Dimitri's boisterous, impulsive rage. Mitya is a hideously lost soul, like a Raskolnikov made even more pathetic and irredeemable. Perhaps that's what a few more years of reckless abandon does to a person. He is 28 (the age I'll be turning later this year lol) and only two years off from 30, when Ivan has set his deadline to "smash the cup," and yet already Mitya's become a total degenerate. Worst of all is that his suffering is such a grand comedy, and he is deeply aware of this, moreover embracing it, never abandoning his irreverent sense of humor even at his gloomiest moments. "'What terrible tragedies realism inflicts on people," (398) Mitya laments after he is unable to awake the drunken Lyagavy, realizing his life is nothing more than a stupid joke. But, it's precisely this sad and self-deprecating humor that still makes me want to believe him somehow innocent, just as Grushenka does, even after all the buffoonery and preponderance of evidence against him. "'Farewell, guiltless man, who have been your own ruin.'" (540) I want so badly to believe in a glimmer of hope, some shred of decency in this man, even after he has shown time and again absolutely no indication of it.

This part of the book was a difficult read for me, despite how outrageously comical it often was, from the blundered murder escapade, through to the post-haste revelry and witty interrogation. However, the light at the end of the tunnel was that devastatingly beautiful and haunting passage describing Mitya's dream at the end of "The Evidence of the Witness. The Wee One," and indeed my favorite moment of the novel thus far. I was struck also by this one word uttered by the driver, "burnt-out," used to describe the peasant woman and her crying baby.

"They're poor, burnt out, they've got no bread, they're begging for their burnt-down place." (537)

This word "burnt-out" vividly recalled again the ruddy face of the wanderer in Ivan Kramskoy's Contemplation. And then, there is also the modern meaning of the word burnt-out: exhaustion, which is very much how I feel concluding Part III.

"'I had a good dream, gentlemen,' he said somehow strangely, with a sort of new face, as if lit up with joy.'" (538)

It's astounding that Dostoevsky could make me feel such compassion for what is in all evidence an outright foul individual. Well, farewell then Mitya, for now...