The Idiot by Fyodor Dostoyevsky

 The Idiot by Fyodor Dostoyevsky

 

There are two ways of looking at a work by Dostoyevsky.

In awe at a well established, uncontested masterpiece

Or with a rebel, smashing-it up attitude.

 

On goodreads, the first “review” I saw one that said it is crap, and rated it one star- I guess if you want to rate a book, you can’t put zero stars.

On the radio, Romania Cultural was broadcasting a kind of an interview, where Stelian Tanase, the head of the National TV, was not wiping the floor with the world wide famous Russian authors, but came close to that.

Tanase was saying that these works are boring and so on.

He is entitled to his opinion.

 

For me, Dostoyevsky is much more than just another very famous and acclaimed writer. I have started to read his oeuvres when I was sixteen. I shared a room with my father, so I had to go over the balcony and jump into the kitchen to read. We were poor then, we were four people who had to share and sleep in two rooms. When my father went to sleep, I could not carry on reading.

But even there, in the small kitchen, what a joy it could be to read about Napoleon, big dreams, wonderful worlds…all the creation of Dostoyevsky.

 

Kevorkian, our awesome teacher of Literature, told us the story of the last three minutes in the life of Dostoyevsky.

He was condemned to death, taken to the firing squad.

He divided his last minutes into three

One minute to say goodbye to family and friends

Another to think of the past life

And the last to admire array of sunshine falling on a bell tower, or something of the kind

At the last moment, he was pardoned.

He writes in his novels about the man facing death and the last minutes of life, from his own experience: we understand how precious life becomes for the one who knows he is losing it.

How he would rather live on a bare rock, in the middle of the ocean, but live on, not die.

 

This poignant image has stayed with me.

The game of telling the most evil story, the worst deed you have done has also had a tremendous impact.

It is also true that at another reading, some characters seem to be mad.

This morning and yesterday, I have listened to a series calls The Triumph of Love, produced by the Romanian National Radio and based on The Idiot.

George Constantin was, like always magnificent, but the harmony was spoiled by a Mircea Albulescu who came in over the top.

The fact that he used to be a teacher in the Theater Institute, could explain why I hear so many actors not saying, but shouting their lines, with the feeling that the stupid public would get the point and how great actors they are, only if the lines are cried out from the top of their voices.

Well, if the teacher of some generations does that, this is what the lessons must be about and the result, well, I should not complain so much: I listen more to the theater radio productions and do not hear the shouts in the ring of the theater.

 

Wonderful book even when read again or if listened to an adaptation, with varying degrees of excellent and amateur acting, like it was my case.