Finished.

In only seven months!

Beauty!

Okay, so I am behind. I want to post something on Book 3 and get to Books 4 + 5 as soon as possible.

The following passage I found striking...it comes after Dmitri describes how the Karamazov's are insects--sensual, lustful insects. Even an angel like Alyosha, he says, has this insect living somewhere inside him, ready to stir up a tempest. This secret weakness in Alyosha has been mentioned enough times in these early chapters, I will be interested to see what comes of it. So far the problem of good and evil has been framed in terms of different characters in the story, Alyosha is good / Fyodor is evil, for example. I suspect that at some point that struggle will also take place in a single character's heart...likely Alyosha.

Anyway, the passage:

Beauty is a terrible and awful thing! It is terrible because it has not been fathomed and never can be fathomed, for God sets us nothing but riddles. Here the boundaries meet and all contradictions exist side by side. I am a cultivated man, brother, but I’ve thought a lot about this. It’s terrible what mysteries there are! Too many riddles weigh men down on earth. We must solve them as we can, and try to keep a dry skin in the water. Beauty! I can’t endure the thought that a man of lofty mind and heart begins with the ideal of the Madonna and ends with the ideal of Sodom. What’s still more awful is that a man with the ideal of Sodom in his soul does not renounce the ideal of the Madonna, and his heart may be on fire with that ideal, genuinely on fire, just as in his days of youth and innocence. Yes, man is broad, too broad, indeed. I’d have him narrower. The devil only knows what to make of it! What to the mind is shameful is beauty and nothing else to the heart. Is there beauty in Sodom? Believe me, that for the immense mass of mankind beauty is found in Sodom. Did you know that secret? The awful thing is that beauty is mysterious as well as terrible. God and the devil are fighting there and the battlefield is the heart of man.

We are inclined, in modern philosophy, to speak a great deal of truth, and of goodness. Dostoevsky brings into his story the ideal of beauty. What to make of this discussion of the beauty of Sodom, and the beauty of the Virgin? I don't know what to say about it. Anyway, I wish I had the time to really reflect on this passage...but at the very least I want to make note of it here and keep it in my mind as I continue reading...

Book V: The Grand Inquisitor

First semester of my sophomore year of college I took a class called, "Existentialism." At the time I thought it sounded interesting, and it was a decent class (taught by a grad student no less). One of our first readings was the Grand Inquisitor chapter. We had to write a paper on it, and at the time I had no idea what it was saying. Thus, one of the reasons I agreed to read Brothers K was to revisit this famous passage. A few thoughts:

This seems to be an assessment of the modern world, a post-Christian era in which modern science and technology are drastically changing life for man and his outlook on the world. I am not entirely sure what to make of Dostoevsky's choice of setting the scene during the Spanish Inquisition and having the cardinal make the case for the secular, sentimental, humanitarian ethos that has come to influence many important commentators and policymakers in our society. [Incidentally, in a book I just skimmed, In Search of the American Spirit: The Political Thought of Orestes Brownson, Gregory Bulter notes that the story of the inquisitor comes after Ivan rails against the injustice of human suffering. Butler argues that the scene shows Jesus, as defender of human freedom, to be the real lover of humanity--not the humanitarian who is just concerned with man's material needs. ] While I may be biased by my own adherence to the Catholic religion, I want to say that the Roman Church is not Dostoevsky's real enemy. Alyosha, following Ivan's story, says that while Jesuits and others may share the cardinal's views, these are not representative of all Catholics.

Nevertheless, I can still appreciate ways in which the Catholic Church, when it is misunderstood and at its worst, does not inspire in its flock the kind of freedom proclaimed in the gospel. At its worst, the faith for many people becomes a set of rules, which while seemingly absurd and not spiritually uplifting, guarantees one's eternal salvation--or at least following them will keep you out of Hell. So long as you get to mass every Sunday and don't eat meat on Friday, you've checked your boxes, done your duty, and you can go about your self-satisfied life, not having to fear eternal punishment, but at the same time, not having life to the full (John 10:10) and lacking the deep-seated joy that comes from a life spent loving God and neighbor in freedom. The Church underestimates the lay people, and there is a general sense that holiness and love of God are for priests and religious--aside from the collection, we can't ask too much of the rank-and-file in the pews. While this is clearly a caricature of the Catholic Church, I think that this kind of blase religion pertains to the situation that Dostoevsky wants us to recognize as a grave danger for modern man.

In this same vein, this chapter made me think of Nietzsche's "last man," "the most despicable man, who can no longer despise himself." See Prologue #5 of Thus Spake Zarathustra. Of the last man, Nietzsche writes, among other arresting things:

Lo! I show you the last man. “What is love? What is creation? What is longing? What is a star?”- so asketh the last man and blinketh. The earth hath then become small, and on it there hoppeth the last man who maketh everything small. His species is ineradicable like that of the ground-flea; the last man liveth longest. “We have discovered happiness”- say the last men, and blink thereby…One still worketh, for work is a pastime. But one is careful lest the pastime should hurt one. One no longer becometh poor or rich; both are too burdensome. Who still wanteth to rule? Who still wanteth to obey? Both are too burdensome. No shepherd, and one herd! Everyone wanteth the same; everyone is equal: he who hath other sentiments goeth voluntarily into the madhouse…They have their little pleasures for the day, and their little pleasures for the night, but they have a regard for health. “We have discovered happiness,”- say the last men, and blink thereby.

I think that like Nietzsche, Dostoevsky finds that the prospect (or arrival--not sure which) of the last man, or something like it, is a real cause for concern. It is interesting that just as the last men claim to have discovered happiness, the cardinal tells Christ, "for the first time it has become possible to think of the happiness of men" (244). Also, just as the last man does not live freely, but in a herd, the cardinal's "faithful" have renounced their freedom in exchange for a mindless, unreflective sense of security--though living a subhuman life, they "think themselves happy" (254).

But the flock will come together again and will submit once more, and then it will be once and for all. Then we shall give them the quiet humble happiness of weak creatures such as they are by nature...We shall show them that they are weak, that they are only pitiful children, but that childlike happiness is the sweetest of all. They will become timid and will look to us and huddle close to us in fear, as chicks to the hen...Yes, we shall set them to work, but in their leisure hours we shall make their life like a child's game, with children's songs and innocent dance. Oh, we shall allow them even sin, they are weak and helpless, and they will love us like children because we allow them to sin...And they will be glad to believe our answer, for it will save them from the great fear and terrible agony they endure at present in making a free decision for themselves (252).

Real freedom, the freedom that only Christ can give, is freedom to do what is good. It is liberation from egotistical self-love and the ability to love God and love others. By having this freedom we are fully human, yet this freedom does have a demanding side to it. As the cardinal explains it, "Instead of taking men's freedom from them, Thou didst make it greater thane ever! Didst though forget that man prefers peace, and even death, to freedom of choice in the knowledge of good and evil?" (247). Before Jesus came, the Jews lived according to a meticulous code of law. Jesus did not come to abolish the law, but to fulfill it, and he claimed to give a new commandment: love one another, as I have loved you, so you must love one another (John 13:34). Jesus did not give a set of detailed instructions on how to live life: what percentage of income to give to charity, for example. But in fact, having specific rules is, in a certain sense, easier and less demanding than the command to simply love. Rules set bounds to how much we need to prefer others above ourselves. "Love one another as I have loved you" means to love without limit.

Perhaps this sheds some light on Father Zossima's exhortation for individuals to embrace responsibility for the sins of the entire world. While I still do not understand what this is really supposed to involve, the sentiment could be said to express a desire to fulfill Christ's command. Taking responsibility for the sins of the whole world, like Christ did, is to love without limit.

What makes me want to read further is to see how Dostoevsky develops and portrays the alternative ways to live in response to the situation articulated by the cardinal--the modern world, in which a great many live satisfied, unreflective lives. Along with Nietzsche's depiction of the last man, think of Tocqueville's account of the "mild" administrative despotism that democracies have to fear, despotism that "enervates their souls," in which people lose "little by little the faculty of thinking, feeling, and acting by themselves," and "gradually [fall] below the level of humanity." Such men are content to live out their days in security as members of the herd. I think that Dostoevsky would find these people living less-than-human lives.

Zossima (and maybe Alyosha) represents the Eastern Orthodox (or Christian) response. This is a complete, radical abandonment to live according to the ancient faith. It means, first of all, believing in God--even in the face of what we might learn from the modern sciences. Interestingly enough, in chapter 2, Zossima says that the faith cannot be proved, but one can be convinced of it by the experience of active love. "In so far as you advance in love you will grow surer of the reality of God and of the immortality of your soul. If you attain perfect self-forgetfulness in the love of your neighbor, then you will believe without doubt" (64). On the one hand, this is not a satisfying answer to those who want certainty about what they base their lives upon. But at the same time, it is doubtful that we can have certainty about any ideology that claims to present the best way to live (even if it is the relativistic claim that no ways of living are higher than others). Perhaps this is why Dostoevsky is grouped with existentialists, in that he claims to recognize the need to make a "leap of faith," a radical, existential choice of a particular way of life.

The other alternative, which I am eager to see how it plays out, seems the least developed, and is the one represented by Ivan, and if I'm right, the cardinal as well. Ivan claims to recognize that Christianity is untrue. However, even if he takes responsibility for the security of humanity, it is impossible for him to join the ranks of last men--he is too reflective, and has inquired too deeply into the human condition. The cardinal says that knowing the secret, he and those who serve the humanitarian program of keeping humanity satisfied will be "unhappy" (252). Ivan does tell Alyosha that he has a "thirst for life," and that he is willing to drink the cup (which I gather is an illusion to the "challice" of suffering that Christ agreed to drink in Gethsemane) of life until he is 30 (223). I would be very interested in what everyone thinks of Ivan's plan of life, since I don't understand it. He seems to suggest that in his youth (I believe he is 23), he plans to have the energy and enthusiasm to live vigorously doing a number of human pursuits--love, business, learning, etc. But once youth ends, I do not know how Ivan suggests how one ought to live with the knowledge that there is no God and immortality.

I am not sure whether to consider Dmitri or Fydor a real alternative to modern life. While they are not last men, they are not as reflective as Ivan/cardinal or Zossima. The way these two men follow their passions so impulsively does not seem a plausible option for people who lead reflective lives.

Fun with Church and State, Part II

The heart of Ivan’s view is expressed here:

The Christian Church entering into the State could, of course, surrender no part of its fundamental principles -- the rock on which it stands -- and could pursue no other aims than those which have been ordained and revealed by God Himself, and among them that of drawing the whole world, and therefore the ancient pagan State itself, into the Church. In that way (that is, with a view to the future) it is not the Church that should seek a definite position in the State, like 'every social organization,' or as 'an organization of men for religious purposes' (as my opponent calls the Church), but, on the contrary, every earthly State should be, in the end, completely transformed into the Church and should become nothing else but a Church, rejecting every purpose incongruous with the aims of the Church. All this will not degrade it in any way or take from its honour and glory as a great State, nor from the glory of its rulers, but only turns it from a false, still pagan, and mistaken path to the true and rightful path, which alone leads to the eternal goal.

There is a theological argument here that is pretty much inconceivable for most Americans insofar as we take the First Amendment as a “first principle” of any political philosophy or theology. Whether or not the First Amendment can be reconciled with Christian anthropology (and, of course, of Christianity is true, then anthropology tout court), we—or, at least, I—feel as though to doubt it is to challenge the entire regime, thus making myself a traitor to my nation.

But anyway, trying to leave such irrational fears aside, a Christian cannot blindly accept a political document with a suspect theological foundation. Ivan’s political theology, I think, should be a live intellectual option. At the foundation of his view is the universal vocation of the Church to bring the whole world into the order of redemption. This is called the “cosmic scope of salvation”. Again, I am building here on the anthropology I expressed in my first post. God created the physical universe—with human beings at the pinnacle of the material world—with the intention that the world would be in communion with Him. When the head of the material world—man—fell, sin seeped into every crevice and corner of the Creation. Jesus Christ, by uniting in himself the Created and the Divine, opened not only the way for man’s redemption, but the redemption of the whole cosmic order. All things are to be healed and elevated in Christ, not excluding those natural social structures that promote the common good.

Now, when Ivan speaks of the State entering the Church, what does he mean by “the Church”? I would guess that he is speaking broadly: the order of grace. The natural social structure that we call the state—like all things human—is meant to be healed and elevated through communion with Christ. It is not set off from the cosmic scope of Christ’s work, to be left in a ‘secular’ realm, because no such realm exists in salvation history.

In The Brothers Karamazov, Miüsov complains that this position is unacceptable because it simply erases the state and puts the Church in its place. Fr. Païssy tries to clarify that, according to Ivan’s view, the Church does not become the state. That would be to pull the Church down. Instead, the State is to be elevated to its true end within the Church. As I mentioned before, what is really at stake here (in the Western discussion, at least; the East has avoided some of this) is the relationship between nature and grace. According to many 20th Century theologians (in continuity, they say, with the Great Tradition) human nature has a supernatural end. In other words, human beings—as spiritual beings—have an end that exceeds itself. This end, our natural end, is Communion with God, which we can only enjoy by grace. Is it possible that the State—a social structure which is entailed in human nature—is also ordered toward grace, and thus unfulfilled until it is brought into the Church?

There are so many critiques to be made, and I have not even scratched the surface of an adequate defense of this view here…but it is extremely interesting…and I really wonder what role (if any) it will play in the rest of the book. Even if these political theological questions are isolated to this chapter, it is worth asking whether Ivan could mount a helpful critique of the “separation of church and state”…or are we incapable of even conceiving as plausible other understandings of the relationship between the two?

Self-Deception, Above All

To Dan’s helpful and ever-growing list of recurring themes I would like to add one more: self-deception. It is important enough that Father Zossima stresses—on two occasions—that it must be avoided “above all” else. First, in “The Old Buffoon,” Book II, Ch. II, the elder advises Fyodor Pavlovitch:

“You have known for a long time what you must do. You have sense enough: don’t give way to drunkenness and incontinence of speech; don’t give way to sensual lust; and, above all, to the love of money. … And, above all—don’t lie.”

[…]

“…Above all, don’t lie to yourself. The man who lies to himself and listens to his own lie comes to such a pass that he cannot distinguish the truth within him, or around him, and so loses all respect for himself and for others. And having no respect he ceases to love…” (48)

Later, in “A Lady of Little Faith,” Book II, Ch. IV, Zossima emphasizes the same to Madame Hohlakov:

“Above all, avoid falsehood, every kind of falsehood, especially to yourself. Watch over your deceitfulness and look into it every hour, every minute.” (63)

We have been told that Fyodor Pavlovitch often “plays a part.” Now Zossima's words seem prophetic when the patriarch rails against the monastery during “The Unfortunate Gathering,” Book II, Ch. VIII:

But he was so carried away by his simulated emotion, that he was for one moment almost believing it himself. He was so touched he was almost weeping. (101)

Father Zossima says that shame is the "root of it all" (that is, Fyodor's buffoonery). But there are many ways from one's shame, and not all lead to embarrassing, public antics. That's just one branch. Withdrawal and hypocrisy and suicide and wearing fig leaves are others. (Apparently we're growing a metaphorical tree.) How does Fyodor Pavlovitch arrive at buffoonery? A person who is ashamed and recognizes his vice might normally try to conceal it from others. But if he rejects his true self, denies his shame, then he will begin to believe anything, and he will lose control of his thoughts and actions. Of course, Fyodor Pavlovitch is quite aware of his own ridiculous behavior, and perhaps even his self-deceit, which only makes him more complex.

Roots: what a deceptively simple metaphor! Like roots, shame is often invisible—but when you see a trunk you have a pretty good idea what's below. The thing about roots is that the longer you wait, the more difficult they are to unearth. And according to Zossima's worldview, shame has been around since the time of Eden. How does he expect anyone, much less an old man like Fyodor Pavlovitch, to dig up what's buried so deep?

Book IV: Pride

What struck me about this book were the various portrayals of pride and humility. The title "Lacerations" has to do with this, especially in a religious context. While there has been but one reference to literal self-imposed lacerations--Gregory took an interest in the flagellants--part of being a monk does involve many different forms of laceration, or mortification--be it fasting, having uncomfortable furniture, uncomfortable clothing, etc. This sort of self-imposed asceticism can involve both pride and humility (humility in that these practices help one overcome his own ego and being self-centered and thus make one free to love and serve others, and pride in that one can take both a healthy pride in conquering oneself, as well as a bad pride in seeing how tough one can be). It is interesting to see pride and humility play out in this book.

The book begins with Zossima exhorting the monks to feel a sense of responsibility for the sins of the whole world, "and only then can the aim of our seclusion be attained." He tells them, "Be not proud" (164). There is a belief in Catholic and (and I think) Orthodox Christianity--which I do not really understand--that Christians are to do penance and make reparation not only for their own sins, but also for those of the world.

Contrast this with what Ivan perceives of Katerina, who is mortifying (lacerating) herself, seemingly for Dmitri, but this self-abnegation really arises from her own pride (187-90). If Ivan is correct, her attitude may originate in an effort to inflate her own sense of self-worth. Likewise, towards the end of the book, the captain continues to endure the lacerations of his unfortunate circumstances and refuses charity out of his own pride.

Incidentally, following my last post, I thought it was interesting that Fr. Paissy warns Alyosha about the "temptations of the world [that] are great and beyond your strength to endure" (171). I look forward to seeing if Alyosha has to combat the sensuality of his Karamozov heritage. Also, I'd like to see how Paissy's comment about nonbelievers still following the Christian ideal plays out.

The Narrator: A Response

Note: This began as a comment to Joe’s post from 6/21, but it grew too lengthy. I’ve subdivided it further with the acknowledgment that no one likes to read a long, unbroken block of text on a computer screen.

The Narrator as Character

I’ve finished Book II, and the Narrator is still a complete mystery to me. I haven't seen any evidence, as Rick suggests, that the Narrator is a monk who lives at the monastery; in fact, we still don’t know the most basic questions: (1) who the Narrator is; and (2) what the Narrator’s relationship is to the characters (has he interacted with them, does he know them personally, etc.). All we know is that the Narrator lived in their (unnamed) town while the events of the story took place.

In Book II, Chapter III, the Narrator finally refers to an episode of his own life, recalling the “possessed” women he witnessed during his childhood (p.52 in the Modern Library College Edition). But I can’t gleam any factual information about his character from this memory.

If the Narrator is a character, he is woefully undeveloped at this point.

The Question of Reliability

But if the Narrator’s voice is not that of the author, a distinction we must preserve, then what purpose does this character serve? The unreliable narrator is a rather modern convention. I don't know what Dostoevsky has to gain by having the reader doubt his narrator’s credibility. Why not use the omniscient third person, and avoid any questioning on the reader’s part? Perhaps Dostoevsky wishes to remove the reader’s sense of distance from the fictional world, which a third-person or anonymous narration often creates.

I do not recall specific examples of the Narrator saying he does not know whether his facts are correct. But there are several instances where he states the source of his facts, and many more times when the Narrator provides no evidence to support things he couldn’t possibly know. As an example of the former, concerning the will of the general’s widow (who raised the two youngest brothers), the Narrator admits, “I have not read the will myself, but I heard…” (Book I, Ch. III, p.12). See also “The Scandalous Scene,” Book II, Ch. VIII, p.97 (“Rakitin related afterwards…”; “Rakitin found out about all these good things…”). For examples of the latter, simply look to any of the interior monologues. See, e.g., “A Young Man Bent on a Career,” Book II, Ch. VII, p.88 (“Alyosha believed that implicitly. But how could he be left without him? How could he live without seeing and hearing him? Where should he go? He had told him not to weep, and to leave the monastery. Good God! It was long since Alyosha had known such anguish.”)

Are we to suspend our disbelief in the Narrator’s omniscient power, or take such passages as mere guesswork?

An Unnecessary Distraction

Or is there an inconsistency in the narrative voice? In the above quote from “A Young Man Bent on a Career,” you could argue that the interior monologue is in fact the narrator’s voice, an account of Alyosha’s probable thoughts. But “Good God!” can only be Alyosha’s thought itself. Also, in “The Scandalous Scene,” we seem to be in Fyodor’s mind just before he “play[s] his last prank,” with statements such as “he really had meant to go home,” and “he remembered his own word’s at the elder’s” (p.98)—thoughts the Narrator could not possibly be privy to. But in this same passage, we get: “Not that he was so very much ashamed of himself—quite the contrary perhaps.” Perhaps? Is this more conjecture? Are we only getting a partial glimpse into each character’s mind?

Quite simply, if we start analyzing passages for inconsistencies in the narrator’s point-of-view (which is anyway rather nebulous), we will never get through the book, much less enjoy it. And fiction is meant for enjoyment, above all. (Note that the verb ‘enjoy’ has two meanings: to take pleasure in something and to benefit from or make use of it.) I don’t wish to imply that I’ve been struggling with the narrative voice at every page. It’s been at the back of my mind, but I’ve blissfully ignored it and have really enjoyed the story so far.

An Individual Perspective?

Until more details emerge (although I’m beginning to think they may never), I am almost willing to treat the Narrator as a sort of communal “voice of the town,” despite the use of first-person singular. You may have noticed that the Narrator always refers to the monastery as “our monastery.” To me, this does not evince that he is a member of the monastery, but that his narrative is a collective memory. Indeed, from the very opening lines of the story, the Narrator speaks in plural number: Fyodor was “well known in our district,” “still remembered among us,” and a “‘landowner’—for so we used to call him.”

This doesn’t solve the problem of the Narrator’s near omniscience, but I’m willing to accept everything he says as the truth, or as close to the truth as memory can get.