First of all, though I don't think that I need to justify my own distaste for much of this novel, I just want to point out that just because I didn't like it doesn't mean that I don't think it's great. Let's not fall into that oh-so-common trap of review vs criticism, much perpetuated by students, in which "I don't like it" = "I think it's bad." I don't think it's bad. I think it's a complex, fascinating, psychologically penetrating, brilliant work filled with ideas. I like and appreciate many of the ideas - particularly those that I am going to comment on below - but did not necessarily enjoy the presentation of them. I found it, yes, distasteful, overly sentimental, long-winded, excessive, tiresome. It is possible for an author to be all of those things and still be brilliant. See, for example, Joyce and Beckett. And while we're on the subject, it may be noted that although lidocafe enjoys both, I dislike Beckett intensely. And I think for many of the same reasons. It boils down to a response to the world, similar to the difference I commented on this summer between Beckett and Tom Stoppard: both recognize that human existence is brief, experience is unreliable and fleeting, and that attempts on our part to understand our own place in the universe are doomed to failure. Beckett's response might be summarized as "the world is crap, but you've got to laugh." Stoppard's (and mine), perhaps is "human life is brief and fleeting, but at least there's love and beauty in the world, so let's hang on to that." I need to learn to appreciate, via Beckett and Dostoevsky, that it's possible to present a very unpleasant view of the world and still be idealistic; my response to lidocafe's denial of the "postmodernism" of Dostoevsky is that it's possible to have deep and enduring faith in something and still be "postmodern."
If deconstructive criticism has taught us anything, it is that binaries are slippery, untrustworthy schemes. Yet, we humans seem driven to use them to help us to understand ourselves and our beliefs and to define where the things or people we encounter in the world fall in relation to them (and to, of course, ourselves). What we always want to know is "are you like me?" and "can I understand you?" Too much difference (or "differance", and we back off, muttering "get thee behind me Satan." And, of course, in the placement of things on binary scales, we always "privilege" one or the other, give one greater power in its greater value to us. And, again, deconstructive criticism ought to have taught us that this too, is ... wrong, or at least one of those things that we do unthinkingly that we ought not to do, at least not unthinkingly, but we go ahead and do it anyway.
One of the age-old binaries of literary criticism is the Classical versus Romantic debate. I always begin my discussion of 18th century literature with students by outlining our own preconceptions about "Classical vs Romantic"; what usually happens is that it's fairly clear that the "Romantic" half of the binary is closely aligned with "us" and the "Classical" with "them" - conventional, old-skool, hegemonic, patriarchal, blah blah blah - whereas "Romantic" is anti-establishment, passionate, nature, imagination, all those cool things. What students need to recognize is that all those cool things arose in a world dominated by the boring stuff, that it's not one or the other, it's that each one is a debate, a discourse with the other. I think we tend to do the same thing with "Modern" vs "Postmodern" although the lines are considerably less clear, and, interestingly enough, for many today, "postmodern" is not the "privileged" term. Many regard "postmodern" with suspicion and distaste, even when they embrace the tenets of Romanticism. Yet, for me, postmodernism, at least the postmodernism of people like Tom Stoppard, falls very clearly in the line of descent from Romanticism. Those lines of descent begin to blur, though, when we try to put things in columns under Classical and Romantic, and realize how difficult it is - where do we put "human"? Where do we put "nature"? Where do we put "faith"?
Just as Romanticism emerged side-by-side with the flowering of Classicism in the Age of Enlightenment, so did Postmodernism emerge as a kind of evil twin of Modernity. Postmodernism is a notoriously difficult term to define (I think it was Umberto Eco who referred to it as a state of mind, like a taste of raspberry juice, rather than a set of rules), but it is often summarized as a "distrust of any kind of grand narrative." I like to think of it as a kind of "yes, but..." response. Descartes writes "cogito, ergo sum," and someone comes along as taps him on the shoulder and says "urm, yes, but... don't you often make mistakes? How do you know that you exist, really? What about the subconscious? What about dreams?" Those questions are intensely Romantic, of course, and also intensely Postmodern.
Another set of binaries that intersect with the Classical/Romantic Modern/Postmodern ones are faith/superstition, science/imagination, human/... erm... what? This is where it gets interesting. The Brothers Karamazov asks us to examine all those questions, particularly the one about how it's possible to maintain a faith in god in the face of humanity's, erm, inhumanity, cruelty, stupidity. We have to recognize that the Romantics (except Shelley) did not necessarily throw out their faith in God when they adopted their ideals, also that it's possible to adopt a postmodern stance of questioning the certainty of human-created precepts and still maintain a faith in some kind of ideal... somewhere. Thus, it is not safe to argue, as Ms Lido does, that Postmodernism is against Grand Narrative, Christianity is a Grand Narrative, Dostoevsky is a Christian, QED he is not Postmodern. lidocafe wrote
It would not be difficult to demonstrate how often and how brilliantly Dostoevsky destabilizes his narrative, and demonstrates humanity's perpetual tendency to interpret but to err in so doing. Perhaps one brief quote from the ubiquitous narrator will suffice:
Likewise, our attempts to understand God, or to make him show us any kind of Truth that we can hold on to, are also doomed to failure. That doesn't mean that we shouldn't believe in God, however; that's what Alyosha is there to demonstrate. What Dostoevsky tells us, through him and his other characters, is that humanity is stupid, capable of acts of great cruelty but also of great kindness and great beauty. Humanity is flawed, Dostoevsky would argue, but God is not, nor is divine providence. It's just that because we live in a fallen, imperfect (yes, postmodern) world, we cannot understand God's plan, and any attempt to do so, like any attempt to get to the "truth" of the murder mystery, is doomed to failure. There are absolutes; there are ideals, and we have to hold on to them. Our world is, after, all, merely a shadow, we see through a glass, darkly; if we face the truth we are likely to go mad or become, like the Ancient Mariner, like Ivan, doomed to attempt to tell people and doomed to be disbelieved (it's all in Plato... don't they teach anything in schools nowadays?)