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?

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.