the brothers

I have a piece of dirty linen to pull out of my closet. It’s been scrunched in there next to the skeletons – covered in dust and reeking of mousiness. Here it is: I’m not a very original chap. Often the things I write are clipped (consciously or no) from whatever book I happen to be reading at the time. And even when they aren’t, I usually spend at least half the writing trying to make them sound as though they were. But wait! There’s another even more dastardly confession: plenty of times when I’ve been unable to think of something clever, I have gone back and pillaged one of my old journals to rake up whatever muck I could find. Twice unoriginal thus am I.

The reason I’ve felt like exposing my soiled linen in this manner is that I just finished reading “The Brothers Karamazov” by Fyodor Dostoevsky, reputed to be the greatest novel by one of the greatest novelists ever. While I was reading it this nattering little demon sat on my shoulder, prattling on about all the wonderful things I could clip from it and how intelligent they’d make me (sound). When all is read and done, though, I don’t feel up to it. First, because the book’s so cram-packed with heavy thought I’m loathe to Joshuafize it for you. Second, because it treats on the awkward, awful nature of humanity, which is prideful and contradictory and selfish and only occasionally inspired to loftiness. This has forced me to think more seriously about my own weaknesses and depravities (the real ones, not the comfortable easy ones), so I can only end by asking you to please read “The Brother’s Karamazov” slowly and with much self-reflection.