Crime and Punishment

*Note: Based on the Penguin Classics, David McDuff translation. Includes spoilers.

“No one suffers like a Russian”

My cousin recommended that I read Crime and Punishment, amongst other Russian literature, with the tagline, “No one suffers like a Russian.” I immediately recognized the statement to be true, I just hadn’t put such precise wording to it myself.

I had started reading Dostoyevsky’s Notes from Underground on multiple occasions before—it was a gift, and thin enough to appear like an easy read—but I could not get past the first 30 pages or so, though I didn’t know exactly why. But when the idea of suffering as a major theme in Russian works was pointed out to me so blatantly, I realized that I simply couldn’t take all the meandering suffering. So I tackled the short novel again, this time with a different lens. I explicitly sought out the suffering, but instead of letting it get me down, I saw it as comedic. The highly inventive and intensely descriptive ways in which the narrator inflicted such unnecessary mental anguish on himself were so outlandish they became hilarious.

Next I read Tolstoy’s The Kreutzer Sonata. It was another gift, and seemingly easily digestible novel considering its limited page count. A long rant about love—I later learned it was Tolstoy’s dig at his own wife—it was an easier read than Notes, only because there was more of a narrative to follow and not the rambling thoughts of a lowly civil servant. And again, suffering was prevalent throughout, and thus, more blue comedy gold.

So, at an aunt and uncle’s 50th wedding anniversary, I informed my cousin that I had two Russian novels under my belt, and that he was right about the suffering. It was then that he reinforced his Crime and Punishment recommendation, especially since I was still young enough—30 years old—to have some angst in me, which was ideal for the novel. I didn’t quite understand what he meant, but it was enough for me to tackle the 600+ page work.

Once again my focus was on suffering, and the novel did not disappoint. I folded down the corner of all the pages that explicitly mentioned suffering, and couldn’t wait to make wisecracks at the next family get-together about the overwhelming quantity of the word. One scene in particular really took suffering to another level. When Marmeladov told Raskolnikov how he was down and out, having spent all his money on drink, which caused his teenage daughter to sell her body to provide for the family, which, in turn, spurred Marmeladov to take action and get a job because he didn’t want to see her suffer. The first day of work is magical, and for the first time his wife looks on him with admiration and respect, as does his daughter and adopted children. But then, after only one day, he takes his salary and blows it all on alcohol, not because he enjoys it, but because it will make him suffer more. “Do you think, master publican, that I drank this jug of vodka of yours for the sake of enjoyment? Sorrow, sorrow is what I sought at its bottom, sorrow and tears, and of those I have partaken and those have I found. . .” (Marmeladov Pg. 54)

How utterly preposterous.

And with such preconceived, partially confirmed notions in my mind, I couldn’t help but think the only reason Raskolnikov committed murder was so he could suffer at deeper levels than run-of-the-mill drunks like Marmeladov. To make himself the grandest sufferer of all. How wrong I was.

“Which of our literature and scholars did not begin with some eccentric first steps?” – Ilya Petrovich (pg. 605)

Raskolnikov is not a bad person. The regret fuelled delirium he falls into shortly after the murder is evidence of that. In fact, based on all the counts of generosity he performs, one could go so far to say that he is a good person. He is simply a young man who fell victim to an idea. A small idea, implanted in his brain somewhere, somehow, that took root and grew until it consumed him entirely. The idea was that he was better than normal people, that he could dictate the course of the world, and enforce the morality he saw fit by any means necessary. He likened himself to prolific figures like Napoleon, believing such visionaries did not suffer. And to prove he was worthy of such company, he had to manifest his ideals. He did this by murdering the money-lender; not a human in his eyes, but a louse. The murder of the sister was happenstance, and for someone fulfilling such a grand destiny, the act is but a footnote. At least it should have been.

The idea that a minuscule number of people dictate the course of the world without regret is made abundantly clear in the paper Raskolnikov published. It gives the public a view into his mind, into how he understands the world. It is a prime piece of evidence for the investigators, and a means to torture his mother—despite the fact that she is proud of her son for getting something published. And it is the same kind of paper countless University students had written before, have written after, and will continue to write until the end of time. I believe this is the “angst” my cousin was referring to.

“A little bit of knowledge is a dangerous thing.”

University students truly believe they can change the world. Finally liberated from their childhood, slowly coming to terms with the fact that they can make their own decisions, they realize they are in charge of their own lives. And as they begin to learn about the world, how historic figures shaped society, how their parents messed up, they begin to form their own ideas about what is right. So, armed with little bit of liberal education, lingering childlike stubbornness, and nothing to lose, they throw themselves fully into whatever cause they believe in. Why? Well, in Raskolnikov’s case, to escape from suffering.

All he knew was suffering, as did his family, but instead of living with it, he decided to rise above it. He was fine with subjecting himself to further poverty and living in solitude because the idea that he was better than suffering was enough to live through anything. Suffering was for common folk, not those who run the world. Not him. Just as a child who thinks they are going to be the greatest this or that with the utmost determination, he held onto his belief and refused to let the world take it from him. But the ultimate test, murder for the sake of his ideals, made him realize that he was wrong. Though when you believe in something so fervently, it is difficult to let go, even when the results are right in front of you.

“I imagine one of the reasons people cling to their hates so stubbornly is because they sense, once hate is gone, they will be forced to deal with pain.” – James Baldwin

Raskolnikov could not let go. His ideals were all he had. And if he admitted to himself that what he’d done was wrong, that would mean he was not worthy of his ideals. On top of that, he would have to admit that not only was he not immune to suffering, it meant that he would actually have to suffer. It meant he was just like everyone else; a louse. Luckily, he had Sonya to help him, to tell him that he had to accept his suffering. She understood and, more importantly, accepted that suffering was a part of life. She did not get hung up on it like her father, Marmeladov, who had made suffering his life’s mandate. She saw it as a necessary part of life.

It is a hard pill to swallow though. It requires letting go of something that is held so dearly. And though there may be glimpses of progress, it is only natural for humans to retract back to their former ways. This is what Raskolnikov struggles with.

When he is finally imprisoned, the other prisoners in the yard do not like Raskolnivok because, even though he doesn’t say anything to anyone, the way he carries himself is in a manner that says he is better than them. He does not suffer. Yes he had willingly permitted his body to undergo imprisonment after confessing to the crime, but his mind remains as it had, gripping to his ideals. Only when Sonya gets sick does he realize that what he wanted was love, and only then does he let go of his ideals and accepts reality. He allows himself to suffer so that he can move forward. After this happens, the prisoners embrace him as they do everyone else. He is human after all; he is just like everyone else.

“Have you any conception, Rodion Romanovich, of what the word “suffering” means to some of them? They don’t do it for the sake of anyone in particular, but just for its own sake, purely and simply as “suffering”; all that matters is to accept suffering, and if it’s from the powers-that-be, that’s all to the good.” – Porfiry Petrovich (pg. 527)

I do think the “No one suffers like a Russian” tagline still holds true, but only because their novels go into such depth about it. They really sat with it and explored the concept, but we’re all subject to it. In The War of Art, Steven Pressfield speaks about the concept of self-dramatization as a form of resistance; something that gets in the way of our own personal evolution. We create problems out of nothing, bicker with co-workers and loved ones over insignificant issues because it is easier, and often more thrilling, than doing something that will actually make us better. We keep the psychiatry industry bustling with the masterpieces we create of the little quarrels in life. We behave in the same way people who lived in Russia over a hundred years ago did, only the methods have changed. Paraphrasing a lecture, Razumikhin says, “. . . (H)e wanted it all for nothing, as quickly as possible, without any effort. People have grown accustomed to depending on the guidance of others, having everything chewed up for them first. Well, and when the great hour finally struck, they all showed themselves at face value . . .” (Pg. 196)

How very familiar.

Anything worthwhile requires effort. It requires sacrifice. It requires suffering. We all know this, but that doesn’t mean we accept it. If we did then we would all be millionaires and lead amazing lives. Alas, it is much easier to eat sugary, salty, or fatty foods and turn our minds off with whatever technology is at hand. We think we just have to flip a switch and everything will change, we’ll suddenly become the successful and amazing people we know we are capable of becoming. And it is true, we are all capable of becoming such beings, but the first step is accepting reality, and that is much easier said than done. We like to look at ourselves as flawless, that we don’t face the same problems as others, that we’re different, we just haven’t turned on our real selves yet. We’re waiting for the right time to show up. But this time seldom comes when we need it, it is often not until we are on our deathbeds, reflecting on our lives, when we realize how foolish and delirious we really were. Thus, our false ideals must die so that we may grow. This is what Raskolnikov had to do, he had to die in his own lifetime so that he could be reborn. It’s Jesus’ resurrection retold, but I won’t go into all that here.

It is necessary to point out though, that one of the main reasons we do not move forward is because we do not want to be like Raskolnikov—we do not want to be wrong. What if our dreams don’t come true? What if all our hopes and dreams are dashed, what will we do? It is much easier to keep the mentality, “I could do that, I just don’t want to.” It gives off the air of confidence, and the more we think it, the more we believe it. And it works. Until the day comes when we have to face ourselves. And the longer we go holding on to these things, the harder it is to accept. At least Raskolnikov did it in his lifetime. He was bold enough to act on what he believed in, and found that it wasn’t for him. He found the truth within himself. Perhaps this is why so many people who meet him throughout the book say they like him, he is in search of the truth in his own way, while so many others barely look for it at all.

Of course, this is all my opinion of the novel. Projections of myself onto the characters so that I might learn something. For, I am Raskolnikov. We all are. There are ideals I hold on to, as we all do, because they have helped alleviate suffering in the past. But in order to grow, these ideals must either be acted upon, to prove their merit, or shed entirely. The results will be difficult, regardless the outcome, but necessary for growth, for our soul’s evolution.

“I like it when they talk nonsense! Talking nonsense is the sole privilege mankind possesses over the other organisms. It’s by talking nonsense that one gets to the truth! I talk nonsense, therefore I’m human.” – Razumikhin (pg. 251)