‘The power of Karamazovian baseness’: A Review of The Brothers Karamazov by Fyodor Dostoyevsky
Jocelyn Howarth
The Brothers Karamazov is, in summary, a very long book. This is Fyodor Dostoyevsky’s final book, which is perhaps why it was so long, coming in at approximately 355,000 words, or 985 pages. As an epic exploration of faith and doubt, morality and baseness, identity and inheritance, it can easily be argued that the novel’s word count is justified. However, I would argue it tried my patience one too many times.
Before I state my qualms with the book, I’ll touch on what I found compelling. It does centre around a murder, after all, which is often compelling— although don’t mistake this book for a crime novel. The Karamazov family lies at the heart of this story, consisting of the father, Fyodor, his three legitimate sons—Dmitry, Ivan, and Alyosha—and his bastard son, Smerdyakov. Each Karamazov embodies a stance of belief or cynicism, reflecting Dostoyevsky’s view of the consequences of their ideas. The patriarch, Fyodor, is quite simply a nightmare. He is driven by greed, existing with no spiritual or moral ground, and makes a mockery of everything and everyone for the sake of his own entertainment. He had four sons with three different women, none of whom he treated with dignity or love. He is insufferable— the type of character who is fun to hate. I myself took great pleasure in it.
‘There is a power that can endure everything… the Karamazovian power… the power of Karamazovian baseness’ (p342).
Dmitry is the eldest son and the most chaotic. He is a mess of passion and recklessness, always teetering between sin and redemption, acting on his heart and paying the price for it. He is offended when accused of murder and theft, but never claims to be above other crimes – ‘though I may be base in my desire and in love with baseness I’m not dishonourable’ (p146). The second son, Ivan, is a direct contrast to Dmitry. He resists being led by his own emotions, instead striving to make logic-driven insights into society. He favours philosophy and rejects faith. His perspective rubs off on Smerdyakov, the bastard son of Fyodor and the youngest overall. Smerdyakov is an odd combination of inquisitive yet indifferent, and looks to Ivan for justification of his own cynicism. Alyosha, the youngest legitimate son of Fyodor, is wholly committed to faith and has a close bond with Elder Zosima, the godly monk in the town’s monastery. His love for mankind is strong and opposes Ivan’s pessimism; he strives for goodness, acts in kindness, and bestows forgiveness. Beyond the Karamazovs, there is a wide array of characters who are equally complex: the sensitive and self righteous Katerina, the alluring Grushenka, the devious and jealous Rakitin, and the frail Ilyusha.
‘Do you understand why all that rot is so necessary? Without it, they say, man would not be able to survive upon earth, for he would not know good from evil: Why recognise that devilish good-and-evil, when it costs so much?’ (p316)
Dostoyevsky’s greatest skill in The Brothers Karamazov lies in his intricate storytelling. Each character has a distinct voice. Carefully, deliberately, he establishes relationships and conflicts between characters, which drive the plot of a murder, trial, and the resulting fate of each brother. It is a close study of human character, the effect one man can have on many, and the way a simple argument can have dire consequences. Themes of morality, faith, and money are consistent throughout the text, along with the question of identity: what does it mean to be a Karamazov? Dostoyevsky explores how much of their identity and fate rests on their name, and how much of it comes down to free will and choices. That was my favourite element of Dostoyevsky’s writing; while the plot is intriguing, it is his portrayal of people and their individualism that makes this novel truly compelling.
‘Gentlemen of the jury, other lands have Hamlets, but so far ours has only Karamazovs!’ (p914)
Onto the qualms. My main issue was how awfully long it was. While I have no problem with a slow pace and detailed prose, it sometimes felt that Dostoyevsky was writing not for the sake of the novel, but for the sake of himself. At times, the speeches of characters felt like lectures resulting in repetition. Not to mention the entirety of Book Six, titled ‘The Russian Monk’, in which the final teachings of Alyosha’s beloved Elder Zosima are recorded in anything but a concise manner (despite being prefaced with the line ‘it will be more concise and less wearisome’ (p372)). I frankly did not care about what the Elder Zosima had to say. While there will be people who analyse those 70-ish pages with rigour, it felt to be an unnecessary stray from the story and, again, was too much like a lecture to be enjoyable. I also found parts of the trial tedious, specifically Ippolit Kirillovich’s speech which recaps the events from the rest of the novel. I think the flow of the story would have benefitted from a stern editor. Despite having my patience tested, I am aware that, upon a reread with greater analysis, I would likely see the value in such long speeches. Unfortunately, I do not think these potential discoveries are worth putting myself through those 1000 pages again.
In light of all this, would I recommend The Brothers Karamazov? Well, as with all recommendations, it depends. Despite my complaints, it is a good book. If you enjoy in-depth analysis of people, society, and morality; if you like an unapologetic author who has points to make and is determined to hammer them home; if you have no desire to read something quickly, then yes, I do recommend it. Like all great classics, there is a timelessness to the text. The characters are developed, complex and, despite their many flaws, fun to root for (excluding Fyodor). One of the clearest tells of a good book is how easy it is to become invested. For me, it was very easy. The fact that my interest lagged multiple times doesn’t negate the fact that, ultimately, it was a book I wanted to keep reading and am glad to have finished.
