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It was close to thirty years ago, when basking in the relative if muted success of a reading club at the pub discussing Camus, I elected to swing for the fences; stating, why the hell don't we read Dostoevsky? Hindsight is often harsh. I certainly needed less sleep then. I dove in, alone. I didn't realize that until weeks later when I arrived a with several sheets of notes to discover sheepish shrugs and a litany of excuses.
It was perhaps this creation in a foundry of disappointment which steeled my relations poor Myshkin. I challenge the champions of Hamlet to assert that Dostoevsky's bumbler is one of the greatest literary creations. I still feel his pain, I still image myself sitting on smoky trains teetering towards madness. I am not sure if I am similarly fragile. I do embrace the oblique and my deft gait is often a stagger in places of the mind. There is an abundance of longing and resignation.
It was perhaps this creation in a foundry of disappointment which steeled my relations poor Myshkin. I challenge the champions of Hamlet to assert that Dostoevsky's bumbler is one of the greatest literary creations. I still feel his pain, I still image myself sitting on smoky trains teetering towards madness. I am not sure if I am similarly fragile. I do embrace the oblique and my deft gait is often a stagger in places of the mind. There is an abundance of longing and resignation.