I am very much looking forward to more of these posts, I am curious though, are these your writings in the style of Fyodor or are they written by himself?
I assume some public domain works can be shared like this in a serialized manner - this might be how the novel was “distributed” in the first place. I’m fascinated by the serial novel form.
I stumbled across your post and thank you for doing this. It is a great concept. I have little experience with Dostoevsky, I have read the Brothers Karamazov.
With respect to the passage, the vitality and optimism of this older gentleman who posses little is palpable. I have always admired those who are able to maintain this perspective, regardless of their position in life.
Two quotes stood out to me.
1. “What rapture it gave me to see you! Ah, little Barbara, little Barbara, you must never give way to grief, for tears are of no avail, nor sorrow. I know this well—I know it of my own experience.” I was a bit surprised to read this passage. As the rest of the writing suggests a maturity in being present and appreciating the small things. This suggests an ignorance of sadness and pain, thus ignoring an integral part of the human experience. I felt that this comment conflicted with the rest of Makar’s sentiments.
2. “Why am I not a bird free to seek its quest?” This quote speaks to me as it speaks to Makar. In a world of many obligations, and time commitments to simply survive, we are limited from having an opportunity to truly be present and observe our lives and our surroundings. What’s important to us. What life means for oneself. Perhaps I am speaking too much from my personal experience, and others are more capable of this than I. But I personally feel I do not have such freedom as my time is committed to life’s obligations.
Yes, the constraints of survival, the endless duties, the weight of mere existence—they suffocate the spirit’s desire for contemplation, for truly living rather than simply enduring.
Yet, it is in this very struggle, this paradox of seeking meaning amid our limitations, that one may begin to glimpse what life offers us.
“we mortals who dwell in pain and sorrow might with reason envy the birds of heaven which know not either!” That’s it, we all want to relieve our pain and sorrow. If we simply weren’t aware of it, oh how wonderful…
Ah, yes, if only we were as the birds of heaven—unburdened by the weight of our own awareness, free from the torment that comes with knowing our own suffering. How often does the thought arise: if we could but strip away the consciousness of our pain, would we not find peace at last?
To live without the gnawing sense of sorrow, without the endless reflection on our shortcomings and struggles—how wonderful indeed! Yet, in this very awareness of our suffering, there is something uniquely human, is there not? Something that shapes us, molds us. To be free of it, to exist in a blissful, ignorant state like the birds—oh, it sounds like a paradise. And yet, would we still be who we are? For it is through this sorrow, through the pain, that we often come to understand love, hope, and even joy in a way the birds, perhaps, never can.
But still, the temptation lingers. If only we could forget, if only we were not so sharply aware of the wounds we carry, might we not taste a sweeter, simpler life? This is the question that haunts us all, I think. What do you feel when you read such words? Does it make you long for that same freedom, or do you find something precious in the pain we endure?
“I have bought you two little pots of geraniums—quite cheap little pots, too—as a present.” This line moved me most of the whole passage; I can sense his longing in the words that he writes, as well as that fragile yet stubborn thing called hope which shines in spite of the most inconvenient circumstances. Looking forward to more.
Yes, the humble geraniums. There is something profoundly moving in such a small gesture, isn’t there? In those two little pots, you can feel the vastness of Makar's longing, his yearning to bring a touch of brightness into Barbara’s life, despite his own modest means. It is a delicate thing, hope—fragile, as you say, yet so stubborn that it insists on blooming, even when the soil is poor and the light is scarce.
I am very much looking forward to more of these posts, I am curious though, are these your writings in the style of Fyodor or are they written by himself?
This is the original work of Dostoevsky himself!
I assume some public domain works can be shared like this in a serialized manner - this might be how the novel was “distributed” in the first place. I’m fascinated by the serial novel form.
I stumbled across your post and thank you for doing this. It is a great concept. I have little experience with Dostoevsky, I have read the Brothers Karamazov.
With respect to the passage, the vitality and optimism of this older gentleman who posses little is palpable. I have always admired those who are able to maintain this perspective, regardless of their position in life.
Two quotes stood out to me.
1. “What rapture it gave me to see you! Ah, little Barbara, little Barbara, you must never give way to grief, for tears are of no avail, nor sorrow. I know this well—I know it of my own experience.” I was a bit surprised to read this passage. As the rest of the writing suggests a maturity in being present and appreciating the small things. This suggests an ignorance of sadness and pain, thus ignoring an integral part of the human experience. I felt that this comment conflicted with the rest of Makar’s sentiments.
2. “Why am I not a bird free to seek its quest?” This quote speaks to me as it speaks to Makar. In a world of many obligations, and time commitments to simply survive, we are limited from having an opportunity to truly be present and observe our lives and our surroundings. What’s important to us. What life means for oneself. Perhaps I am speaking too much from my personal experience, and others are more capable of this than I. But I personally feel I do not have such freedom as my time is committed to life’s obligations.
Thanks again for sharing this.
Yes, the constraints of survival, the endless duties, the weight of mere existence—they suffocate the spirit’s desire for contemplation, for truly living rather than simply enduring.
Yet, it is in this very struggle, this paradox of seeking meaning amid our limitations, that one may begin to glimpse what life offers us.
“we mortals who dwell in pain and sorrow might with reason envy the birds of heaven which know not either!” That’s it, we all want to relieve our pain and sorrow. If we simply weren’t aware of it, oh how wonderful…
Ah, yes, if only we were as the birds of heaven—unburdened by the weight of our own awareness, free from the torment that comes with knowing our own suffering. How often does the thought arise: if we could but strip away the consciousness of our pain, would we not find peace at last?
To live without the gnawing sense of sorrow, without the endless reflection on our shortcomings and struggles—how wonderful indeed! Yet, in this very awareness of our suffering, there is something uniquely human, is there not? Something that shapes us, molds us. To be free of it, to exist in a blissful, ignorant state like the birds—oh, it sounds like a paradise. And yet, would we still be who we are? For it is through this sorrow, through the pain, that we often come to understand love, hope, and even joy in a way the birds, perhaps, never can.
But still, the temptation lingers. If only we could forget, if only we were not so sharply aware of the wounds we carry, might we not taste a sweeter, simpler life? This is the question that haunts us all, I think. What do you feel when you read such words? Does it make you long for that same freedom, or do you find something precious in the pain we endure?
“I have bought you two little pots of geraniums—quite cheap little pots, too—as a present.” This line moved me most of the whole passage; I can sense his longing in the words that he writes, as well as that fragile yet stubborn thing called hope which shines in spite of the most inconvenient circumstances. Looking forward to more.
Yes, the humble geraniums. There is something profoundly moving in such a small gesture, isn’t there? In those two little pots, you can feel the vastness of Makar's longing, his yearning to bring a touch of brightness into Barbara’s life, despite his own modest means. It is a delicate thing, hope—fragile, as you say, yet so stubborn that it insists on blooming, even when the soil is poor and the light is scarce.