The Brothers Karamazov

After much thought and examination, I proclaim: the greatest novel ever written is The Brother’s Karamazov.

Now, a few caveats: with this statement I do not mean that it is the greatest work of literature, for I would state that Hamlet is the greatest play and The Odyssey the greatest epic, while The Brothers Karamazov rests solidly as the greatest novel; but don’t ask me about poetry; I have not read enough poetry, nor do I understand poetry well-enough to attempt an answer as to its apex; next, while I would describe myself as well-read, I have, in truth, read very very little, and I can only state that The Brothers Karamazov is the greatest of the novels I have actually read (how can one measure anything against the unknown?), and among these unread books are a goodly number which are often classified among the greatest, including War and Peace, Middlemarch, and Don Quixote; finally every such classification is arbitrary and therefore nothing more than a curiosity in a sleepy museum in a town no one has ever heard of. That being stated I will reiterate: The Brothers Karamazov is the greatest book ever written.
After such a proclamation I suppose I should explain why I believe The Brothers Karamazov rises above all rivals. But here is the difficulty: a work of art as complex and beautiful (and I use both words to their fullest meaning) as The Brothers Karamazov cannot be properly described, words and analysis fails: making the following paragraphs rather useless. Such a book calls to be experienced; then whispers may be made of it between conspirators. Still, having read it now twice, I will try and whisper a bit about it before signing off.

In The Brothers Karamazov Dostoevsky continuously addresses life’s most pressing and prevalent questions. What is love? Does God exist?—and if so or if not what are the ramifications? What is goodness? How shall we view suffering? What is to be made of joy? In whom can we place our trust? Are we weighed down with sin or an imprint of divinity? Finally, in what should the individual seek meaning: romantic love, family, faith, or relenting despair? In other—and less—words: the novel addresses both the personal and metaphysical state of being human. Dostoevsky presents these questions, his characters wrestle with them, but answers will not be found. Dostoevsky possessed too much wisdom to put much stock in answers; rather he illuminates how the press of these unknowns makes life burdensomely beautiful.

The Brothers Karamazov is both comedy and tragedy; suffused with drama and passion, it is a book that does not deserve classification. The book is full of Pandora’s box: violence, sickness, despair, hateful love, pride, rape, and murder. Yet, ultimately the The Brothers Karamazov celebrates life, but without denying all its misery, pettiness, and mendacity. The accomplishment is all the more important in that the book denies not one moment of human kind’s misery, pettiness, and mendacity, its closed-minded squalor.

Dostoevsky is a realist. We are what we are, and the world continues to spin. Within our acts and souls there is goodness and there is evil, contrary to our President’s bombast no human can escape either quality entirely. Murderers are as human as saints, and vice versa. In The Brothers Karamazov’s seeming perfection (if it were ‘perfect’ it would not be nearly so potent) as a work of art and a passionate depiction of the state of being human is a book that both affirms our existence and tests every moment of it. In this duality lies the power and hope of The Brothers Karamazov.

Still, these words are but words. While it may be impossible to state why The Brothers Karamazov is the greatest of novels, perhaps I can make a bit of a case for why it matters. So much of our lives as twenty-first century Americans is spent on being entertained by some outside force, and very little of the entertainment addresses any of the issues that The Brothers Karamazov presents on ever page—questions so integral to being human. As a culture we seem to collectively shun such questions; some glibly believe the easiest answer, while others just don’t care. Americas despise doubt, and worship certainty, even preferring apathy or dogmatism to uncertainty. We are the culture that does whatever it wants without thinking about consequences or responsibility. As our illuminating president—and I use that adjective without sarcasm—stated regarding global warming: “the American way of life is not up for negotiation”.

Yet what have we created with this brutal optimism, this innocent destruction? An age of superficiality, more concerned with gossip than any pursuit of truth. Our celebrities are not those who labor under questions: writers, artists, scientists, or holy men, instead we worship mediocre actors and starving models; we love the heiresses and the talking heads. We raise high the businessman, and ignore the philosophers. Is it any wonder that we believe that the possession of material stuff is far superior to the possession of thought or imagination? We don’t want geniuses and great thinkers; we want loveless sex, pointless violence, easy religion, and lots of commercials. And we have pressed our entertainment-oriented and material-obsessed society to nearly every corner of this globe. But there are those that rebel against this single-minded materialism, this love of superficiality. Dostoesky—and others like him—still lay on many bookshelves and that means something, doesn’t it? It must. A book such as this, a work so full of life, can never prove infertile.

That is why this matters. So, reaching an end of sorts, I must admit that it’s probably impossible to state anything truly illuminating regarding a work as full as Dostoevsky’s The Brother’s Karamazov in 200 words, but then again it may be just as impossible in 200 pages. With this then let my paean to The Brothers Karamazov conclude: it is a book that everyone should read at least once in their life. Maybe twice.

I bought this translation--long sought--at a little used bookstore in the Village in New York City. Miss that store. Oh and in the process of reading the back cover tore off: well-loved.


The Brothers Karamazov

By: Fyodor Dostoevsky

Translated by: Richard Pevear and Larissa Volokhonsky

Vintage Classics, 1991

Paperback, 796 pages

0679729259