Picture:

A room with hardwood floors, a wobbly ceiling fan, and all the congregated possessions of a nerdy boy's first nineteen years--a man backlit by boylight and frontlit by computerlight. One glowing comet sticker remains persistently attached to the ceiling, a faint reminder of the constellations which once graced these walls with the sweep of galaxies. It is too dark to see much at all, but in the closet lies a sword, in the corner is a Darth Vader piggy bank, and by the window hangs a second sword. Books of poetry, science fiction, fantasy, and Russian literature line the shelves. This is me, sitting in my childhood bedroom with dismay on my face. For I have been unable to Google myself.

Or rather, to Google myself and have any results turn up. You see, I've previously explained what sorts of challenges face a person with my name. Oh, I'm certain they can't compare to the plight of a John Miller or a Jack Johnson, but still, they sting. I quite simply wanted to create a place for myself on this world wide web which would, when wandering web-wise, be found by at least the person who created it. But still, after two (granted, short) weeks, I am still Where-In-the-World-Is-Carmen-Sandiego-ing myself and finding nothing. All this is temporarily discouraging, but no more so than the rain.

Ah, nasty rain! You monsoon-like spurt of spirited drenching which destroyed my precious notebook, soggy-ing the binding to the point of ripping! I despise you, because I must now give rest to the recording of ideas until evaporation takes its course and the correct balance of humidity is restored. Well, at least I still have this arena to write in.

So, to write. And to write, I must read. And I have read. Crime and Punishment has now been thoroughly devoured. It is time for a declaration. I love Dostoevsky.

I now understand why reading the first few pages of one of Dostoevsky's novels is not sufficient. The simple fact is that he asks for a large investment in return for a massive payoff at a later date. I had to wade through 200 somewhat tedious pages to be handed 350 pages of excellent prose.

A young man, Rodion Romanovich Raskolnikov, (has a nice ring of alliteration) lives in a cramped, insanity-conducive apartment in St. Petersburg. He spends all of his time obsessed with the question of whether he is an extraordinary person, or just another ant among ants. This uncertainty regarding his quality plagues him, and he decides to test his mettle with murder. What follows this murder is the primary concern of the novel.

It is hard to know what else to say. In fact, I'm rather fearful of ruining any sort of plot developments because they are the reward you receive for your patience and dedication. However, it is a deeply descriptive novel of the sort which lends itself readily to imagination. Throughout the reader participates in the recreation of Petersburg in the 1860s, and the picture is startlingly realistic even without prior knowledge. One can live in this novel, as I did, for days on end. The characters can become your friends.

Which is one thing to note. I believe Dostoevsky has a certain brilliance with character, far surpassing his command of plot or commentary. They were all real, and I couldn't hate even one of them because they all had some redeeming feature, as human beings generally do. Dostoevsky exposes us to the worst and best in all people--that is his gift.

"What matter if no one will see you for a long time? The point lies in you, not in time. Become a sun and everyone will see you. The sun must be the sun first of all." (460 in the Volokhonsky-Pevear translation)

Sincerely,
Spencer Miles Kimball