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clareelizabeth 's review for:
White Nights
by Fyodor Dostoevsky
I picked up White Nights after seeing Jack Edwards mention it, and I’ve been sitting with my thoughts ever since. It’s one of those strange books that doesn’t fit neatly into a box—it didn’t blow me away, but at the same time, I can’t say I regret reading it. There’s a lingering quality to it, a quiet kind of impact that I didn’t expect. While the story itself didn’t completely sweep me off my feet, the atmosphere it creates is something else entirely: haunting, vivid, and deeply immersive.
From the very first page, there’s an underlying sense of melancholy that carries through, subtle but impossible to ignore. The setting feels almost like its own character, drawing you into this hushed, introspective world that feels both intimate and distant. The narrator’s voice has a quiet desperation to it—an ache for connection that I think anyone who has ever felt lonely will understand. That’s perhaps what White Nights does best: it captures the fleeting nature of human connection and the bittersweet beauty of moments that feel significant, even when they’re brief.
Did I love it? I’m not entirely sure. There were moments where the pacing felt a little slow, where I found myself waiting for something more to happen. But maybe that’s the point—it’s not a book about grand gestures or dramatic turns. It’s about small, quiet interactions that resonate in unexpected ways. It’s about longing, hope, and the kind of sadness that’s hard to explain but easy to feel.
In the end, I’m glad I read it. It’s the kind of book that leaves you thoughtful rather than satisfied, and sometimes that’s more powerful than a neatly tied-up ending. While it won’t make my list of all-time favourites, it’s a story I won’t forget anytime soon. Sometimes books are worth reading not because they’re perfect, but because they offer something different—an experience that stays with you, even if it’s not what you expected.
So, shoutout to Jack Edwards for putting this one on my radar. White Nights may not have been an instant favourite, but it’s a book that made me stop, think, and sit with my feelings—and isn’t that what the best books are supposed to do?
From the very first page, there’s an underlying sense of melancholy that carries through, subtle but impossible to ignore. The setting feels almost like its own character, drawing you into this hushed, introspective world that feels both intimate and distant. The narrator’s voice has a quiet desperation to it—an ache for connection that I think anyone who has ever felt lonely will understand. That’s perhaps what White Nights does best: it captures the fleeting nature of human connection and the bittersweet beauty of moments that feel significant, even when they’re brief.
Did I love it? I’m not entirely sure. There were moments where the pacing felt a little slow, where I found myself waiting for something more to happen. But maybe that’s the point—it’s not a book about grand gestures or dramatic turns. It’s about small, quiet interactions that resonate in unexpected ways. It’s about longing, hope, and the kind of sadness that’s hard to explain but easy to feel.
In the end, I’m glad I read it. It’s the kind of book that leaves you thoughtful rather than satisfied, and sometimes that’s more powerful than a neatly tied-up ending. While it won’t make my list of all-time favourites, it’s a story I won’t forget anytime soon. Sometimes books are worth reading not because they’re perfect, but because they offer something different—an experience that stays with you, even if it’s not what you expected.
So, shoutout to Jack Edwards for putting this one on my radar. White Nights may not have been an instant favourite, but it’s a book that made me stop, think, and sit with my feelings—and isn’t that what the best books are supposed to do?