Why I love Russian Authors (besides thier impressive beards)

It is by now no secret that I have a slight addiction that has, no doubt, robed me (if you will) of my free time and spare cash alike. Yet for all the so called deprivation it has caused, its endowments are well worth the loss. Yes I speak of none other than my obsession with classic literature that has long been a self-fueling habit. Most likely if a book is old, I can say with a certain amount of confidence that I’ll enjoy the read.

I tend to dabble frequently in the British, German and French authors that seemed to dominate the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. However a few years ago I journeyed north of the well known central European dynasty and found myself falling head over heals for Russian literature. Tolstoy led to Pasternak that led to Dostoevsky and with each new work I am bewildered by their genius.

Allow me to demonstrate…

Exhibit A:

In the realist, faith is not born from miracles, but miracles from faith. Once the realist comes to believe, then precisely because of his realism, he must also allow for miracles. The Apostle Thomas declared that he would not believe until he saw, and when he saw he said “My Lord and my God!” Was it the miracle that made him believe? Most likely not, but he believed first and foremost because he wished to believe, and maybe already fully believed in his secret heart even as he was saying: “I will not believe until I see.”

Exhibit B:

Above all do not lie to yourself. A man who lies to himself and listens to his own lie comes to a point where he does not discern any truth, either in himself or anywhere around him, and thus falls into disrespect towards himself and others.

Exhibit C:

But there is also a grief that is strained; a moment comes when it breaks through with tears, and from that moment on it pours itself out in lamentations. Especially with women. But it is no easier to bear than the silent grief. Lamentations ease the heart only by straining and exacerbating it more and more. Such grief does not even want consolation; it is nourished by the sense of its unquenchableness. Lamentations are simply the need to constantly irritate the wound.

Exhibit D:

Do no be afraid of anything, never be afraid, and so not grieve. Just let repentance not slacken in you, and God will forgive everything. There is not and cannot be in the whole world such a sin that the Lord will not forgive one who truly repents of it. A man even cannot commit so great a sin as would exhaust God’s boundless love. How could there be a sin that exceeds God’s love? Only take care that you repent without ceasing, and chase away fear altogether. Believe that God loves you so as you cannot conceive of it; even with your sin and in your sin he loves you. And there is more joy in heaven over one repentant sinner than over ten righteous men—that was said long ago.

Exhibit E:

Never be frightened at your own faintheartedness in attaining love, and meanwhile do not even be very frightened by your own bad acts. I am sorry that I cannot say anything more comforting for active love is a harsh and fearful thing compared with love in dreams. Love in dreams thirsts for immediate action, quickly preformed, and with everyone watching. Indeed, it will go as far as the giving even of one’s life, provided it does not take long but is soon over, as on stage, and everyone is looking on and praising. Whereas active love is labor and perseverance, and for some people, perhaps, a whole science. But I predict that even in that very moment when you see with horror that despite all your efforts, you not only have not come nearer your goal but seem to have gotten farther from it, at that very moment—I predict this to you – you will suddenly reach your goal and will clearly behold over you the wonder-working power of the Lord, who all the while has been loving you, and all the while has been mysteriously guiding you.


Thank you Fyodor Dostoevsky; sincerely thank you.