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A review by deardostoevsky
Poor Folk by Fyodor Dostoevsky
5.0
Disclaimer: I am a Dostoevsky enthusiast hence this review is subject to the obvious bias.
Poor Folk is Dostoevsky's first novel (the pre Siberian era) which became an instant success. Obviously given the unfathomable genius which would follow in his later works, Poor Folk would fall short against the relative giants (in fact almost every book will fall short in that case).
Hence, rating it through that lens would be an injustice.
It is a very short book, 100 pages or so, which consists of mostly letter exchanges between two close friends, with a complicated relationship, akin to Dostoevsky's other works. The form of the book being a correspondence of letters, in itself is extremely unique and this different style of writing only deepens the mysteriousness of the characters so involved.
I picked this up with the obvious bias of not being as deep as his awe-spiring legends, and I thoroughly enjoyed the work. It was not hard to find real deep traces of the future characters who would hence be weaved; be it the underground man, Sonya, even Verkhovensky and Stavrogin.
I would also like to mention, a cameo of a character called Pokrovsky, who charmed me extremely. There is an instance where his love of books is detailed with him getting vexed when someone else tries to touch his books, bringing alive every booknerd to ever exist.
'Pokrovsky used to give me books; at first I read them to keep myself awake; then more attentively, and afterwards with eagerness. They opened all at once before me much more that was new, unknown and unfamiliar. New thoughts, new impressions rushed in a perfect flood into my heart. And the more emotion, the more perplexity and effort it cost me to assimilate those new impressions, the dearer they were to me and the more sweetly they thrilled my soul. They crowded upon my heart all at once, giving it no rest. A strange chaos began to trouble my whole being. But that spiritual commotion could not upset my balance altogether. I was too dreamy and that saved me.'
And who would not agree?
The intricacies of literature, the obvious mockery of poverty, the isolation and depression hence ensued, the misuse of power, the pathetic helplessness of a blameless woman, with the enabling genius of Dostoevsky, helps this tale to craft in its nuances very commendably.
As far as I am concerned, I can safely say this was the glimpse of a genius in making and a marvellous debut. (But then I must warn you, that there would hardly be anything written by Dostoevsky which I won't like).
Poor Folk is Dostoevsky's first novel (the pre Siberian era) which became an instant success. Obviously given the unfathomable genius which would follow in his later works, Poor Folk would fall short against the relative giants (in fact almost every book will fall short in that case).
Hence, rating it through that lens would be an injustice.
It is a very short book, 100 pages or so, which consists of mostly letter exchanges between two close friends, with a complicated relationship, akin to Dostoevsky's other works. The form of the book being a correspondence of letters, in itself is extremely unique and this different style of writing only deepens the mysteriousness of the characters so involved.
I picked this up with the obvious bias of not being as deep as his awe-spiring legends, and I thoroughly enjoyed the work. It was not hard to find real deep traces of the future characters who would hence be weaved; be it the underground man, Sonya, even Verkhovensky and Stavrogin.
I would also like to mention, a cameo of a character called Pokrovsky, who charmed me extremely. There is an instance where his love of books is detailed with him getting vexed when someone else tries to touch his books, bringing alive every booknerd to ever exist.
'Pokrovsky used to give me books; at first I read them to keep myself awake; then more attentively, and afterwards with eagerness. They opened all at once before me much more that was new, unknown and unfamiliar. New thoughts, new impressions rushed in a perfect flood into my heart. And the more emotion, the more perplexity and effort it cost me to assimilate those new impressions, the dearer they were to me and the more sweetly they thrilled my soul. They crowded upon my heart all at once, giving it no rest. A strange chaos began to trouble my whole being. But that spiritual commotion could not upset my balance altogether. I was too dreamy and that saved me.'
And who would not agree?
The intricacies of literature, the obvious mockery of poverty, the isolation and depression hence ensued, the misuse of power, the pathetic helplessness of a blameless woman, with the enabling genius of Dostoevsky, helps this tale to craft in its nuances very commendably.
As far as I am concerned, I can safely say this was the glimpse of a genius in making and a marvellous debut. (But then I must warn you, that there would hardly be anything written by Dostoevsky which I won't like).