Update

So, school's getting the best of me. But I haven't given in quite yet. That said, I have a significant backlog of books I have read but have not written about. This, I do not like. I have Poor Folk and Other Stories by Fyodor Dostoevsky, The Village of Stepanchikovo by Fyodor Dostoevsky, Notes From Underground by Fyodor Dostoevsky, The Funeral Party by Ludmila Ulitskaya, and Moscow to the End of the Line by Venedikt Erofeev. As you can see, my reading has not only been Russian heavy, but rather weighted toward Dostoevsky as well. That is primarily because I am taking a class devoted to the reading of Dostoevsky. I am also taking a class on modern Russian literature. I am enjoying them quite a bit.

Right now I am listening to Andrew Bird's "Scythian Empires" and appreciating the art of whistling. It is an art, along with singing, which I have never mastered. The closest approximation of which I am capable is akin to the shriek of a kettle as the water begins to boil. That is, of whistling, not of singing.

In any case, I thought I should update my blog, just for the sake of updating. I have been slowly piecing together a review of Poor Folk and Other Stories though I completed that a good 1.5 months ago. Fortunately, my semester ends in a little over a month, so I will be able to catch up then. Until then, I may very well be silent. However, we can always hope that won't be the case.

Sincerely,
Spencer Miles Kimball

Winnie-the-Pooh

It looks like the nature of schooling is going to force this blog to be a once-in-a-while affair, but that'll make it all the sweeter when I do post. I'll shoot for once every two weeks, like dear ole' sis has been doing. But lest this digression turn into a diary entry explaining why I haven't posted, let's get to the meat of things.

Winnie-the-Pooh. I love you too. I purchased a pretty little yellow-covered copy (say ten times fast) for a strange reason--because my friends and I use the character names as nicknames for each other. Oh, which one am I, by the way? I oscillate between being Pooh and Eeyore. I likes mah honey.

So I figured I ought to actually read the book, given how much we refer to it. So I did. It was fantastic. Though I remembered most of the stories through their television counterparts, the actual writing and off-hand narration of the father-figure was excellent. Our introduction to Pooh in the first story goes as follows: "Here is Edward Bear, coming downstairs now, bump, bump, bump, on the back of his head, behind Christopher Robin. It is, as far as he knows, the only way of coming downstairs, but sometimes he feels that there really is another way, if only he could stop bumping for a moment and think of it" (3). Embedded in a narrative which is essentially an affirmation of a child's love for his toys and imaginary creations as well as a record of their interdependency, this is a glimpse at a different sort of experience. We see a child's innate lack of sensitivity to his possessions, the disregard that can accompany true and deep affection. (Picture obtained at http://kiddley.com/wp-content/uploads/2007/01/winniethepooh.jpg)

But I love Pooh for a wholly different reason, not at all related to any sort of over-analyzed social commentary. I love the logic. I don't know if I can explain it entirely without quoting a HUGE chunk of text, but I'd like to avoid doing that. It is, simply, the logic of a child translated into adult terms. See, if you have a copy available, the passage immediately preceding Pooh's climb up the tree in the first chapter. Other examples are scattered throughout.

The least impressive aspect of the book are the little chants and lyrics that come at intervals. I might just be spoiled by Brian Jacques' epic attempts in his Redwall books, but I've seen far more interesting and valid attempts at poetics in books for children. These are just lame.

The love in this book, the father's for his child, the child's for his toys, and the toys for each other, is what really pulls this together. There is an episode in the second part, in which Pooh is stuck in Rabbit's home. Pooh asks Christopher Robin, "'Then would you read a Sustaining Books, such as would help and comfort a Wedged Bear in a Great Tightness?' So for a week, Christopher Robin read that sort of book [to Pooh]." It offers a sort of thematic cohesion which, while common enough in simplistic books, especially for children, feels all too fleshed out and real to be written off. Winnie-the-Pooh is worth your time, even if you aren't a child. Especially if you aren't a child.

I'll leave you with a little bit of wisdom from Christopher Robin: "'That's why he [Pooh] likes having it told to him again. Because then it's a real story and not just remembering'" (20).

Sincerely,
Spencer Miles Kimball

The Bus Driver Who Wanted To Be God

I have been busily visiting classes, dropping those classes, and visiting new classes these past few days. Before that, I was busily moving back into the dorms. So I forgive myself for not posting recently. Fortunately, my friend Seth chose this time to publish his first contribution to my blog. Hopefully, it will not be his last. However, I simply couldn't let his post stand as the most recent piece on my own blog--so here I am.

A couple of days ago I finished The Bus Driver Who Wanted To Be God & Other Stories, by Etgar Keret. Those two or three of ye faithful who actually read every word written here will recognize that name from a previous post, What is Good Writing? I wrote a book review of his collection, The Girl on the Fridge in order to get a post at the Michigan Daily. I did not get the post, for reasons unfathomable (to me), but I did find an excellent author.

Etgar Keret does not disappoint here. The collection is essentially composed of 21 stories and one novella, but only fills 130 pages, (and it's one of those books that wastes pages in order to have pleasantly blank breaks between stories) of which 40 pages are the novella, "Kneller's Happy Campers." Fourteen are amazing, four are most definitely not, and three I am irresolvably ambivalent about. And "Kneller's Happy Campers" serves as an amazing bonus to back up the appeal. In my frank opinion, a 2/3 rate for a short story collection is really quite good, although I don't believe it matches the insane quality of The Girl on the Fridge, which is almost flukish in its ability to satisfy.

I'm having trouble thinking what exactly to say. Read it? Plus, a passage I love: "They used to execute people by electrocution, and when they'd throw the switch, the lights in the whole area would flicker for a few seconds and everyone would stop what they were doing, just like when there's a special news flash. I thought about it, how I'd sit in my hotel room and the lights would go dim, but it didn't happen. Nowadays they use a lethal injection, so nobody can even tell when it's happening" (8). Just read it.

Ms. Alaska, ready for the big job?

John McCain announced yesterday his choice of Alaska's Governor, Sarah Palin, as his running mate. Really, though, the surprising choice of a woman with about 20 months of gubernatorial experience and a few years under her belt as mayor of Wasilia (pop. 7,000), not to mention her distinguished reign as Ms. Wasilia in the mid-1980s, is entirely within character for Senator McCain, who hates to be anywhere without a good-looking (or rich) woman on his arm.

I, for one, think that Ms. Palin will make an excellent running mate for the gentleman from Arizona. After all, she's a wonderful conservative who understands how the needs of her 4 month-old Down's syndrome baby will be best served by a run for the vice-presidency. She rightly sees no conflict of interest in appointing former oil lobbyists like TransCanada's Mary Rutherford to be Deputy Commissioner of Natural Resources, especially when her biggest piece of legislation is a $500 million oil pipeline to the lower 48. And like all Republicans hoping for national office, she is not above abusing her powers for good, which makes it all the more unfair that Mrs. Palin is currently under investigation for attempting to fire her sister's husband, a state trooper, while the pair were in divorce proceedings.

Yes, Sarah Palin represents a change from the usual Republican model of governance. She opposes earmarks and federal pork so much that, as mayor of Wasilia, she began making yearly trips to Washington to get a piece of the action that brought a $400 million Bridge to Nowhere to the city of Ketchikan. Certainly, she is popular, something Republicans have been looking for since 2005. A recent poll shows that Governor Palin has an 80% approval rating in Alaska. But then, Rasputin could get poll numbers that high if he'd managed to rangle $1,200 checks for each Russian household out of an oil contract renegotiation.

One of the best parts of Governor Palin's appeal to conservatives is her family. Like all real Americans, Mr. Palin is a champion snowmobile racer with a fishing business and a job at British Petroleum. That job poses no ethical issues for the governor because it isn't in management. Sure. But enough about him. The former Ms. Wasilia has five children; my two favorites are the two sons who have nice, wholesome, American names, not like the foreign-sounding, celebrity-ish Malia and Sasha. I mean, of course, Track and Trig Palin. It takes a real commitment to education to name your children after an after-school activity and a branch of mathematics. I plan to do the same with my future sons, Al-Gebra and Javelin.

As president of the Wasilia PTA, I'm sure that Mrs. Palin gained the kind of experience it takes to lead the country in times of war and natural disaster; certainly she must at least know how to deal with blizzards. Between that, and her stint as governor in a state with fewer citizens than South Dakota (and the territory of Puerto Rico), it's clear that Sarah Palin will have the experience necessary to act as an emissary of American interests around the world, even in places like Russia, where she and Mr. Putin will no doubt find common ground as they commiserate about the cold things found in Russia and its former North American territory and laugh about all the fun you can have with oil kickbacks.

Some people might think that this choice undercuts John McThuselah's efforts to paint his opponent as an inexperienced political dilettante. After all, Governor Palin is exactly that. I think the Arizona Senator is worried that people might see him as TOO experienced for the job. Taking that into consideration, putting a novice just one heartbeat from the presidency is a brilliant move by a candidate who would be the oldest person ever elected to the office. It's just another example of the political savvy that led the McCain campaign into bankruptcy last summer.

Now let's not forget that Sarah Palin brings something to the table besides her good looks and only slightly tarnished reputation: Governor Palin is a woman! That's right, John McCain respects women so much that he's asked a political whippersnapper to be his running mate assuming, of course, that she will be too overwhelmed to defy him. Certainly this will bring legions of women, disaffected by Hillary Clinton's defeat, into the ranks of Republican voters this year. Because a "gun-toting, hockey playing" former beauty queen opponent of abortion rights is exactly the person Hillary supporters want to see in the White House. John McCain seems to think that those 18 million cracks in the glass ceiling were about the fact that a woman was running for president. They weren't. Those votes were about Hillary Rodham Clinton. She is a woman with unparalleled experience in politics who would make an excellent president. There is zero common ground between her and Governor Palin. Sure, millions of women are disappointed that Senator Clinton lost. That doesn't mean they'll vote Republican now that John McThuselah has been spotted with the young starlet Ms. Wasilia.

Senator McCain is clever. The machinations that led to this choice show a spark of ingenuity. But Senator McCain cannot seem to think things through. Otherwise, he wouldn't have shot himself in the foot by choosing the weakest running mate since Dan Quayle, who reminded us that "one word sums up the responsibility of any vice president, and that one word is 'to be prepared'." Sarah Palin is not prepared to lead this country, not at all. But given McCain's age, she may have to do just that.

Jimi Hendrix--Electric Ladyland

I finished Electric Ladyland by John Perry this afternoon. I must say, I was very impressed. In some ways his approach is more clinical than John Cavanagh's in The Piper at the Gates of Dawn, also from the 33 1/3 series. However, the detail only serves as evidence of his love for the material. He often says things like, "The first section of the solo (1:45-1:59) features...." (pg. 115) and refers us to a multitude of other songs and books we can look to for context. His pervasive specificity causes me to trust him, a trust which he borrows on near the end in order to attack certain views of Hendrix and the album in question. He may be right, but it devolves from an incredibly strong and objective work to mere opinion at that point. All the same, the first 120 pages (of 132) are so well written that we can forgive him that mistake.

I like the album, Electric Ladyland, less than I like The Piper at the Gates of Dawn, but I prefer the 33 1/3 on the former to the one on the latter. Sorry for that sentence formation, but I hope you follow me all the same. This one has all the affection displayed by Piper the book, but has more of a spirited discussion of the songs. Piper seemed deeply focused on the means of production, but Electric Ladyland covers all that without losing its focus on the songs themselves. The guitar is at the heart of Electric Ladyland (both album and book) and the instrumentals and music itself is of primary concern to the author, John Perry.

For example, in the wonderful "Track by Track" chapter, the longest discussion is about my favorite Hendrix song, (bar none) "All Along the Watchtower." Across 13 pages we read about Jimi's admiration for Dylan and Dylan's reciprocation of that feeling. "Dylan has talked more than once about his love of the Hendrix arrangement, his feeling that Hendrix's is the definitive version and his regret that Hendrix isn't around to cover his current songs" (110-111). As a fan of both Dylan and Hendrix, it was a warming section for me. But the story behind the music remains the story behind the music. The music is always front and center, and since Jimi was so much about the music, he just so happens to be dragged into the spotlight as well.

The "Track by Track" chapter had excellent balance, and it often took me the exact length of the song to read the given section. The rest of the book, covering topics like the album cover, a brief summary of Hendrix' rise to fame, and critical reaction to the album, were all interesting, but "Track by Track" was the real star. If one knows the basics about Hendrix (which I actually didn't) I think a reader could skip the rest of the book entirely and have a nice 50 pages or so. You would miss out on some cool writing, but it could be done.

On the whole, the book was excellent, and has restored my faith in the 33 1/3 series after the debacle of Meat is Murder by Joe Pernice. I plan to continue on from here.

But first, a few of my own words on the album: A very uneven thing. It's like Duck, Duck, Goose, only Mediocre, Mediocre, Brilliant. The standouts, for me, are "Crosstown Traffic," "Gypsy Eyes," "All Along the Watchtower," and "Voodoo Child (Slight Return)." The next tier is "Voodoo Chile," "Rainy Day, Dream Away," "1983," and "House Burning Down." As far as I'm concerned, the other eight aren't worth mentioning. Strangely, the book didn't really change my opinions on any of the songs, but merely reinforced the ones I had (even though it was more positive than me about the album as a whole). At the moment I can't think of particularly clever things to say about them, so I would just recommend listening to those eight songs for certain, but not wasting time on the others.

"I remember the first time I saw you
The tears in your eyes were like they was tryin' to say
'Oh Little Boy, you know I could love you
But first I must make my getaway."--"Gypsy Eyes" (pg. 90)

Sincerely,
Spencer Miles Kimball

A Deer Hunter Caught In the Headlights in Crosstown Traffic

So, it's been a bit since my last post. The longest bit yet, I believe. I've been doing a lot of things that are hard to blog about, like pushing friends on swings and eating cheese and jelly sandwiches. All the same, excuses aside, I saw Deer Hunter two nights ago.

Deer Hunter is an emotionally exhausting film to watch. And simultaneously boring. A dangerous combination. You spend an hour wondering what the point is, and then the next hour not breathing for fear you will upset the fragile balance of the characters' lives. And you do have to consider the film in terms of hours rather than minutes, since it has three of the former. Too long. It could have been trimmed significantly without any harm coming to the plot.

It tracks three friends from their jobs as steelworkers in Pennsylvania to the jungles of Vietnam and back again. The three primaries are Mike (Robert De Niro), Stevie (John Savage), and Nick (Christopher Walken). If nothing else, the movie proved that Walken can act. I was most impressed by him, and least impressed by Savage, who just fades into the background.

I think the movie's biggest problem was pacing. It still would have been a leisurely film if cut to two hours, but it would have hit harder in a shorter time frame. And, for the record, I don't mind long movies (Lord of the Rings, for example). I just mind this long movie. So, given that it received an Academy Award for Best Picture, I find it overrated. I certainly wouldn't watch it a second time. I'll admit that the middle hour is well above average quality, but it is so painful to watch that you have to be in a slightly masochistic mood for it to strike the right chord.

I'll say this much--I can see why certain people would like it, but I don't see it appealing to a majority of people. It just isn't that good.

Second: It's strange to write about something extremely famous and popular, because I know I have so little new to say, and what I do say can't make that much of an impact. That aside, I love Jimi Hendrix. I will soon have more to say on the topic of Electric Ladyland, as I am now 2/3 of the way through the 33 1/3 on it (making me 22 2/9 knowledgeable about it). But at the moment, I have to say how much I love the kazoo (actually just paper and a comb) on "Crosstown Traffic." If you don't know precisely what I'm talking about, please find it on Youtube or Last.FM and take a listen. Gorgeous.

Sincerely,
Spencer Miles Kimball

Pineapple Express

Ah, to be uncertain of the correct spelling of "pineapple." Makes you feel smart like nothing else.

Last evening I went with a couple of friends to see "Pineapple Express." From the moment we walked into the theater, I was disappointed. I was disappointed by the ultimately pointless opening sequence. I was disappointed by the easily amused audience. I was disappointed by the initial set-up, and I thought I was disappointed by the characters. Despite all that, the movie won me over in the end. About a third of the way through the film, I developed an affection for the protagonists, especially Saul. The main characters are Saul, a pot dealer, and his client, Dale. Dale is played by Seth Rogen and Saul is played by James Franco, with whom I am very impressed.

The movie developed from a little jumble of failed jokes into an innovative comedy. It has one of my favorite car chases of any film, and it laudably depicts criminals as people rather than plot functions. The movie really hits its stride when Dale witnesses a murder and turns to his dealer for help. From there it becomes an exponentially more funny buddy film (which isn't to say that buddy films tend to be all that funny). It comes across perfectly because you can blame a lot of the more extreme wackiness on the drugs, where in another film you might simply be left in awe of the stupidity displayed by the characters.

It works, but it doesn't work perfectly. And you still have to struggle your way through the first twenty or thirty minutes of non-laughable material. In the end, they pull it out and make it into something worthy of watching. And I do suggest that you see it--but not in theaters. It isn't worth quite that much. Overall, it is an uneven film redeemed by the characters that inhabit it and their lovable nature.

Sincerely,
Spencer Miles Kimball

Victory is Mine and The Way Things Are

Victory is mine. Google "Spencer Miles Kimball." I dare you. As of today, four of the top ten search results refer to me. I don't know how this happened, by what fluke I have arrived triumphant, but it pleases me.

What pleases me less is that one of the four hits is a poem I wrote in my freshman year of high school, and went on to have vanity published by www.poetry.com. It isn't that I'm particularly ashamed of the poem. Here, I'll reproduce it, just to prove how unafraid of your judgment I am:

A Story Is...

A story is a woven tapestry,
Composed of golden cloth and silver thread,
Eliciting both dread and rhapsody,
It's on our minds until completely read.
We are drawn in by characters and quirks,
Protagonist with righteous heart and mind,
A villain with a plan that just might work,
And thus the plot of story is designed.
We listen to the storyteller speak,
Or flip the pages of a classic book,
In an attempt to end a tale's mystique,
But you find new import each time you look.
A story's magic can give people wings,
To carry us away from earthly things.

In fact, the only lines I cringe at are the last two, which smack of a particularly late night at the grindstone and a rather high opinion of both myself and the art of words (only the latter of which is justified). Unfortunately, I've now seen too many Red Bull commercials to ever take the second-to-last line seriously. I can only picture someone chugging an energy drink and taking flight--not much to do with stories at all. Still, it is a nearly perfect sonnet, if nothing else.

But you say, "Spencer, that's online! You really paid to have that put online?" And I say, "No, silly person, I paid a website $50 to bind it into a book and mail it to me, even though I had the original." Here's the basic story, in long form. I found this neat poetry website which billed itself as the premier website for poets of our day. In my incredible naivete, I almost believed that. Well, I submitted this poem I had written for a school assignment, and received notice that they wanted to publish it in a collection of poetry, and would I like a copy? I was like, "Crap yes, send me a copy for the exorbitant price tag of $50." My parents paid for it on account of my birthday, so I was a happy little clam when it arrived. And, strangely, my poem was the first in the book. Now, I'm not saying it's a terrible poem, but if it is, so to speak, the best foot forward, and written by a 14-year-old, well.... It occurred to me then perhaps this might not be such a "premier" website. Still, at that time I only suspected that it could be vanity publishing. Then I was harassed for the next two years via e-mail about all the great poetry offers I was missing out on and the $100 value of the trophies I could buy for myself for a mere $20 and the poetry society I could buy a membership in. Well, at that point I was sure.

In my opinion, it's much cooler to have it out there on the web. The book is just boxed away somewhere, but in electronic form it is out there for anybody to read. Slightly scary, very exhilarating. That's the way things should be, and are.

Sincerely,
Spencer Miles Kimball

Sheriff of Hong Kong Meets MegaBlast: The Epic Battle For My Affections Continues

My favorite Captain Beefheart song may be his least avant-garde--"Sheriff of Hong Kong" off Doc at the Radar Station. It doesn't have much atonal instrumentation, just a gong. It is a peripatetic song, perfect for strangely cold August mornings and i-Pod Shuffles. The rest of the album is excellent as well, and I actually much prefer it to Captain Beefheart's far more famous Trout Mask Replica. But enough of music and back to heroes.

Today my sister e-mailed me a picture of Houdini with the message, "Thought you'd like this picture of Harry Houdini. I remember you always liked him." Uh, understatement. Houdini convinced me for a time that I was meant to be a magician. Long before my sister was obsessed with magicians' pamphlets, I was parading around our house with a hollow plastic wand and a hat with a secret compartment. In my day I owned at least three sets of magic guaranteed to blow the socks off any and all audiences, be they parents, siblings, or various combinations of the above. But my days of magic were short-lived, and I no longer aspire to spend my days hanging upside down in locked tanks of water.


Harry Houdini via Tom Sutpen @ http://tsutpen.blogspot.com/2008/08/vaudevillians-3.html

Receiving that message and the photo (reproduced above) reminded me of other childhood heroes, including Mark Heroic. I recently had the disappointing experience of re-reading the first novel in the series which bears his name, FlashPoint. As promised, I then continued on to read the second book, MegaBlast. However, upon finishing three days ago, I simply had no desire to write anything about it. Now I repent.

Note: MegaBlast is at least 2.7 times the quality of FlashPoint. That still leaves it struggling to breathe freely under the weight of its contrivances, however. The basic plot is that a criminal mastermind has stolen a set of mind control devices and is using them to take over an Air Force base. The reason he wants control of the base is that a new, chimpanzee-manned space shuttle is about to be launched there. The boys get involved because 1. They are in the first place entrusted with the specially prepared chimpanzee who will be manning the shuttle 2. They are stupid enough to hand the chimpanzee over to people just because they say they are from the Air Force base (but don't show ID to that effect) 3. It is suggested that they come to the base to straighten matters out (this is before the villain has actually arrived at the base and begun utilizing his mind control devices).

I don't wish to ruin the plot for you, but the boys are victorious (hence books 3, 4, and 5 of the series). They accomplish this through lies (see my face=obvious disappointment), luck, and a ridiculous amount of intelligence and brawn. Oh, but the intelligent character, R.J. Rowberry, is only smart at things like figuring out door circuitry and knowing the chemical make-up of thermite. He can't seem to make plans himself. The street smarts are all Mark, our perfectly average (5'8'') and eminently likable main character. As the book describes him, "He didn't get mad easily. Mark tried to overlook people's faults and concentrate on their good qualities" (26). Sometimes, he's sickeningly sweet and perfect. However, I can really forgive these things in a children's book. The blatant punctuation errors are less forgivable.

Still, there were moments that warmed my heart. Blue Berzoni, the brawny character of the trio, refuses to listen to any song that doesn't have "Blue" in the title, leaving him listening to "Blue Suede Shoes" ad infinitum. Blue calls Rowberry such beautiful nicknames as "Fatberry," "Fishberry," and "Floatberry." RJ says of the new chimpanzee-manned space shuttle, "'From now on, space travel will be perfectly safe,'" and Blue responds, "'Except for Congo [the chimpanzee]. ...I bet nobody asked him'" (7). Sometimes he says precisely what I am thinking, and he is clearly the heart of the team. If the series were called "Blue Heroic" it might be a more interesting story. We'd get less of the inside of Mark's head, which is a saccharine jungle of virtuous feelings, and more of a complex lead character, with real faults and a real personality.

Still, on to book 3. Now that I've started on this path, I might as well finish. All the same, a lesson has been learned: childhood heroes are sometimes best left in childhood, where they can still be giants to look up to.

Sincerely,
Spencer Miles Kimball

Picture:

A room with hardwood floors, a wobbly ceiling fan, and all the congregated possessions of a nerdy boy's first nineteen years--a man backlit by boylight and frontlit by computerlight. One glowing comet sticker remains persistently attached to the ceiling, a faint reminder of the constellations which once graced these walls with the sweep of galaxies. It is too dark to see much at all, but in the closet lies a sword, in the corner is a Darth Vader piggy bank, and by the window hangs a second sword. Books of poetry, science fiction, fantasy, and Russian literature line the shelves. This is me, sitting in my childhood bedroom with dismay on my face. For I have been unable to Google myself.

Or rather, to Google myself and have any results turn up. You see, I've previously explained what sorts of challenges face a person with my name. Oh, I'm certain they can't compare to the plight of a John Miller or a Jack Johnson, but still, they sting. I quite simply wanted to create a place for myself on this world wide web which would, when wandering web-wise, be found by at least the person who created it. But still, after two (granted, short) weeks, I am still Where-In-the-World-Is-Carmen-Sandiego-ing myself and finding nothing. All this is temporarily discouraging, but no more so than the rain.

Ah, nasty rain! You monsoon-like spurt of spirited drenching which destroyed my precious notebook, soggy-ing the binding to the point of ripping! I despise you, because I must now give rest to the recording of ideas until evaporation takes its course and the correct balance of humidity is restored. Well, at least I still have this arena to write in.

So, to write. And to write, I must read. And I have read. Crime and Punishment has now been thoroughly devoured. It is time for a declaration. I love Dostoevsky.

I now understand why reading the first few pages of one of Dostoevsky's novels is not sufficient. The simple fact is that he asks for a large investment in return for a massive payoff at a later date. I had to wade through 200 somewhat tedious pages to be handed 350 pages of excellent prose.

A young man, Rodion Romanovich Raskolnikov, (has a nice ring of alliteration) lives in a cramped, insanity-conducive apartment in St. Petersburg. He spends all of his time obsessed with the question of whether he is an extraordinary person, or just another ant among ants. This uncertainty regarding his quality plagues him, and he decides to test his mettle with murder. What follows this murder is the primary concern of the novel.

It is hard to know what else to say. In fact, I'm rather fearful of ruining any sort of plot developments because they are the reward you receive for your patience and dedication. However, it is a deeply descriptive novel of the sort which lends itself readily to imagination. Throughout the reader participates in the recreation of Petersburg in the 1860s, and the picture is startlingly realistic even without prior knowledge. One can live in this novel, as I did, for days on end. The characters can become your friends.

Which is one thing to note. I believe Dostoevsky has a certain brilliance with character, far surpassing his command of plot or commentary. They were all real, and I couldn't hate even one of them because they all had some redeeming feature, as human beings generally do. Dostoevsky exposes us to the worst and best in all people--that is his gift.

"What matter if no one will see you for a long time? The point lies in you, not in time. Become a sun and everyone will see you. The sun must be the sun first of all." (460 in the Volokhonsky-Pevear translation)

Sincerely,
Spencer Miles Kimball