Damn, sometimes I get completely lost in a sea of books, technology, research, or Netflix, only in the end to ask myself, "Where the fuck am I?" But when it comes to literature, I never stray far from my own beaten, familiar path. Like a dog that travels thousands of miles to find its owner (not Homeward Bound, I swear) at the end of the day, I always find myself coming back to my copy of this:
I'm not one to feel implicated from the behavioral disturbances or subconscious ramblings of others. But I tend to agree with Nietzsche and Einstein when describing world's greatest writer. Yes I said it.
Perhaps it is mere familiarity with several themes or motifs in the novel, but thinking this way would be devaluing it. I think that one could feel the same way about this masterpiece if there was no familiarity to the plot whatsoever.
Lately, I've been branching out into Updike, Yates, and Salinger, but I always come back to The Brothers Karamazov. It's home. It's what I know. More folks need to put down The Da Vinci Code, Twilight, or whatever Tom Clancy bullshit novel they're reading and feel Dostoevsky's raw emotion.
I realized I didn't get very far in this post, perhaps only reminding myself that I always need that "safe place." Well, fuck it. I'm just glad mine happens to be the greatest novel ever written.
No comments:
Post a Comment