I do not think I feel sorry for anyone in this book as much as I do for the family of Second Grade Captain Snegiryov. Not only do these people live in a tiny one-room shack and lack the money to pay for proper medical treatment (258-59, 275), but the father and son are publicly humiliated by Dmitry Fyodorovich and are thus forced to relive the torment at the hands of local schoolchildren (267, 269). Having suffered at the hands of a man who enjoys the patronage of a rich father (Ilyusha has no way of knowing about Dmitry and Fyodor's inheritance dispute) it should come as no surprise that Ilyusha should say that "rich people are the strongest people in the world" (271).
Is Ilyusha correct? He has seen firsthand how having money can give someone the luxury of harming people with impunity; but can that be called strength? Personally I would say that the family of this second grade captain has shown more strength in one week than Dmitry Fyodorovich Karamazov has shown in his entire life. If Snegiryov is to be believed, his son was willing to risk making a fool of himself in front of his friends by coming to his father's defense: "On his father's account, and on the account of truth, sir, of justice, sir." His father, likewise, has demonstrated incredible strength by standing by his family to take care of them when it would have been easy from the perspective of a desperate man to challenge his oppressor to a duel and die honorably. This family endures what it has out of love for one another, and from that love, they obtain a strength that Dmitry with his going-from-one-woman-to-the-next does not possess.
Money may make a man powerful. But actual STRENGTH comes from something more.
Friday, February 24, 2012
Friday, February 17, 2012
Is Smerdyakov's point valid?
You remember Stinky, the kid from "Hey Arnold!"? I used to think what person - even a cartoon character - would name their child Stinky? But what was great about the HA episodes centered around Stinky was that even the odd-man-out can do something extraordinary, like when Stinky turned down a $1 million TV deal on principle or when he won that prized pumpkin competition. The thing about guys with unusual names is that they tend to be underestimated.
Dostoevsky has his own Stinky, a cook named Smerdyakov who owes his surname to his mother's sobriquet, "the reeking one". Although Smerdyakov comes from humble (and mysterious) origins and showed no aptitude for long, drawn-out books like Smaragdov's General History, he seems to possess a natural wit and attention to detail. This was evidenced in his childhood when he learned the story of Creation and asked the logical question, Where did the light on the first day come from if God created the sun, moon and stars on the fourth day? (page 166) The violent reaction he received for this question should make it unsurprising that Smerdyakov does not venture into the theological realm until his twenties. But the cleverness with which he responds to his second theological disputation would make one believe that he were a professional seminarian.
Smerdyakov makes the argument on pages 171-76 that a Christian who renounced his faith on pain of torture would have committed no sin. His justification for believing so:
1. The Christian would have had the intention of denying his religion before answering, and therefore been excommunicated before verbally denying. Hence, when he subsequently announced "I am no Christian", he would have told the truth for which God can issue no punishment.
2. If the Christian had faith "the size of a mustard seed" (Matthew 17:20) he would have been able to command a mountain to crush his tormentors, and when he proved unable to perform such a miracle he would know that he had no faith at all to renounce, and thus be guilty of no sin.
While Smerdyakov's argument is clever, it would not convince the most devout Christian - or for that matter the most skilled logician. Smerdyakov would make a great debater, but his style is more akin to the Sophists who made "the weaker argument the stronger" than a serious Socratic. His first point is invalid because, although he would not be punished for lying with his mouth, he would have rejected God in his heart, a sin surely worthy of Hell. And as for the second point, does any Christian seriously believe that Jesus' remark about moving mountains can be interpreted literally? Even the most literal translation of scripture would allow that this phrase was a metaphor for overcoming seemingly impossible challenges, not the physical transference of geological formations.
Smerdyakov would be a first rate stand-up comic, but in our class he's just a stinker!
Dostoevsky has his own Stinky, a cook named Smerdyakov who owes his surname to his mother's sobriquet, "the reeking one". Although Smerdyakov comes from humble (and mysterious) origins and showed no aptitude for long, drawn-out books like Smaragdov's General History, he seems to possess a natural wit and attention to detail. This was evidenced in his childhood when he learned the story of Creation and asked the logical question, Where did the light on the first day come from if God created the sun, moon and stars on the fourth day? (page 166) The violent reaction he received for this question should make it unsurprising that Smerdyakov does not venture into the theological realm until his twenties. But the cleverness with which he responds to his second theological disputation would make one believe that he were a professional seminarian.
Smerdyakov makes the argument on pages 171-76 that a Christian who renounced his faith on pain of torture would have committed no sin. His justification for believing so:
1. The Christian would have had the intention of denying his religion before answering, and therefore been excommunicated before verbally denying. Hence, when he subsequently announced "I am no Christian", he would have told the truth for which God can issue no punishment.
2. If the Christian had faith "the size of a mustard seed" (Matthew 17:20) he would have been able to command a mountain to crush his tormentors, and when he proved unable to perform such a miracle he would know that he had no faith at all to renounce, and thus be guilty of no sin.
While Smerdyakov's argument is clever, it would not convince the most devout Christian - or for that matter the most skilled logician. Smerdyakov would make a great debater, but his style is more akin to the Sophists who made "the weaker argument the stronger" than a serious Socratic. His first point is invalid because, although he would not be punished for lying with his mouth, he would have rejected God in his heart, a sin surely worthy of Hell. And as for the second point, does any Christian seriously believe that Jesus' remark about moving mountains can be interpreted literally? Even the most literal translation of scripture would allow that this phrase was a metaphor for overcoming seemingly impossible challenges, not the physical transference of geological formations.
Smerdyakov would be a first rate stand-up comic, but in our class he's just a stinker!
Friday, February 10, 2012
Up to his old tricks...
Who could forget Fyodor Pavlovich's "final fling" beginning on page 116? I was amazed that any adult, even one so irresponsible and libertine as the Karamazov patriarch, could behave so immaturely for the sole reason of being immature. But despite its flippant implications, Fyodor Pavlovich's behavior raises interesting philosophical questions about the cynical dimension of human nature. I was intrigued by the his comment about the manner in which those who hurt others view their victims: "...while it's true he has done me no harm, I once played a most unscrupulous trick on him, and no sooner had I played it than at once I began to hate him." (116)
What is most surprising is that the hatred which a man like Fyodor Pavlovich feels for those he harms does not precede the harmful act; rather the hatred is a result of the act itself. This raises 2 important questions: 1) why does playing a trick on a person cause him to feel hatred for that person? and 2) what compelled him to play the trick in the first place if not hatred?
It may be that playing a trick on someone would make Fyodor Pavlovich feel superior to that person. Having fooled him, he would be convinced that his mental powers (or more appropriately, his wit) provides him with an advantage over that person, thus allowing him to believe that he has an ability or moral right which separates him from his victim. If Fyodor Pavlovich is able to say or do something which humiliates another man, then he has power - at least in his own eyes - to prevent someone else from feeling completely safe. When comparing himself to someone he has tricked, he would view them as an inferior being, an insect, and he would hate him for being his inferior. But a man may also hate his inferior out of fear that the inferior will rise against him out of envy.
This leads me to the second question, Why did he trick the person in the first place? The simplest answer may be that he felt himself to be the other man's inferior prior to performing the trick. We cannot assume that he tricked the person out of hatred, because he has already stipulated that hatred follows, rather than precedes, the action. An emotion which is related to but not coequal with hatred is fear. Yes, that's it, Fyodor Pavlovich FEARS those he seeks to trick. The trick itself can be viewed as a type of usurpation, of overthrowing the person he fears from his pedestal and then inserting himself in the empty space.
After having insulted the dinner party, Fyodor Pavolovich is determined to follow Pyotr Aleksandrovich Miusov wherever the latter goes (118). This demonstrates that he now feels that he has power over Miusov, that he is able deny him privacy and the freedom to go anywhere unmolested. But did he fear Miusov prior to this incident? What do you think his feelings toward Miusov were before he burst into the Father Superior's dining hall?
What is most surprising is that the hatred which a man like Fyodor Pavlovich feels for those he harms does not precede the harmful act; rather the hatred is a result of the act itself. This raises 2 important questions: 1) why does playing a trick on a person cause him to feel hatred for that person? and 2) what compelled him to play the trick in the first place if not hatred?
It may be that playing a trick on someone would make Fyodor Pavlovich feel superior to that person. Having fooled him, he would be convinced that his mental powers (or more appropriately, his wit) provides him with an advantage over that person, thus allowing him to believe that he has an ability or moral right which separates him from his victim. If Fyodor Pavlovich is able to say or do something which humiliates another man, then he has power - at least in his own eyes - to prevent someone else from feeling completely safe. When comparing himself to someone he has tricked, he would view them as an inferior being, an insect, and he would hate him for being his inferior. But a man may also hate his inferior out of fear that the inferior will rise against him out of envy.
This leads me to the second question, Why did he trick the person in the first place? The simplest answer may be that he felt himself to be the other man's inferior prior to performing the trick. We cannot assume that he tricked the person out of hatred, because he has already stipulated that hatred follows, rather than precedes, the action. An emotion which is related to but not coequal with hatred is fear. Yes, that's it, Fyodor Pavlovich FEARS those he seeks to trick. The trick itself can be viewed as a type of usurpation, of overthrowing the person he fears from his pedestal and then inserting himself in the empty space.
After having insulted the dinner party, Fyodor Pavolovich is determined to follow Pyotr Aleksandrovich Miusov wherever the latter goes (118). This demonstrates that he now feels that he has power over Miusov, that he is able deny him privacy and the freedom to go anywhere unmolested. But did he fear Miusov prior to this incident? What do you think his feelings toward Miusov were before he burst into the Father Superior's dining hall?
Thursday, February 2, 2012
Chapter 5, The Elders
In Ch5 of "Brothers", readers receive an education pertaining to the elders of the Russian Orthodox Church. The elders are mystical figures who seem to wield extraordinary authority over the lives of devout believers. I am wondering what role Elder Zosima fulfills in relation to Alexsey/Alyosha's journey throughout this book, as well as the boy's life. It may be that this cleric is both a parental substitute both for the absence of Fyodor Pavlovich and the fulfillment of the religious effluence which Alexsey associates with memories of his mother. The latter possibility is hinted at by Dostoevsky: "Or again, it may have been the effect of the oblique rays of the setting sun before the icon towards which his 'wailer' mother had stretched him forth." The potential juxtaposition of Alexsey's mother with Elder Zosima is further evidenced by the spiritual connection which a novice is expected to forge with an elder, a connection which is almost maternal. "An Elder is someone who takes your soul and your will into his soul and his will." This taking in by the elder of one's entire identity and being can be called embryonic, thus heightening the maternal analogy. By bonding with his elder, a novice becomes reborn after being incubated under the care of a formative guide.
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