The Russians remain among the countries that read the most books. When I was in St. Petersburg, there were small stands by the subway entrances where you could buy a novel. Reading Dostoevsky and such, you understand why; it seems like they have a particular gift for the art. (I’m sure it’s only a combination of lingual happenstance and nationalist self-aggrandizement to note that I’ve only ever heard anyone refer to “the Great American Novel” and “the Great Russian Novel” but sometimes I feeling there’s something to it.)
Anyway I’ve read Tolstoy’s smaller works but never any of his big books (I do intend to remedy that). I’ve read Dostoevsky’s big novels and seen his house. Your class at Shorter introduced me to THE BROTHERS KARAMAZOV, if I recall, and I thank you for it!
I taught the Brothers K? I must have been nuts. I think I was. I didn't know you've been to Russia!!!! I love that they sell books at subway entrances -- what kind?
I don’t know if everybody in the class (there weren’t many, maybe half a dozen—few enough that we met in your office) was assigned the novels; you may have given us different books. It was a creative writing class. But I had great fun giving a dramatic reading of Fyodor toying with his sons and Elder Zosima.
And yes, I went to Russia in ‘16, took the Trans-Siberian across it! Concerning the books by the subway, I don’t know; I learned the Cyrillic alphabet so I could sound out street names but I hadn’t the slightest vocabulary. But they were the kind of books you’d hope to see: slightly yellowed paperbacks and such. I was a very pleased romantic.
It's an ancient and difficult challenge to separate the often unpleasant behavior of the artist from their work.
As you describe, it's entertaining to realize how your viewpoint on things can radically shift when you go back and look at them years after the first encounter.
Sort of a two for one or a buy one get one free.
Accumulated wisdom in the bargain basement of life.
I, too have been hungering for immersion into densely layered novels with lyrical overdrive, which led me to Moby Dick. About 3/4 done, and it has been rich and sumptuous in language and imagery, chock full of delightful nautical terms I don't understand, with undulating rhythms that kinetically mirror the sea (Melville's prose has given me literary-sea-legs, as it's been fun sailing along with the motley crew on a vessel built from dramatic digressions, tangents, roundabout ruminations, and Biblical swing). Enioy old-timey Russia!
The Russians remain among the countries that read the most books. When I was in St. Petersburg, there were small stands by the subway entrances where you could buy a novel. Reading Dostoevsky and such, you understand why; it seems like they have a particular gift for the art. (I’m sure it’s only a combination of lingual happenstance and nationalist self-aggrandizement to note that I’ve only ever heard anyone refer to “the Great American Novel” and “the Great Russian Novel” but sometimes I feeling there’s something to it.)
Anyway I’ve read Tolstoy’s smaller works but never any of his big books (I do intend to remedy that). I’ve read Dostoevsky’s big novels and seen his house. Your class at Shorter introduced me to THE BROTHERS KARAMAZOV, if I recall, and I thank you for it!
I taught the Brothers K? I must have been nuts. I think I was. I didn't know you've been to Russia!!!! I love that they sell books at subway entrances -- what kind?
I don’t know if everybody in the class (there weren’t many, maybe half a dozen—few enough that we met in your office) was assigned the novels; you may have given us different books. It was a creative writing class. But I had great fun giving a dramatic reading of Fyodor toying with his sons and Elder Zosima.
And yes, I went to Russia in ‘16, took the Trans-Siberian across it! Concerning the books by the subway, I don’t know; I learned the Cyrillic alphabet so I could sound out street names but I hadn’t the slightest vocabulary. But they were the kind of books you’d hope to see: slightly yellowed paperbacks and such. I was a very pleased romantic.
It's an ancient and difficult challenge to separate the often unpleasant behavior of the artist from their work.
As you describe, it's entertaining to realize how your viewpoint on things can radically shift when you go back and look at them years after the first encounter.
Sort of a two for one or a buy one get one free.
Accumulated wisdom in the bargain basement of life.
I, too have been hungering for immersion into densely layered novels with lyrical overdrive, which led me to Moby Dick. About 3/4 done, and it has been rich and sumptuous in language and imagery, chock full of delightful nautical terms I don't understand, with undulating rhythms that kinetically mirror the sea (Melville's prose has given me literary-sea-legs, as it's been fun sailing along with the motley crew on a vessel built from dramatic digressions, tangents, roundabout ruminations, and Biblical swing). Enioy old-timey Russia!
Wow. What a gorgeously written comment.