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A review by notwellread
Crime and Punishment by Fyodor Dostoevsky
5.0
In 1979, the FBI agent Robert Hanssen approached the Soviet Main Intelligence Directorate to offer his services as a spy. From then on, he sold thousands of United States secrets to the KGB, including wartime strategies, developments in military weapons technologies, and counterintelligence intel. He continued these activities on and off all the way until 2001, when he was finally caught red-handed leaving a package of information at a drop-off site. Upon being arrested, his only words were, “What took you so long?”
Crime and Punishment delivers a lengthy exploration of the same sort of anguish this man would have felt. Told from the perspective of Rodion Romanovich Raskolnikov (note that the ‘R’s look like axes in Russian: ‘P’), an impoverished student who kills a pawnbroker for her money, Dostoyevsky guides us through the Pandora’s box of guilt, confusion, and paranoia that lies in the wake of this crime, to such an extent that, by the time Raskolnikov’s retribution finally comes, he has already experienced a far truer and deeper punishment through the machinations of his own conscience.
Some call this the first thriller, or a murder mystery from the perspective of the murderer: this allows the application of a rather conventional plot structure that grounds the philosophical discussions that otherwise preoccupy the novel. The name ‘Raskolnikov’ means ‘schism’, or ‘being torn apart’: at the heart of the book is his own trembling indecision between rationality versus feeling; self-absorption versus self-sacrifice; even man versus God and good versus evil. He initially wishes to see himself as a Napoleon figure, a proto-Nietzschean Übermensch [b:who is beyond the reach of conventional moral standards|12321|Beyond Good and Evil|Friedrich Nietzsche|https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/books/1388607391l/12321._SY75_.jpg|338580]. Initially making decisions based on his own impulses, he realises too late the terrible consequences of treating one’s own judgement as absolute and overstepping the bounds of one’s own place in experiential reality — just because something sounds good in your head doesn’t mean it’s justifiable in practice. Raskolnikov discovers that the world does not, after all, revolve around him: he has the physical capability to murder two women brutally, exercising his own might in a borderline-fascistic manner, but fails to live up to his own standards, not because he is incapable of murder, but because he cannot live with the guilt afterwards. It is his psychological turmoil that proves he is not the Übermensch he imagines himself.
It’s no coincidence that the victims of the novel’s crimes, and the illustrations of the general picture of suffering, are poor and mostly women — these are the casualties of Dostoyevsky’s highly-corrupt contemporary society. Dostoyevsky was responding to the radical nihilistic-utilitarian views that were popular in his time: one can stop believing in morality entirely, and do what feels good in the moment. However, if this is adopted as one’s ethos in a more general way, like Svidrigailov does (various rumours of murder and rape swirl around him, but we don’t know the full extent of his crimes), it can only lead to self-destruction. For Svidrigailov, this is encapsulated in his suicide; for Raskolnikov, he must be destroyed in order to, like Lazarus, be granted new life at the end. Despite St. Petersburg’s grotesque deterioration, Raskolnikov must be held accountable for his crimes: he is not a true down-and-out — he is young, good-looking, educated, and male, with relatively good prospects compared to the rest of them — and has an incredible amount of support from those around him, despite his deranged and anti-social behaviour. He has the full support of his mother and sister, the latter being willing to subjugate herself in a loveless marriage to provide for him, and he has the unconditional support of Razumikhin, his straightforwardly good-hearted friend. He is partly a victim of his own circumstances, which spark his alienation from society, but he also chooses to cut himself off in the wake of his crimes, especially by responding to the pure love and compassion of Sonya with scorn and cruelty. Although Raskolnikov has suffered, as everyone must in some way or other, he is not purely a victim of society, nor is his crime justifiable. Conversely, it is partly this loneliness and the pain of cutting himself off from his family that leads him to confess.
The themes of self-hatred and inner conflict are further drawn out through Raskolnikov’s relationship with Sonya, the young woman who prostitutes herself to provide for her family (although it is very hard to imagine such a virtuous and innocent character doing this). He repeatedly takes out his anger at himself on her: deep down, he knows he’s not a superman, but, because of his feelings of remorse, he must belong to a lower order of men. He lacks the true killer instinct and confidence of his own superiority, since he instantly regrets the murder and doesn’t even seize the opportunity to take the pawnbroker’s money like he had planned. Chickening out and crumbling under pressure is not very Napoleonic behaviour. Tellingly, Raskolnikov associates these feelings with Sonya. In Freudian terms, she may represent his superego, and/or Jungian terms, his anima: he battles with and antagonises, and later loves and accepts, the embodiment of his own conscience. This culminates when, towards the end of our tale, he almost backs out of confessing to his crime, until he sees Sonya watching him from the shadows. Dostoyevsky shows that the natural tendency towards morality, our connection to God, cannot be severed: some Christians even believe that your conscience is God, directing your morality and telling you not to do wrong. Raskolnikov projects his repressed Christian morality onto Sonya, because he can’t bear to confront it within himself.
As Raskolnikov wrestles with his conscience, the policeman character Porfiry Petrovich acts almost like divine intervention, bringing the message from his subconscious and forcing him to confront it. He meets Raskolnikov halfway, presenting not an ethical choice, as Sonya does, but a rational one: tat he must either stew in paranoia for the rest of his life, or accept his punishment and submit to arrest. In parallel, Raskolnikov’s friend Razumikhin, whose name literally means ‘reason’, offers him practical solutions to his poverty, loneliness, and turmoil, and ultimately helps to support Raskolnikov and to fix much of the damage done. There is a distinction here between Raskolnikov’s own internal reasoning, the cause of his turmoil, which is not truly rational, although it may present itself as being such; by placing his understanding of morality entirely within the framework of himself and his position in society, acting in self-interest to produce the most advantageous result, it has become entirely confused and corrupted. It is only true rationality — which, for Dostoyevsky, must include the moral framework of Christianity — that can resolve this and put him on the path to a resolution, an end to his psychological suffering. Raskolnikov initially attempts to use false logic to justify his horrendous acts, but ultimately must accept true logic and all of its consequences.
In the Epilogue, we finally escape the chaotic hellscape of St. Petersburg for the frosty stillness of Siberia. There is some debate about how much Dostoyevsky presents this as a ‘happy’ ending, though it does seem to present at least some of the novel’s problems as resolved (for instance, Dunya avoids marriage to the wicked Luzhin and marries Razumikhin, a good man who truly loves her, and will fill the hole in the family left by Raskolnikov’s departure). Raskolnikov has to sacrifice his ego and submit to servitude, but associated traits like his intelligence may be lost in the process. He is still somewhat alienated — the other convicts dislike him, unable to relate to his relative privilege, and, although criminals themselves, cannot begin to understand the reasoning behind his crime — yet he opens himself up to Sonya’s love. The end of his megalomania allows him to find some joy in an ordinary, mundane existence, despite his imprisonment and subjugation: he’s no Superman after all, but Sonya loves him as he is. He also finally submits to the authority of God, having accepted Sonya’s cross and New Testament along with her compassion for him. Conversely, there is the argument that, once removed from this alien environment, so detached from the rest of the story, his consciousness will inevitably go back to its familiar patterns. Dostoyevsky leaves the ending entirely open: the next stage of the story is unwritten, and we don’t know what lies ahead. There could be an entirely different direction — perhaps marriage and happiness with Sonya, or a return to form, or even the exploits and accomplishments of a great man.
Crime and Punishment delivers a lengthy exploration of the same sort of anguish this man would have felt. Told from the perspective of Rodion Romanovich Raskolnikov (note that the ‘R’s look like axes in Russian: ‘P’), an impoverished student who kills a pawnbroker for her money, Dostoyevsky guides us through the Pandora’s box of guilt, confusion, and paranoia that lies in the wake of this crime, to such an extent that, by the time Raskolnikov’s retribution finally comes, he has already experienced a far truer and deeper punishment through the machinations of his own conscience.
Some call this the first thriller, or a murder mystery from the perspective of the murderer: this allows the application of a rather conventional plot structure that grounds the philosophical discussions that otherwise preoccupy the novel. The name ‘Raskolnikov’ means ‘schism’, or ‘being torn apart’: at the heart of the book is his own trembling indecision between rationality versus feeling; self-absorption versus self-sacrifice; even man versus God and good versus evil. He initially wishes to see himself as a Napoleon figure, a proto-Nietzschean Übermensch [b:who is beyond the reach of conventional moral standards|12321|Beyond Good and Evil|Friedrich Nietzsche|https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/books/1388607391l/12321._SY75_.jpg|338580]. Initially making decisions based on his own impulses, he realises too late the terrible consequences of treating one’s own judgement as absolute and overstepping the bounds of one’s own place in experiential reality — just because something sounds good in your head doesn’t mean it’s justifiable in practice. Raskolnikov discovers that the world does not, after all, revolve around him: he has the physical capability to murder two women brutally, exercising his own might in a borderline-fascistic manner, but fails to live up to his own standards, not because he is incapable of murder, but because he cannot live with the guilt afterwards. It is his psychological turmoil that proves he is not the Übermensch he imagines himself.
It’s no coincidence that the victims of the novel’s crimes, and the illustrations of the general picture of suffering, are poor and mostly women — these are the casualties of Dostoyevsky’s highly-corrupt contemporary society. Dostoyevsky was responding to the radical nihilistic-utilitarian views that were popular in his time: one can stop believing in morality entirely, and do what feels good in the moment. However, if this is adopted as one’s ethos in a more general way, like Svidrigailov does (various rumours of murder and rape swirl around him, but we don’t know the full extent of his crimes), it can only lead to self-destruction. For Svidrigailov, this is encapsulated in his suicide; for Raskolnikov, he must be destroyed in order to, like Lazarus, be granted new life at the end. Despite St. Petersburg’s grotesque deterioration, Raskolnikov must be held accountable for his crimes: he is not a true down-and-out — he is young, good-looking, educated, and male, with relatively good prospects compared to the rest of them — and has an incredible amount of support from those around him, despite his deranged and anti-social behaviour. He has the full support of his mother and sister, the latter being willing to subjugate herself in a loveless marriage to provide for him, and he has the unconditional support of Razumikhin, his straightforwardly good-hearted friend. He is partly a victim of his own circumstances, which spark his alienation from society, but he also chooses to cut himself off in the wake of his crimes, especially by responding to the pure love and compassion of Sonya with scorn and cruelty. Although Raskolnikov has suffered, as everyone must in some way or other, he is not purely a victim of society, nor is his crime justifiable. Conversely, it is partly this loneliness and the pain of cutting himself off from his family that leads him to confess.
The themes of self-hatred and inner conflict are further drawn out through Raskolnikov’s relationship with Sonya, the young woman who prostitutes herself to provide for her family (although it is very hard to imagine such a virtuous and innocent character doing this). He repeatedly takes out his anger at himself on her: deep down, he knows he’s not a superman, but, because of his feelings of remorse, he must belong to a lower order of men. He lacks the true killer instinct and confidence of his own superiority, since he instantly regrets the murder and doesn’t even seize the opportunity to take the pawnbroker’s money like he had planned. Chickening out and crumbling under pressure is not very Napoleonic behaviour. Tellingly, Raskolnikov associates these feelings with Sonya. In Freudian terms, she may represent his superego, and/or Jungian terms, his anima: he battles with and antagonises, and later loves and accepts, the embodiment of his own conscience. This culminates when, towards the end of our tale, he almost backs out of confessing to his crime, until he sees Sonya watching him from the shadows. Dostoyevsky shows that the natural tendency towards morality, our connection to God, cannot be severed: some Christians even believe that your conscience is God, directing your morality and telling you not to do wrong. Raskolnikov projects his repressed Christian morality onto Sonya, because he can’t bear to confront it within himself.
As Raskolnikov wrestles with his conscience, the policeman character Porfiry Petrovich acts almost like divine intervention, bringing the message from his subconscious and forcing him to confront it. He meets Raskolnikov halfway, presenting not an ethical choice, as Sonya does, but a rational one: tat he must either stew in paranoia for the rest of his life, or accept his punishment and submit to arrest. In parallel, Raskolnikov’s friend Razumikhin, whose name literally means ‘reason’, offers him practical solutions to his poverty, loneliness, and turmoil, and ultimately helps to support Raskolnikov and to fix much of the damage done. There is a distinction here between Raskolnikov’s own internal reasoning, the cause of his turmoil, which is not truly rational, although it may present itself as being such; by placing his understanding of morality entirely within the framework of himself and his position in society, acting in self-interest to produce the most advantageous result, it has become entirely confused and corrupted. It is only true rationality — which, for Dostoyevsky, must include the moral framework of Christianity — that can resolve this and put him on the path to a resolution, an end to his psychological suffering. Raskolnikov initially attempts to use false logic to justify his horrendous acts, but ultimately must accept true logic and all of its consequences.
In the Epilogue, we finally escape the chaotic hellscape of St. Petersburg for the frosty stillness of Siberia. There is some debate about how much Dostoyevsky presents this as a ‘happy’ ending, though it does seem to present at least some of the novel’s problems as resolved (for instance, Dunya avoids marriage to the wicked Luzhin and marries Razumikhin, a good man who truly loves her, and will fill the hole in the family left by Raskolnikov’s departure). Raskolnikov has to sacrifice his ego and submit to servitude, but associated traits like his intelligence may be lost in the process. He is still somewhat alienated — the other convicts dislike him, unable to relate to his relative privilege, and, although criminals themselves, cannot begin to understand the reasoning behind his crime — yet he opens himself up to Sonya’s love. The end of his megalomania allows him to find some joy in an ordinary, mundane existence, despite his imprisonment and subjugation: he’s no Superman after all, but Sonya loves him as he is. He also finally submits to the authority of God, having accepted Sonya’s cross and New Testament along with her compassion for him. Conversely, there is the argument that, once removed from this alien environment, so detached from the rest of the story, his consciousness will inevitably go back to its familiar patterns. Dostoyevsky leaves the ending entirely open: the next stage of the story is unwritten, and we don’t know what lies ahead. There could be an entirely different direction — perhaps marriage and happiness with Sonya, or a return to form, or even the exploits and accomplishments of a great man.