The Idiot Fyodor Dostoevsky

This one had an interesting story, damn it, so I couldn't put it down. The characters tangle together in interesting ways. Lots of interesting religious, political, and philosophical insight... yadda yadda yadda.

Maybe I'm not a fiction girl... Old Fyodor has several nasty tricks up his sleeve. He leaves out information all the time, skips around so that you end up wasting a perfectly good Saturday depressing yourself, smoking cigarettes, knowing that what you're really reading toward is another terrible catastrophe in which a good character gets screwed. The book filled me with dread. I have knots in my stomach, fucking knots, people. I don't want to believe that the world is turning to shit, despite all of our good intentions, but that's exactly what our little Jesus-hugger wants me to think. I know something like 'hope' is pretty kitschy, but that's what I want. All I got from this book was a perfectly terrible dread and a two-week headache that is only beginning to subside.

I know what you're thinking: 'The truth hurts, sweetheart. The world is bad. Period. And that's that.' Yeah. I know... But...

However, I do wish I'd read this BEFORE I went to Russia. It's gives some great history, great description of St. Petersburg. However, I am not fascinated with upper class Russian inductances, so a lot of the biting commentary is lost on me... Ahhh! I think I've gotten too sensitive. I don't know if this one should be in the goods or the bads. Our fair Fyodor is certainly brilliant. But I'm not sure... Oh. Fuck it. I still say if you want to read Dostoevsky, stick to Notes from Underground.