And so we begin...

I thought long and hard about the first book to read to you. I considered the books on my shelf and thought about which one would be the most meaningful to me….and you.

Which one would allow me to walk through this difficult time with you. Difficult because, well, being a baby is tough!

Which one could provide me with some distraction and which one would hold me long enough while I held you?

I narrowed down my selection to two.

"A Day in the life of Ivan Denisovich" by Solzhenitsyn

Or

A collection of short stories by Dostoyevsky – Headlined by “Notes from Underground” setting my focus on “White Nights”, the first story in the collection.

About 3 weeks ago, I started both books at the same time to see which one I would gravitate to.

Dostoyevsky won.

I have a bit of a history with this book – more importantly, with “White Nights”.

It was the Fall of 1994. I paid a whopping $3.50. I’m not being sarcastic when I say “a whopping $3.50”.

When I bought this book, I can almost be sure that I weighed out the book’s purchase against buying some fine cigarette rolling tobacco – this brand in particular.

Hummmm… smokes or a book….Hummmmm….

I have carried this little book in my jeans pocket, my jacket pocket, several backpacks and probably a suitcase or two. It has rubbed up against the tobacco pouch above, bottles of beer, and vodka, dirty clothes, other Russian books, and placed into storage in a hot attic for well over 3 years before landing in a place of honor on my bookshelf where I pulled it from a few weeks ago.

Take a look at my copy below.

The condition of this book – even though it’s still good – shows a bit of wear.

See the man on the cover?

A man looking at the world from a dark, solitary basement cell.

At the time of purchase, the person I identified with the most in my life was that man. Sure, the cover’s artwork had nothing to do with Dostoyevsky’s “Notes from Underground”…or “White Nights” but it was a fine illustration to lure in a potential reader…in a certain mental state…like me, and well, it worked.

There are blocks of time in life where you are allowed to be in a bit of a funk.

You don’t quite know where you are, what you’re doing or where you’re going.

You need to do some soul searching, deep introspection really attempt to discover who you are before moving on and accepting a reality – hopefully of your choosing.

The discovery of White Nights.

There was a nice chill in the air but I was warm enough after riding my bike to my new daily hangout – the public library.

Autumn 1994 in central Jersey.

I had recently decided that I would spend time at a small public library just to get out into the world.

I noticed that this particular branch didn’t have the usual collection of miscreants – so I thought that I’d take on the challenge of filling that role.

I’d slum around reading magazines taking smoke breaks on the benches out front, leering at the patrons…for no particular reason but to fill my new role, and inject a little discomfort into innocent library patrons lives.

But honestly, look at me.

Am I the face of menace?

After reading my share of mags over the first couple of weeks, and settling into my new role I decided that I’d like to pick up some long fiction reading.

Still in love with Russia, I sought out the library’s Russian author holdings. Not really into Chekhov, and not finding any Babel, Dostoyevsky was up next in the stacks.

So it was in the autumn of 1994 that I discovered “White Nights” on the shelves of that little branch library in central Jersey.

I held back tears the library’s reading room struggling through the story.

I was alone, lost, confused and most of all, in love…with an idea of a woman I had created in my mind…(more on that later…maybe) but I was also in love with the characters Dostoyevsky presented.

That was 16 years ago.

So much has changed but I’m still in love with this little story.

Mr. Dostoyevsky and “White Nights” occupy a very special place in my heart, a part of my heart’s history – and even though it looked like it was a place that was dark and lonely, it was a special time for me.

Those days are over, and I look back on them and the lessons learned. I’ll read “White Nights” to you and perhaps some ghosts of those days will surface and you know, that wouldn’t be a bad thing. I’ll recognize their existence and will allow them to come and then politely escort them back to where they belong - my memories.

It's Time!

So my little son, I’m afraid that I haven’t done such a good job at getting this project rolling. Admittedly, I have found it difficult to read to you. I think that you are still at such a young age, that the act of sitting still, listening to my voice is a bit difficult for you to do. And knowing that you don’t have the ability to control anything around you or yourself at this young age…sitting and listening to me read is probably the last thing you would want to do if you had a choice.

One thing that I’d like to place here just as a little side-note – something for both of us to stumble across someday is a bit of your behavior that both your mother and I find quite interesting and fascinating. The three of us spend quite a bit of time on the sofa. Along the back of the sofa are my four large bookcases. Ever since we brought you home, as an infant just a few days old, each time we would place you facing the bookcases, you would stare that the books with such a look of concentration and almost a look of determination and defiance towards the books as if you we challenging the books themselves to a battle of existence. We knew that you couldn’t see the individual books at that distance, but perhaps you were looking at the shapes and the two basic colors that you could perceive. Now, as you are approaching your seventh week of life with us, your vision has improved, and you still look at the books as if you want a “dust-up” with them.

It would be silly of me to think anything other than you have found comfort in the horizontal and vertical structure the books present, but I like to imaging that you have made a connection to my books, and please know that they will wait there for you.

Even though I have not found the ability to read to you from my books, I feel that you already have a relationship with them…and so, I am pleased.

I'm done with this nonsense!

I finished Resurrection the weekend before you were born. It was wonderful how that worked out. I know how it sounds, but really, it was as if I was being pushed to finish.

Here are my final comments on Resurrection.

Before I get to those, I’d like to state that I felt that this was a pretty d

ifficult book to get through. There really wasn’t much for me to hold onto – to keep me interested. The only reason I finished was to – well – finish.

As I sit here thinking about what to write – here is a shot of the bookmarks that I placed onto the pages that I want to comment on.

Just the idea of commenting on all of those marks places a huge mental wall before me. The book was just so…dull. Sure there were moments – and I suppose I marked those to comment on…but I wish there were 50 times those marks for me to comment on.

So – on with it.

From book II chapter XXXV

“But the boy with the long, thin neck, who looked at the procession of prisoners without taking his eyes off them, solved the question differently.

He still knew, firmly and without any doubt, for he had it from God, that these people were just the same kind of people as he was, and like all other people, and therefore some one had done these people some wrong, something that ought not to have been done, and he was sorry for them, and felt no horror either of those who were shaved and chained or of those who had shaved and chained them. And so the boy’s lips pouted more and more, and he made greater and greater efforts not to cry, thinking it a shame to cry in such a case.”

I remember as a young boy myself seeing people in unfortunate situations which then caused me to reflect upon the reasons why they were in the situations that they were in. I too felt sorry for them and felt tears of…

It all lies in the fact that men think there are circumstances in which one may deal with human beings without love; and there are no such circumstances. One may deal with things without love. one may cut down trees, make bricks, hammer iron without love; but you cannot deal with men without it, just as one cannot deal with bees without being careful. If you deal carelessly with bees you will injure them, and will yourself be injured. And so with men. It cannot be otherwise, because natural love is the fundamental law of human life. It is true that a man cannot force another to love him, as he can force him to work for him; but it does not follow that a man may deal with men without love, especially to demand anything from them. If you feel no love, sit still," Nekhludoff thought; "occupy yourself with things, with yourself, with anything you like, only not with men. You can only eat without injuring yourself when you feel inclined to eat, so you can only deal with men usefully when you love. Only let yourself deal with a man without love, as I did yesterday with my brother-in-law, and there are no limits to the suffering you will bring on yourself, as all my life proves. Yes, yes, it is so," thought Nekhludoff; "it is good; yes, it is good," he repeated, enjoying the freshness after the torturing heat, and conscious of having attained to the fullest clearness on a question that had long occupied him.

And at this point, I feel that I need to let Resurrection go.

I simply can’t devote anymore time to it. I’ve sat here staring at the screen wondering what I can say about the book that will leave a pleasant memory with you…with me.

I suppose though in doing so I realized that the best memory, gained from the reading of this book was and is the memory of my life before you were born.

Resurrection acted as a sort of placeholder in my life before you were born.

I read it and reflected on my life as it was. Now, everything that I take into account will be colored by you and our life together.

I really cannot go any further with this book.

You are here with me.

Hello my son.

I think I can say that officially now since you are “officially” here.

You were born a few weeks ago – which explains the lapse in postings in this journal.

We took a walk this morning. It was a beautiful autumn morning. We stopped under a birch tree and I took this picture.

I pointed this tree out to you. I know you heard me.

I think we’ll talk a lot about birch trees in the future.

Feet stuck in the Russian spring time mud

This is a tough book to get through. I’m on page 352. 131 more pages to the end. I have no doubt that I’ll finish it. I WANT to finish it this weekend, but I can’t remember the last time I read more than 100 pages in a weekend. We don’t have anything planned for the weekend so the possibility of finishing is well…a real possibility.

I have to admit, I’ll be happy to finish this book. I don’t think I started off this project with a good book. It's been a real challenge.

I was talking with Mirela (mom) earlier today about reading another book (Ian Frazier’s Travels In Siberia) and how it took a bit of time for me to get used to the way he wrote (just the first couple of chapters). I think it was due to me being so immersed in a different type or maybe style of writing. The translation by Maude of Resurrection is worded in what I can only describe as a more “classical” language (I’m pretty sure that’s not even the correct way of describing it) and the short stories that I have been reading from the 1980s in The Best American Short Stories is also worded differently…sure, it’s not classical…but I feel that there is a difference in writing.

Tolstoy hasn’t exactly pulled me through this novel either. I am finally to the point where Nekhlyudov is preparing to go to Siberia with Maslova. The portion of the novel that held my leg was when Nekhlyudov was in St. Petersburg visiting various individuals attempting to secure the pardon of Maslova and several other convicts that he agreed to assist. Tolstoy reaaaaalllly stretches this portion out. Thinking of this, perhaps there was an effort by Tolstoy to make this portion of the novel difficult in order to really drive home to the reader the difficulties of Nekhlyudov’s task. The layers of bureaucracy and uncaring “officials” shuffling Nekhlyudov from one person to the next.

So – as I close in on the final 100 pages of this novel, I start to think about the next book I would like to read.

I have created a spreadsheet of the authors in my collection that I have chosen to include in this project and would hope to add to this collection as time goes on.

Link to the Google docs here.

I think I would like to start a book with that has a collection of short stories. I seem to be able to digest those a bit easier now and in the near future due to what will be my/our new life.

Finally, another WTFED

“Nothing is softer or more yielding than water, yet nothing can beat it for strength. The weak defeats the strong, tenderness defeats cruelty, humility defeats pride. Everyone knows this law but nobody follows it.”

Please Forgive Me

The next chapter that catches my attention is XLVIII where we find Nekhlyudov seeking forgiveness and a new life with Maslova.

To ask for forgiveness, to receive forgiveness and to feel that you should be forgiven are really is a fascinating set of mental processes.

I think I have a gene deep within my DNA that causes me to feel quite a bit of guilt concerning most situations where this feeling could arise. I’m pretty positive that I picked this up from my mother. From what I understand from her, it seems that she grew up in a house where she was made to feel guilty about things most of the time. The funny thing is, I do not feel that I was raised in a similar way – which leads to my thought that I have a guilt gene.

Now, I am pretty sure that if I decided to place myself into some sort of therapy sessions for an extended period of time, the analyst would be able to narrow down a reason why I live my life they way I do.

I live it the way I live it, and I suspect that I’ll continue down this path without much deviation. I’m almost 40, and with this age comes a personality and character traits that are pretty set.

How about a little WTFED

The joy of a wise and kind person lies in his conscience, not on the lips of others.

Lovely… how fitting that the particular wise thought I am quoting above appeared within the last week of the book.

I live everyday with a guilty conscience…but I do not think that my conscience provides me with joy even though I regard myself as a kind person. An about the wise part.

Well, that’s debatable.

Tolstoy and the Church

It’s easy to see by the time stamp that I haven’t written in quite some time.

That doesn’t mean I haven’t been reading. I have been making decent progress in the novel...not with the speed that I had started out with, but progress nonetheless.

M and I have been getting ready for the baby, and it seems that the “free time” I had in the past has been taken up with the preparations. I have no problem with this. We will all be making adjustments in our lives to welcome the little guy and those adjustments will trickle down to the smallest things like reading time.

So, the next place I have marker to discuss here is pictured below. Chapter 39. If you look closely, there is a small asterisk next to the last word in the first sentence of the chapter. If we flip back to the notes section, the note for this section reads:

The following description of the liturgy has become along with “Natasha at the opera” in War and Peace, a locus classicus used to illustrate Tolstoy’s technique of “defamiliarazation”. It was especially offensive to the pious and the clergy and contributed to the eventual decision to excommunicate him. Within the novel it should be contrasted with the earlier Easter Celebration which presents the liturgical event from the eyes of the faithful. Here Tolstoy’s estranged view helps stress the oppressive aspects of prison life and Maslova’s loss of faith.

An in the shot below, you will see the article discussing the excommunication which was covered by the New York Times in March of 1901. If you click on the photo, you should be able to get a better shot.

And below is an article detailing how even after 100 years, the Russian Orthodox Church would not bring him back into the fold.

"100 Years After Excommunication, Church Cannot Look Kindly Upon Tolstoy"

Russian Orthodox hierarchy rejects request of writer's great-great-grandson.

Andrei Zolotov | posted 3/01/2001 12:00AM

A hundred years after it excommunicated Leo Tolstoy, the Russian Orthodox Church has ignored a plea by his great-great-grandson, Vladimir Tolstoy, to reconsider the writings and reflections of the famous novelist.

Vladimir Tolstoy, director of Leo Tolstoy's Yasnaya Polyana estate museum, told ENI this week that he had written to the church's leader, Patriarch Alexei, in January asking him to review Tolstoy's teaching—the reason for his rejection by the church—on the grounds that the excommunication was a hindrance to national reconciliation.

He told ENI the media had misinterpreted his letter as a plea to lift the excommunication. "I was simply inviting the church to hold a dialogue on this painful subject," Tolstoy said in an interview. "In my letter, there was no request to lift the excommunication or to forgive Tolstoy."

In his letter to the patriarch, the writer's descendant stated that the decision on February 22, 1901, by the Russian Orthodox Church synod to excommunicate Tolstoy had had a "painful effect on all the following course of Russia's history."

The church's act had forced "every Russian Christian" to make a difficult "moral choice." "An Orthodox Christian cannot reject God, but it is also difficult to reject the national genius and prophet, who to this day constitutes the pride and glory of our national culture," Vladimir Tolstoy wrote…

In the late 1870s, after completing the two novels, Tolstoy underwent a profound spiritual crisis and began a search for the meaning of life. He found little solace in the writings of philosophers, theologians and scientists, but, as he declares in A Confession, published in 1884, he found insights in the daily life of Russian peasants who told him that everyone must serve God rather than living for themselves.

He emerged from his spiritual crisis as what some have described as a Christian anarchist, attached to the Gospel, but without any belief in immortality and seeing Christ as simply a man. At the same time, Tolstoy rejected the authority of the church and the government.

Tolstoy then gathered a big following as he dedicated most of the second part of his life to writing essays, pamphlets, didactic short stories and plays. His novel Resurrection, published in 1899, includes strong criticism of church ritual. Apparently this was one of the reasons for his excommunication. Tolstoy's views influenced European humanists and India's champion of peace, Mahatma Gandhi.

…

At a press conference on March 4, Patriarch Alexei acknowledged Tolstoy as "a literary genius," but said that the writer's religious views were a different matter. "I do not think we have the right to force a man, who died [almost] 100 years ago, to return to the bosom of the church that he rejected," the patriarch said.

Vsevolod Chaplin, a senior Moscow Patriarchate official, told ENI. "I think everyone in our country, including believers, have respect for Tolstoy as a writer. When he expressed views that contradict its teaching and its spirit, the church, naturally, had the right to say that such views could not be considered Orthodox."

Father Chaplin pointed out that after the 1901 excommunication Tolstoy did not publicly repent for his views. Although there were various stories about the writer receiving absolution and communion before his death, there was strong indication that he had not, Chaplin said.

A review of Tolstoy's reflections and teaching "would make sense only if some proof were discovered that Tolstoy changed his views before his death," Father Chaplin said. "Otherwise, it makes no sense whatsoever." He added that excommunication was "not a curse, as some people think, but an attestation that the writer's beliefs very seriously disagreed with the Orthodox teaching."

Vladimir Tolstoy told ENI that "they [church officials] are trying to avoid the subject. But I received many letters and telephone calls. That reassured me that there is a lot to discuss here."

So, after 100 years, a bunch of old guys sitting in the church feel that an author such as Tolstoy, who wrote a series of essays and books which could have cast an ill-eye towards the Orthodox Christina Church, should not be accepted back into the community of Russian Orthodoxy.

----------------------------------------------------

Well, I think that Tolstoy wouldn’t have trouble with that decision at all. In fact, I feel that if Tolstoy were to be magically transplanted into our time with all the knowledge that we now have (specifically in the fields of certain sciences…physics…cosmology etc.) his personal beliefs would be sharper and I doubt that he would feel the need to be welcomed back into the church.

Maslova Recalls the Past

Tolstoy has the ability to create scenes that really have a way of leaving an impact on me. He has a balance which combines the right levels of drama and emotion and he really cracks the human character.

Again, we see his strength to articulate a human and his/her emotions in a way unlike other authors.

I’m not sure what attracts me to the scene below. Perhaps it illustrates a scene that could have played out in my own life.

From chapter XXXVII -

It was a warm, rainy, and windy autumn night. The rain now pelted down in warm, heavy drops, now stopped again. It was too dark to see the path across the field, and in the wood it was pitch black, so that although Katusha knew the way well, she got off the path, and got to the little station where the train stopped for three minutes, not before, as she had hoped, but after the second bell had been rung.

Hurrying up the platform, Katusha saw him at once at the windows of a first-class carriage. Two officers sat opposite each other on the velvet-covered seats, playing cards. This carriage was very brightly lit up; on the little table between the seats stood two thick, dripping candles. He sat in his closefitting breeches on the arm of the seat, leaning against the back, and laughed. As soon as she recognized him she knocked at the carriage window with her benumbed hand, but at that moment the last bell rang, and the train first gave a backward jerk, and then gradually the carriages began to move forward.

One of the players rose with the cards in his hand, and looked out. She knocked again, and pressed her face to the window, but the carriage moved on, and she went alongside looking in.

The officer tried to lower the window, but could not. Nekhludoff pushed him aside and began lowering it himself.

The train went faster, so that she had to walk quickly.

The train went on still faster and the window opened.

The guard pushed her aside, and jumped in.

Katusha ran on, along the wet boards of the platform, and when she came to the end she could hardly stop herself from falling as she ran down the steps of the platform. She was running by the side of the railway, though the first-class carriage had long passed her, and the second-class carriages were gliding by faster, and at last the third-class carriages still faster.

But she ran on, and when the last carriage with the lamps at the back had gone by, she had already reached the tank which fed the engines, and was unsheltered from the wind, which was blowing her shawl about and making her skirt cling round her legs. The shawl flew off her head, but still she ran on.

"…but still she ran on." Just beautiful.

There was a time in my life where I could have been Nekhludoff in that train…and someone that I loved and still love very much could have been Maslova running down the train platform.

I made a decision and “she” agreed with this decision and the scene above never played out for me.

I couldn’t leave her behind. She had too much potential and I loved her too much to not have her in my life.

The Awakening

I feel that at the speed I am reading I’ll certainly be through with this novel by the time you are born. Completing this novel will certainly give me the strength to conquer others. Yes, I use the word conquer. Although the writing/translation has been somewhat updated, it’s still not really in the modern style that I am accustomed to in my other readings. I can hardly wait to get to my Pevear and Volokhonsky translations.

So, I’m now on page 234 and what I am doing is placing marks in the book at pages which contain passages that I would like to comment upon.

So from chapter XXVIII – “The Awakening” – I discovered the following passages that moved me.

He stopped again, folded his hands in front of his breast as he used to do when a little child, lifted his eyes, and said, addressing some one: "Lord, help me, teach me, come enter within me and purify me of all this abomination."

He prayed, asking God to help him, to enter into him and cleanse him; and what he was praying for had happened already: the God within him had awakened his consciousness. He felt himself one with Him, and therefore felt not only the freedom, fullness and joy of life, but all the power of righteousness. All, all the best that a man could do he felt capable of doing.

His eyes filled with tears as he was saying all this to himself, good and bad tears: good because they were tears of joy at the awakening of the spiritual being within him, the being which had been asleep all these years; and bad tears because they were tears of tenderness to himself at his own goodness.

He felt hot, and went to the window and opened it. The window opened into a garden. It was a moonlit, quiet, fresh night; a vehicle rattled past, and then all was still. The shadow of a tall poplar fell on the ground just opposite the window, and all the intricate pattern of its bare branches was clearly defined on the clean swept gravel. To the left the roof of a coach-house shone white in the moonlight, in front the black shadow of the garden wall was visible through the tangled branches of the trees.

Nekhlyudov gazed at the roof, the moonlit garden, and the shadows of the poplar, and drank in the fresh, invigorating air.

"How delightful, how delightful; oh, God, how delightful" he said, meaning that which was going on in his soul.

There specifically two parts to the above passage that I’d like to comment upon. From the beginning of the selection to the sentence ending with the word “goodness”, a scene is played out that I feel I have seen myself almost recreate in my own life. I have found myself – at times – before I really began to explore my relationship with a spiritual entity “requesting” some sort of assistance with a problem I was facing. I cannot say that I felt any sort of weight lifted from me or a “spirit” entering into me. I can say though that did feel some sort of “power of righteousness” and I feel that was as a direct result of me placing my faith in the action of prayer as a possible solution to the problem I was facing. I felt that the act of praying was the best that I could do and that action itself was going to solve my problem…not necessarily a “God” or “spirit”. The feeling of righteousness gained just by the act of praying is a possible reason that led me down one of my paths of exploration of my spirituality and faith.

The second selection from that passage above is where Nekhlyudov is gazing at the scene outside of his window.

With my inability to completely relate to Nekhlyudov in the first part of the above passage, with this second part, I can totally relate.

It was a moonlit, quiet, fresh night; a vehicle rattled past, and then all was still. The shadow of a tall poplar fell on the ground just opposite the window, and all the intricate pattern of its bare branches was clearly defined on the clean swept gravel. To the left the roof of a coach-house shone white in the moonlight, in front the black shadow of the garden wall was visible through the tangled branches of the trees.

Nekhlyudov gazed at the roof, the moonlit garden, and the shadows of the poplar, and drank in the fresh, invigorating air.

It was on more than one occasion that I stood in the deepest night or in the earliest of mornings in the cold crisp snow and observed the earth just as above. It was either in Vermont or in Romania. And – in keeping with Tolstoy’s philosophy of disclosure – I was probably in some sort altered state of mind which I feel I could apply to Nekhlyudov and his particular mental state which forced him to seek the intervention of ‘God”.

And now WTFED:

“When you do not work you become bored. When you are bored, you sin”

HAPPY BIRTHDAY! YOU ARE 182 YEARS OLD!

A sign?

It's as if I'm being guided. Came in the mail today.

Cleansing of the soul

Making good progress on resurrection. Landed on page 165 this morning. I’ll pull out some passages that catch my attention either though the content it focuses upon…the general style Tolstoy uses in a passage… or the general feeling that arises after I read it.

The following is from chapter XXVIII – The Awakening

More than once in Nekhlyudov's life there had been what he called a "cleansing of the soul." By "cleansing of the soul" he meant a state of mind in which, after a long period of sluggish inner life, a total cessation of its activity, he began to clear out all the rubbish that had accumulated in his soul, and was the cause of the cessation of the true life. His soul needed cleansing as a watch does. After such an awakening Nekhlyudov always made some rules for himself which he meant to follow forever after, wrote his diary, and began afresh a life which he hoped never to change again. "Turning over a new leaf," he called it to himself in English. But each time the temptations of the world entrapped him, and without noticing it he fell again, often lower than before.

…

… "Have you not tried before to perfect yourself and become better, and nothing has come of it?" whispered the voice of the tempter within. "What is the use of trying any more? Are you the only one? - All are alike, such is life," whispered the voice. But the free spiritual being, which alone is true, alone powerful, alone eternal, had already awakened in Nekhlyudov, and he could not but believe it.

…

He prayed, asking God to help him, to enter into him and cleanse him; and what he was praying for had happened already: the God within him had awakened his consciousness. He felt himself one with Him, and therefore felt not only the freedom, fullness and joy of life, but all the power of righteousness. All, all the best that a man could do he felt capable of doing.

His eyes filled with tears as he was saying all this to himself, good and bad tears: good because they were tears of joy at the awakening of the spiritual being within him, the being which had been asleep all these years; and bad tears because they were tears of tenderness to himself at his own goodness.

I don’t think there has been an extended period of time where I have looked at myself and wished and sought help at cleansing the evil/negative/bad/wicked parts out of me. I feel that I am very critical of my psychological being. I question my decision making; I question my own self control and discipline.

How do I go about cleansing myself?

Honestly, I feel that I am seeking, and have been seeking an answer to that question for years…yes- years. I’d also like to think that some of the process of doing these readings and wrings will allow me to work on correcting what I’d like to call “character flaws”.

Do I pray?

That’s a tough one as I struggle to recognize and understand my own feelings about a “being” to “pray to”.

Am I praying to the god within me – or am I praying to the “God” that is floating up in the clouds?

Who or what am I seeking assistance from. Am I attempting to rally my own forces within me to fight against that which I am battling against – or am I seeking some sort of external assistance? Does that external existence even exist?

The real question then becomes, is this questioning of an existence a good thing or a harmful thing?

I do not see the harm in questioning the existence or lack of existence of a “being”.

What I am sure of though is that I exist and I have a voice within me that I listen to.

I think that this questioning of existence and the realization of the “being” within me is one of the reasons why I have finally been able to tackle this novel. I don’t think that Tolstoy’s writing would have held me in the past as it is doing now.

Today’s WTFED is rather fitting.

“Atheism indicates that a person has some intellect but only to a certain limited extent. Both the truly wise and the completely stupid are not atheists.”

Well now…something to dwell on.

Settling in for the long read

So I’m 94 pages into this book…total 483.

I better get to reading if I’m going to wrap this up before the little guy arrives!

Reading at night is tough. I’m usually pretty tired by the time dinner is over and after M and I have returned from our evening walk. It’s tough to settle down in my nice comfortable (reclining) chair, pick up a book and read.

It’s so much easier to just lay back, put on a mindless TV program and drift off.

But, surprisingly, I’ve found “Resurrection” holding my attention. I was worried when I first started reading this book (and given my past history with it) that it would be hard to mentally hold this book because I really haven’t read literature in translation from this period in quite some time. My reading of short stories from the late 70s and the early 80s has really set my head in a certain frame of reading. – Does that make any sense?

In preparation and during the reading of Resurrection and for future Tolstoy novels, I have been reading opinions on the book and on his writing. I ran across this thread on a literature discussion board.

The question was asked – “Why do we study literature?” The question sounds like a student attempting to get some good answers to use as their own for the next day’s class…but I found the answers – especially the first (and the author cited was quite fitting) one to be a wonderful reason for the existence of this journal.

“I think it was Leo Tolstoy who argued that all of literature, quality literature, revolves around two central issues: Who are we and how shall we live? These two questions strike at the heart of literature and provide answers to why we study literature. If we take Tolstoy's paradigm and study it, we understand why a study of literature is vital to our understanding of ourselves and our world. All literature does, to a large extent, address both questions in different ways. The answers derived help us understand our identities and purposes in this life. The manner in which these questions are answered may vary from text to text, yet the underlying premise behind why we study literature comes back to Tolstoy's predicament: We seek answers to who we are and how we shall live.”

Tolstoy and his morals – I’ll be sure to include some of what John Gardner and DFW had to say about him and those in a later entry.

Here is a lovely passage – one that someday I may be able to explain to you. It’s a passage that touched my heart and took me back…

“In the love between a man and a woman there always comes a moment when this love has reached its zenith—a moment when it is unconscious, unreasoning, and with nothing sensual about it. Such a moment had come for Nekhlyudov on that Easter eve. When he brought Katusha back to his mind, now, this moment veiled all else; the smooth glossy black head, the white tucked dress closely fitting her graceful maidenly form, her, as yet, un-developed bosom, the blushing cheeks, the tender shining black eyes with their slight squint heightened by the sleepless night, and her whole being stamped with those two marked features, purity and chaste love, love not only for him (he knew that), but for everybody and everything, not for the good alone, but for all that is in the world, even for that beggar whom she had kissed.”

Katusha at the Easter service

I am quite fascinated with the character of Katusha. I think that because of my time in Romania… and honestly my fascination with the peasants, I can picture Katusha quite clearly.

Now, Katusha is not a peasant, she is more of a “house maid”…but I cannot seem to disassociate my mental picture of her as more of a peasant.

Again, I think that this is another wonderful aspect of literature – the author goes to great lengths to develop the character - their physical being as well as their personality and soul. It is the reader that may unconsciously assign smaller characteristics to the players in the novel as they read simply because of their own background and the filter that the story passes through in their mind colors the story in a shade that is the most pleasant to them.

Most of the action in the story since my last post has taken place in the courtroom. There was the “flashback” to the whole affair between Katusha and Nekhlyudov but it’s really hard for me to decide which was more compelling.

Katusha in court

Finally, here is another WTFED.

“There is only one type of treasure that does not get smaller when you give it to others. You can give away as much as you want, and it only grows bigger. It is the treasure of wisdom.”