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.

Book III and reading pace

Again, a few scattered comments.

First, what do people think about the pace? Doing a book a week means we won't be done until September. I would say, let's do a part a week, but that might be too ambitious--though I'm not sure a better way to break it down. What do people think?

As for book III, just a few observations:

Ivan, while professing himself an unbeliever, again indicates how religion is beneficial--a noble lie perhaps. "There would have been no civilization if they hadn't invented God" (137).

What did people make of the title, "The Sensualists"? I would apply this label to Fyodor and Dmitri (and maybe Ivan too, but he does not express the same excessive passion as the others), but what about Alyosha? It is interesting that in book II, Rakitin tells Alyosha, "you're a thorough Karamozov--birth and heredity have shaped you. You're a sensualist from your father, a crazy saint from your mother" (86). Now that Zossima wants him to leave the monastery, I wonder if the Karamozov side will come out in any way. To begin with, Alyosha and his father are extreme characters...a saint on the one hand and a dirty old man on the other. I wonder if it's possible to find any common element between the extreme sensuality and piety the characters exhibit.

Of the characters we've met thus far, I am actually most impressed with Gregory. I admire his loyalty to the family, care for his wife, and how he lives a deep piety, especially in his willingness to take care of children not his own (though he had not wanted to baptize his baby). Though Alyosha is set up as the saint, he is so young (and so much story to go), that I still haven't made up my mind about him.

Fun with Church and State

I remain fascinated by Fyodor, and especially Father Zossima’s comment to him: “above all, do not be so ashamed of yourself, for that is at the root of it all.” What is this phenomenon, shame? Where does it come from, and why does it cause us to act so embarrassingly? I’d like to think about this more. But not today.

Also worth brief comment: Father Zossima’s response to the woman who has lost her faith. He says she cannot prove the faith, but she can be convinced of it “By the experience of active love.” He continues, “Strive to love your neighbor actively and indefatigably. In as far as you advance in love you will grow surer of the reality of God and of the immortality of your soul.” When I struggle with my own faith, it most often causes me to collapse deeper and deeper into myself, which makes me nearly incapable love. When incapable of love—self-giving love—I cannot be in relationship with the God of Love, thus making faith impossible. I should remember Father Zossima’s advice. If my faith is shaken, I should push forward in active love.

What I wanted to consider, however, is the political theology discussion in chapter five. I read this whole discussion in the context of the relationship between nature and grace. The Church, it is clear, is part of the realm of grace; in other words, it is a supernatural body made alive by the very infusion of the Holy Spirit, who is the divine soul of the Church.

The state, on the other hand, seems to be in the realm of “nature”. The question is, what is “nature”? Is it a secular realm that is divided from God and God’s purpose for human beings? Does it have its own a-theistic ends that are wholly unaware of man’s supernatural end (which, I argued last time, is deification)? How—if at all—is nature related to grace? These are the questions that have overwhelmed Catholic theologians over the last century. (Incidentally, as an aside, the right answers to these questions undermine the new natural law theory).

How we answer this nature / grace question makes all the difference in how we construe the relationship between church and state. Those who understand nature to have its own integrity which is entirely independent of grace—as if the two exist in separate spheres—will feel much more comfortable with a robust separation of church and state. Those who see nature as coterminous with sin (“fallen nature”) and grace as replacing nature will look for the Church to replace the inevitably sinful state.

I am interested in Ivan’s view for what it says about nature and grace.

To be continued…

The D-Man Cometh

I've been itching to read everyone's posts—but first, my own for Book I. Sorry for the delays. I thought of writing about the mysterious narrator till I saw Joe had titled his post "The Narrator." Let me just say here that this use of first person is a very strange choice, considering we (so far) know almost nothing about him. Hopefully the reason will become clear soon. Anyway this didn't trouble me too much; the characters are far too interesting!

Dostoevsky must have been teasing when he wrote, "one is not bound by anything—the book can be abandoned at the second page of the first tale, never to be opened again"—he knows well enough how good he is! Drop an atheist, a monk-in-training, a soldier, and their wicked father into the same room and see if anyone can resist turning to Book II. Who knows how these minds will clash?

Say, isn't this a bit like our blog here? Of course, I'm the godless Ivan; Rick, the saintly Alyosha; JRock, the extraordinary and wondrous Zossima; and Greg, I suppose, is the unnamed lady who threw herself into the river "like Shakespeare's Ophelia," which is the most reasonable explanation for his silence. That leaves Dan as the evil, evil Fyodor Karamazov. We'll have to stretch our imaginations a little...

Anyway, I'm glad to see such a response so far and I hope everyone's enjoying the novel. Lastly, is anyone reading an annotated version? I'm wondering who the Frenchman was who described hell thusly: "J'ai vu l'ombre d'un cocher qui avec l'ombre d'une brosse frottait l'ombre d'une carosse" (I've seen the shadow of a coachman who with the shadow of a brush rubbed the shadow of a carriage) (Chapter IV).

The Narrator

Note: I haven't read anyone else's posts yet, so I apologize if I am repeating things that someone already said.

Leaving the profound theological and philosophical themes aside for the moment, I would like briefly to call our attention to the character of the Narrator. Rather than simply narrating the story with an author's "objective" voice (Matt can probably remind me of the technical term I am looking for), Dostoyevsky chooses to place the character of the Narrator into the story. Indeed, in the very first sentence the Narrator refers to himself in the first person, and then frequently interjects his own theological and psychological reflections into the narrative. Are we to take these reflections to be representative of Dostoyevsky's own opinions? I suspect not, for D. would not have gone to the trouble of creating this character if he simply wanted to narrate the story in his own voice. While further reading will confirm or refute my suspicion, let me now reflect on what the implications may be if I am correct that the Narrator is not simply the voice of the author.

First, the Narrator has a perspective all his own and opinions that shape the way he interprets events and portrays characters. In other words, we cannot consider the characters apart from the Narrator, since the Narrator's perspective is not necessarily objective, but rather shaped by his own beliefs and opinions. Second, as a corollary to my first point, we have to ask whether the Narrator can always be trusted. I can't be bothered to give parenthetical citations at the moment, but you will all recall that the Narrator occasionally says that he may not have his facts right or what he knows he learned through hearsay. Can we be sure that he always accurately  presents the facts that he does know with certainty? Finally, does the Narrator himself have any personality flaws? It is too early to know just yet, but I think it is a question worth asking. None of the characters -- not even Alyosha -- appear to be perfect at the moment. Could this observation extend to the Narrator as well?

Book II

Again, I have little to say this early in the book. Once again, I think I'll just note some themes I find interesting and look forward to seeing elaborated as the novel progresses.

The theme of "love for humanity" comes up--I had noticed in Book I that Alyosha had a love for humanity. In Book II, Zossima talks to Madame Hohlakov and the folly of having a love for humanity, but not real people. Zossima tells about a doctor who told him, "But it has always happened that the more I hate men individually teh more I love humanity" (65). It is also striking how when they gather for dinner, Peter Miusov calms down and regains his love for humanity (92), but then loses all composure once Fydor comes into the room: "Miusov changed from the most benevolent frame of mind to the most savage. All the feelings that had subsided and died down in his heart revived instantly" (93).

It was also interesting to read the response that Rakitin made to Ivan's assertion that without a belief in immortality, there would be no reason for man to love his neighbor or act virtuously. Rakitin says, "Humanity will find in iteself the power to live for virtue even without believeing in immortality. It will find it in love for freedom, for equality, for fraternity" (88). Does anyone else think Rakitin is naive as to this point?

I would like to hear what people think about Zossima's response to Ivan on this contention: "You are blessed in believing that, or else most unhappy" (77). I am not sure what to make of this response or the exchange that follows. I once heard a priest (Fr. Thomas King, S.J.) say that blessed also means happy (he was talking about the beatitutdes). So does Zossima say, "You are happy in believing that, or else most unhappy"? Why would believing in this--that without immortality there can be no reason for virtue--make one happy or unhappy? [Interesting to note that in this same book, Zossima tells Hohlakov: "For men are made for happiness, and anyone who is completely happy has a right to say to himself, 'I am doing God's will on earth'" (63).]

I also cannot make sense of why Ivan makes the argument he does about the state becoming the Church. He does tell Zossima that he wasn't "altogether joking" (77). I'm thinking there is a relation to Ivan's account of Church-State relations and his assertion that without the belief in immortality, there is no reason for virtue. After all, much of the Church-state discussion had to do with criminals and their consciences--since crime becomes a sin against the Church and not society.

Book 1 Reflection: The Scandal of Fyodor

I have been eager to read The Brothers Karamazov not only because it is one of the greatest novels of all time, but also because it is considered one of the most beautiful and powerful works in the Christian theological tradition. The fact that the book is so highly esteemed among Western theologians is notable insofar as it came from the pen of an Eastern Orthodox Christian. I am not aware of any nineteenth century Russian Orthodox theologians who are widely read in the West today. But Dostoyevsky is known by all.

I cannot claim any specific expertise in Russian theology, or nineteenth century Orthodoxy. Nevertheless, I have had the opportunity to read many of the Eastern Church Fathers, upon whom all subsequent Orthodox theology is built. I am especially interested in theological anthropology, and the ways in which the Eastern and Western understanding of man is said to diverge in the early Church. (As an aside, I believe the difference is more a matter of terminology than substance.)

I know that The Brothers Karamazov deals with the question of human nature. I will be eager to trace this discussion in light of what I know about Eastern theological anthropology, and compare it to our Western assumptions.

Having said that, I am already fascinated by Fyodor Pavlovitch. Perhaps it is because I feel a certain kinship with him, not so much as it pertains to excessive drinking and orgies, but because he is a buffoon—a vicious clown (vicious as in the antonym of virtuous). With this character, Dostoyevsky paints a portrait of the sensual man, the man who is a slave to the passions.

It is notable that Fyodor lives his life in the shadow of a great monastery. In the East, the monastic tradition has survived and thrived in a way that it has not in the West (not to say, of course, that it has here died completely). The monastery is the place of ascetic practice, the place where man is able to go to battle with the “flesh”. When we read about the great ascetics of the Christian tradition—those who excelled in prayer and fasting and every kind of self-discipline—it is essential to remember that these men and women did not hate the physical world and its many pleasures. They knew as well as anyone that the corporeal world was called “good” by God himself. What the great ascetics have attempted to do is to fight our perverted tendency to become enslaved to the pleasures of this world (this sinful tendency is called “the flesh” in the Bible). We do not truly enjoy food or drink or sex or any other good while it is a master over us. Changing metaphors, the horse cannot serve human beings while it is still wild and unruly; it must first be tamed. The Christian monastic tradition is not about hating the world, but purifying oneself (by God’s grace) so as to approach and enjoy the world rightly.

Fyodor is the foil to the great monastic tradition. He has given himself over to every pleasure. He cannot say “no” to any sensual enticement, and thus he is entirely enslaved to his passions. Ironically, there seems to be no pleasure in his life; no joy, no peace. Only the virtuous man can enjoy the world truly, and only he has freedom. I see the extent of Fyodor’s captivity, for example, when Dostoyevsky says that he “was all his life fond of acting, of suddenly playing an unexpected part, sometimes without any motive for doing so, and even to his own direct disadvantage…” (9). He had no control over himself, and he was reduced to playing a role, not one of his choosing, in a dark and pathetic drama.

Fyodor is absurd, he is a buffoon, because he has chosen the path of self-destruction. In Eastern theology, there is a great awareness of the telos of man: we were made for participation in the divine nature (2 Peter 2:4). The Fathers of the East (and West!) called this “deification”, where human beings come to partake of the divine life, which is communion with the Trinity. Adam was created in the “image and likeness” of God (Gen. 1:26) precisely so that he could be adopted into the divine family. Ontologically, therefore, man was made capable of union with God. In fact, this is the true end toward which all human beings are fundamentally oriented; in those famous words of St. Augustine: “O God, Thou hast made us for Thyself, and our hearts are restless until they rest in Thee.”

At the fall, Adam turned his back on communion with the Holy Trinity, thus turning away from his own happiness.

Eastern theologians—remembering that we were created both in the image and likeness of God—make a helpful distinction between the two. They argue that the likeness of God was lost at the fall, but not the image. The image of God is woven deep into human nature: all human beings, no matter how wicked, maintain a basic dignity insofar as they were created in the image of God, which is to say, created for deification. But the likeness has been lost and must be regained. Through the practice of the virtues, we perfect the image through growth in the likeness of God.

In the patristic tradition, we regain the likeness of God only through communion with Jesus Christ (by whose grace we are made virtuous). According to the well-known maxim, “God became man so that man might become God.” In other words, Christ—by being fully God and fully man—bridged the gap between the eternal and temporal, the infinite and the finite, making possible perfect communion between human beings and the Blessed Trinity. Another notable patristic phrase says that by grace we become what Christ is by nature (divine): when—by grace—we are made to be “in” Christ, we enjoy through adoption what he enjoys as the natural Son. But it is important to stress that God created us in His image and likeness from the beginning precisely so that this adoption in Christ, this deification, could occur. We were created to receive this most remarkable gift, the gift of participation in the divine nature.

Dostoyevsky, as an Orthodox Christian, is very aware of this understanding of human nature. Fyodor is an absurd character from the start because he is made in the image of God, and yet he has destroyed the likeness of God in himself completely. In every respect he has ordered himself away from his true end, a spectacular self-destructiveness, self-mutilation. And yet, because of the disorder caused by the fall, each of us is tormented by a similar temptation to annihilation. God created a world of goodness and beauty and order, and yet we slump in the direction of chaos and ugliness and nothingness. It is a tragic disposition that can only be called buffoonery, and Fyodor personifies it.

Made to partake of the divine nature, he rolls in the mud. And we with him.

Alyosha is an example of one who is truly alive, a man in whom the likeness of God is being perfected. But with Fyodor, the great buffoon, I can more easily identity. O God, that your likeness might be restored in me, too, I pray!

Book I

A few observations (I am using the Constance Garnett translation, Signet Classic). I'm not sure how much I'll contribute, especially this early on, but here are just a few notes that I'll keep in mind as I read:
Atheism vs. belief. We have the two brothers: Alyosha believes in God and immortality (37), Alyosha is certain Ivan is an atheist. I look forward to seeing how FD explains Alyosha's faith. FD writes, "He was simply a lover of humanity" and gives reasons for why A joins the monastery (30). Later, he writes that if A had decided that God did not exist, he would become an atheist and a socialist. I found it interesting that FD presents socialism as "the form taken by atheism today" (37). We also have the "liberal" "freethinker" "atheist" Peter Miusov, who sued the monastery out of his duty as a citizen and man of culture, though he still owned 1000 serfs. Somewhat ironic. Themes I'll keep in mind: atheism vs. belief, what belief consists in, why believe, the relation of faith to politics.

Resources

I looked up some online resources today that might come in handy:

Reading the Brothers Karamazov
-This site includes a list of characters with their various names
-Also questions for each of the books, which may be helpful when writing reflections.
-There is a searchable version of the Garnett translation.
-Under "Research" there is also a decent bibliography of online articles.

Cliffs Notes
-Free online.

The Definitive Study Guide
-Features a summary and analysis of each book and sketches of each character.

Brothers Karamazov Concordance
-Off the top of my head, I don't know why this would be useful...but anyway: a concordance for the book.

Spark Notes
-The character list here seems especially useful.


***Based on the Spark Notes list, here are the names and their variants, which may be helpful to print out:

Alexei Fyodorovich Karamazov - (Alyosha, Alyoshka, Alyoshenka, Alyoshechka, Alxeichick, Lyosha, Lyoshenka)
Dmitri Fyodorovich Karamazov - (Mitka, Mitya, Mitenka, Mitri Fyodorovich)
Ivan Fyodorovich Karamazov - (Vanya, Vanka, Vanechka)
Fyodor Pavlovich Karamazov
Agrafena Alexandrovna Svetlov - (Grushenka, Grusha, Grushka)
Katerina Ivanovna Verkhovtsev - (Katya, Katka, Katenka)
Katerina Ospovna Khokhlakov - (Madame Khokhlakov)
Liza Khokhlakov - (Lise)
Nikolai Ivanov Krasotkin - (Kolya)
Ilyusha Snegiryov - (Ilyushechka, Ilyushka)

The Plan

Hey guys,

Okay, we need to set up some kind of schedule. In my mind, this will be most fulfilling if we--to the greatest extent possible--keep up with each other.

BTW, I also spoke with Joe last night. He was interested and I sent him the invitation.

What if we tried to read a book each week? There are about 12 books, so it would take about three months. After Dan finishes his paper, and Matt finishes the book suggested (assigned?) to him by Christina, we could read more per week.

It seems like the books generally consist of about six or seven chapters each, which are usually around 7-10 pages long. So, it would be a short chapter a day; not too taxing.

Then, what should be the blog requirements? (At least) one reflection, of whatever length, per week? Does that sound reasonable?

Any other thoughts on housekeeping?

Russian color: