>>7310748 >It was one of Kitty’s best days. Her dress was not uncomfortable anywhere; her lace berthe did not droop anywhere; her rosettes were not crushed nor torn off; her pink slippers with high, hollowed-out heels did not pinch, but gladdened her feet; and the thick rolls of fair chignon kept up on her head as if they were her own hair. All the three buttons buttoned up without tearing on the long glove that covered her hand without concealing its lines. The black velvet of her locket nestled with special softness round her neck. That velvet was delicious; at home, looking at her neck in the looking glass, Kitty had felt that that velvet was speaking. About all the rest there might be a doubt, but the velvet was delicious. Kitty smiled here too, at the ball, when she glanced at it in the glass. Her bare shoulders and arms gave Kitty a sense of chill marble, a feeling she particularly liked. Her eyes sparkled, and her rosy lips could not keep from smiling from the consciousness of her own attractiveness. She had scarcely entered the ballroom and reached the throng of ladies, all tulle, ribbons, lace, and flowers, waiting to be asked to dance—Kitty was never one of that throng—when she was asked for a waltz, and asked by the best partner, the first star in the hierarchy of the ballroom, a renowned director of dances, a married man, handsome and well-built, Yegorushka Korsunsky.
>Tolstoy, Leo. A favorite between the ages of 10 and 15, and thereafter. Read complete works between 14 and 15. Nobody takes his utilitarian moralism seriously. A genius.
>Anna Karenina. Incomparable prose artistry. The supreme masterpiece of 19th-century literature. >The Death of Ivan Ilyich. A close second to Anna Karenina. >Resurrection. Detest it. >The Kreutzer Sonata. Detest it. >War and Peace. A little too long. A rollicking historical novel written for the general reader, specifically for the young. Artistically unsatisfying. Cumbersome messages, didactic interludes, artificial coincidences. Uncritical of its historical sources.
>Dostoevsky, Fyodor. Dislike him. A cheap sensationalist, clumsy and vulgar. A prophet, a claptrap journalist and a slapdash comedian. Some of his scenes are extraordinarily amusing. Nobody takes his reactionary journalism seriously.
>The Double. His best work, though an obvious and shameless imitation of Gogol's "Nose." >The Brothers Karamazov. Dislike it intensely. >Crime and Punishment. Dislike it intensely. Ghastly rigmarole.
I read a LOT of Dostoyevsky when I was first getting into literature in highschool, haven't ever read any Tolstoy besides the death of Ivan Ilyich. From what I hear I'd probably prefer Tolstoy but Anna Karenina and W&P both seem like way too much effort for me at the moment.
>>7310748 It´s just an opinion but I actually felt the contrary of what you say, War And Peace it´s a beautiful novel but compare, let´s say, Natasha´s first ball and his relationship with both Andrei and Pierre to when Raskolnikov and Sonia argue in the middle of the night and everything that leads to that moment from their relationship in crime and punishment, that scene along with others from CandP and BK feel more sincere and meaningful than most of the War and peace bourgeois tantrums. Now don´t get me wrong, i love both writers but I also agree with what another Anon said, Tolstoy definetly is a superior short story write(three deaths is a masterpiece).
>>7312854 except scaruffi is a hack who probably hasn't even read/listened to/watched 80%+ of the media he "reviews" and "rates," whereas nabokov deliberately made troll opinions to piss off people like /lit/ards. world of difference desudesudesu
>>7312644 I came up with this theory as a ten year old, I still believe it
God wants to maximize humanity's happiness while also judging evil. Laws like thou shalt not kill (even if for a good cause) are due to humans not knowing whether the outcome will lessen overall pleasure, thus these actions are condemned
>>7312902 I used to be somewhat seriously religious until I was 15, then lost my faith, but that's not what was on my mind when I was reading Dostoevsky. I like him a lot more for the nascent psychological reasoning One of my best experiences reading a book was reading Crime and Punishment because I felt so eerily similar to Raskolnikov I was obsessed with Wittgenstein, I'd fully bought into the end of PI and believed that most concepts or abstractions in philosophy were vacuous to the point of meaning nothing, and that they only existed as unfounded characterizations, nothing more. So, I was studying philosophy and thought that non-observational or non-descriptive language (so, most forms of reasoning) had no legitimacy, so neither did ethics/theology/etc. On top of that I was already pretty depressed. I wouldn't eat (accidentally dropped 20 lbs from 160), generally looked sickly, avoided people and stayed up all nights and sometimes the day until probably half my waking hours felt surreal out of sleep deprivation. I'd talk to myself when I'd go outside and obsessed over why social structures or institutions were cruel or absurd and how I'd be forced to participate in them for the rest of my life and probably hate it. Instead of murder, I fixated on suicide but I approached it in the same way as Raskolnikov} Shit, I was even dark-haired and was attractive enough that I could pull off the rambling without seeming like a school shooter (I'm still convinced that was the only reason I only mildly spooked people) When I finally finished the novel and he converted to Christianity I cried and hugged myself and watched the sun rise as I thought I'd found the solution to all my problems, just practicing love I mean that didn't pan out, but I've never identified that much with a character since
Tolstoi is the former Russia, Dostoyevski the coming "Russia. The inner Tolstoi is tied to the West. He is the great spokesman of Petrinism even when he is denying it. The West is never without a negative — the guillotine, too, was a true daughter of Versailles — and rage as he might against Europe, Tolstoi could never shake it off. Hating it, he hates himself and so becomes the father of Bolshevism. The utter powerlessness of this spirit, and "its" 1917 revolution, stands confessed in his posthumously published A Light Shines in the Darkness. This hatred Dostoyevski does not know. His passionate power of living is comprehensive enough to embrace all things Western as well — "I have two fatherlands, Russia and Europe." He has passed beyond both Petrinism and revolution, and from his future he looks back over them as from afar. His soul is apocalyptic, yearning, desperate, but of this future certain. "I will go to Europe," says Ivan Karamazov to his mother, Alyosha; "I know well enough that I shall be going only to a churchyard, but I know too that that churchyard is dear, very dear to me. Beloved dead lie buried there, every stone over them tells of a life so ardently lived, so passionate a belief in its own achievements, its own truth, its own battle, its own knowledge, that I know — even now I know — I shall fall down and kiss these stones and weep over them." Tolstoi, on the contrary, is essentially a great understanding, "enlightened" and "socially minded." All that he sees about him. takes the Late-period, megalopolitan, and Western form of a problem, whereas Dostoyevski does not even know what a problem is. Tolstoi is an event within and of Western Civilization. He stands midway between Peter and Bolshevism, and neither he nor these managed to get within sight of Russian earth. The thing they are fighting against reappears, recognizable, in the very form in which they fight. Their kind of opposition is not apocalyptic but intellectual. Tolstoi's hatred of property is an economist's, his hatred of society a social reformer's, his hatred of the State a political theorist's. Hence his immense effect upon the West — he belongs, in one respect as in another, to the band of Marx, Ibsen, and Zola.
Dostoyevski, on the contrary, belongs to no band, unless it be the band of the Apostles of primitive Christianity. His "Daemons" were denounced by the Russian Intelligentsia as reactionaries. But he himself was quite unconscious of such conflicts — "conservative" and "revolutionary" were terms of the West that left him indifferent. Such a soul as his can look beyond everything that we call social, for the things of this world seem to it so unimportant as not to be worth improving. No genuine religion aims at improving the world of facts, and Dostoyevski, like every primitive Russian, is fundamentally unaware of that world and lives in a second, metaphysical world beyond. What has the agony of a soul to do with Communism? A religion that has got as far as taking social problems in hand has ceased to be a religion. But the reality in which Dostoyevski lives, even during this life, is a religious creation directly present to him. His Alyosha has defied all literary criticism, even Russian. His life of Christ, had he written it — as he always intended to do — would have been a genuine gospel like the Gospels of primitive Christianity, which stand completely outside Classical and Jewish literary forms. Tolstoi, on the other hand, is a master of the Western novel — Anna Karenina distances every rival — and even in his peasant's garb remains a man of polite society.
Here we have beginning and end clashing together. Dostoyevski is a saint, Tolstoi only a revolutionary. From Tolstoi, the true successor of Peter, and from him only, proceeds Bolshevism, which is not the contrary, but the final issue of Petrinism, the last dishonouring of the metaphysical by the social, and ipso facto a new form of the Pseudomorphosis. If the building of Petersburg was the first act of Antichrist, the self-destruction of the society formed of that Petersburg is the second, and so the peasant soul must feel it. For the Bolshevists are not the nation, or even a part of it, but the lowest stratum of this Petrine society, alien and western like the other strata, yet not recognized by these and consequently filled with the hate of the downtrodden. It is all megalopolitan and "Civilized" — the social politics, the Intelligentsia, the literature that first in the romantic and then in the economic jargon champions freedoms and reforms, before an audience that itself belongs to the society. The real Russian is a disciple of Dostoyevski. Although he may not have read Dostoyevski or anyone else, nay, perhaps because he cannot read, he is himself Dostoyevski in substance; and if the Bolshevists, who see in Christ a mere social revolutionist like themselves, were not intellectually so narrowed, it would be in Dostoyevski that they would recognize their prime enemy. What gave this revolution its momentum was not the intelligentsia's hatred. It was the people itself, which, without hatred urged only by the need of throwing off a disease, destroyed the old Westernism in one effort of upheaval, and will send the new after it in another. For what this townless people yearns for is its own life-form, its own religion, its own history. Tolstoi's Christianity was a misunderstanding. He spoke of Christ and he meant Marx. But to Dostoyevski's Christianity the next thousand years will belong.
>>7316161 >>7316163 >>7316165 I can get onboard with the Spengster sometimes, but again (as usual) he's being much too conservative in his thinking. He has an impressive but heavy chip on his shoulder over the West that makes his ideas sink constantly into the kind of senseless negative that only the purest reactionary can get ahold of. If he had lived long enough, I'm absolutely sure postmodernism would have shattered him and his ideas.
Dostoyevsky is way fucking better than Tolstoy cause Tolstoy is fucking boring. Dostoyevsky writes shit about the human condition whereas Tolstoy writes pretentious shit. Go on any site, whether r/books or 4chan, and you'll find everyone prefers Dostoyevsky, in other words, Dosto is way fucking better.
Finding this passage some evidence of a failure at writing is a sure prove that you and others here don’t have any idea what great writing is. For example: could you dissolve your own being when you were writing and reconstruct your own mind as that of a young society girl? It seems that you don’t like the subject of the writing, but if you think about who was the author (a male, extremely proud and arrogant, a shy man when in contact with girls of society but very fond of prostitutes and gipsy girls, one who was mostly tormented by lascivious thoughts, but not love) it is almost a miracle that he could incorporate in his brain that of so different a person. Could you think like a young and popular girl? Do you really know what they think before a ball or a party?
And for the record, Tolstoy was able to use the same level of detailing and the same submersion into other human-beings brains in all kinds of situations, and he could do it even with animals (for example, the wolf in the hunt scene of war and Peace, and the Kholstomer horse in the short-story). He is able to offer every aspect of life to the reader with the same microscopic detail and truth as in this small scene you quoted. If you don’t like scenes of girls preparing for balls, just keep reading and enjoy the other thousands of scenes that the author is going to offer you.
Tolstoy was one of the few writers that can be called genius with no shadow of a doubt. To me only Shakespeare is superior to him.
>>7324687 if you break down the passage, it's exceptionally simple. 1. playing dress up 2. competition with women for Chad's cock 3. happiness from beating other women and being the chosen one for the most fit alpha male
even r9k autists could write that passage. the idea that there is something exceptional there is laughable.
You could not write it. It only seems simple when you look at the thing when it’s already done. You say that if you break it in units it reveals its simplicity, but the same can be said about the drawings od Da Vinci, Rafael and Michelangelo: break them down into small parts and they seem quite easy to make, and yet to have such dominance of line, the knowledge of economy, to know how to use light and shade and cross-hatching, etc., it’s extremely difficult.
For example: try to write a modern day equivalent: two or three girls on their room getting prepared for a party late night. Go ahead; see if you can do it.
And he does the same thing with every single scene. He knows what details to show; when you read it you think that those details are obvious, for everybody perceive and understand them; yet when it is you who is writing these obvious things refuse to present themselves in your mind.
You seem to confuse many characters screaming and grinning their teeth’s and spitting when they speak and having convulsions and seizures and speaking philosophical lines with profundity and humanity. Yet this is an extreme view: humanity and life is not always on the dark or on the light: most of it is composed of grey areas, of the everyday life, and that is the most difficult thing to portray: it is much easier to paint the extremes, for they stand out.
the idea that there is something exceptional there is laughable.
The exceptional thing is the complete fresco, altough the smaller parts that compose them are all extremelly well done.
>>7324850 I'm referring to your idea of: "it is almost a miracle that he could incorporate in his brain that of so different a person. Could you think like a young and popular girl? Do you really know what they think before a ball or a party?"
Which is a complete joke. There is no "miracle" here in terms of "incorporating his brain into someone else's". Basically your entire write-up was garbage. But to continue, it is precisely this reason, the purply prose combined with the fact that there is no great insight here that makes the passage terrible and insulting to the reader. It's obvious that the writer thought he was doing a grand thing with it but in essence it's like watching a kid having an epiphany discovering that 2+2=4, except the kid is a fully grown adult who is now screaming it into your ear repeatedly. Tasteless.
Wow man, now you are one arrogant motherfucker, aren’t you? Just admit it that you prefer Dostoyevsky and that you did not read the complete War and Peace and Anna Karenina, but just small bits of it. You probably have not even read the short stories of Tolstoy. That is the only explanation for your blindness and pretentiousness.
I have studied several translations of Shakespeare in comparison with the originals, thinking about several problems like maintaining the metrics, trying or not trying to keep the sonorous effects, using or not using only prose, but not verse, using free-verse and avoiding the ten-line syllabic metric, how to translate words that don’t have equivalents in the original, and so on.
I have also read works of simple and plain English prose in their original language and in translations for my language, and in my university dissertation to graduate in Law I translated several passages of Shakespeare (I used free-verse on the verse passages, and respected the metaphors and the imagery with absolute sincerity, using specialized dictionaries to illuminate passages with strange words). I maintain contact with Shakespeare translators and recently with a very talented friend who translated the Canterbury Tales.
So yes, I have some experience in translation, and I still think that to validate only the original works, especially those of simple prose, like Tolstoy, is a pedantic and arrogant attitude.
Anyway, the difference between the two, and why Tolstoy is the superior writer, is that Dostoevsky as an author shows a distaste for life. All his major characters are larger-than-life sick, diseased, madmen, murderers, tortured souls, alcoholics etc.. Tolstoy, on the other hand, has a pure love of life. He can intimately and beautifully represent the joys of finding a thistle in a ploughed field, or the simple selflessness of a muzhik, or the excitement a young girl feels dressing for a ball >>7310846, Tolstoy is like a calm, clear eye that looks on everything he sees in life and takes it into himself. The simple and undramatic that is everywhere around us which he uses to build up a complete picture of a character or scene.
Tolstoy could have written like Dostoevsky if he had wanted to (see The Kreutzer Sonata), but Dostoevsky could never have had the talent to write like Tolstoy.
As Joyce said: >Tolstoy is a magnificent writer. He is never dull, never stupid, never tired, never pedantic, never theatrical! He is head and shoulders over the others.
With Dostoevsky it's: >BAH GAWD KING, NASTASYA FILLIPOVNA JUST THREW THE MONEY INTO THE FIRE BAH GAWD HERE COMES ROGOZHIN WITH THE KNIFE BAH GAWD HE'S HAVING AN EPILEPTIC FIT for 800 pages
>>7324976 You think translating Modern English into Modern English is anything like translating Tolstoy's Russian into English? You're fucking daft lad. What you're creaming your pretentious pants over isn't even close to Tolstoy's prose, it's some translator's best interpretation of it.
>>7326555 I'm not sure how to explain to you how wrong you are. You're like a first year philosophy student trying to claim that Socrates was all in Plato's head. You're out of your depth and you're acting pretentious as fuck and everyone can tell. A translation can remain so faithful to the original as to give you an obvious and absolutely pristine sense of the original authorship. Especially if multiple masterful translators have parsed a work.
>Anyway, the difference between the two, and why Tolstoy is the superior writer, is that Dostoevsky as an author shows a distaste for life. All his major characters are larger-than-life sick, diseased, madmen, murderers, tortured souls, alcoholics etc.. Tolstoy, on the other hand, has a pure love of life. He can intimately and beautifully represent the joys of finding a thistle in a ploughed field, or the simple selflessness of a muzhik, or the excitement a young girl feels dressing for a ball >>7310846, Tolstoy is like a calm, clear eye that looks on everything he sees in life and takes it into himself. The simple and undramatic that is everywhere around us which he uses to build up a complete picture of a character or scene. >Tolstoy could have written like Dostoevsky if he had wanted to (see The Kreutzer Sonata), but Dostoevsky could never have had the talent to write like Tolstoy.
Nice job lad. And what do you propose, that someone can't like both authors? The purposes of their works aren't even the same, so what is the point in trying to say one does something better than the other when the other's objective wasn't the same in the first place? Kill yourself.
"All mediocre novelists are alike; every great novelist is great in his own way. Which is why the choice between nineteenth-century Russia’s two supreme prose writers ultimately boils down to the question of which kind of greatness resonates with a particular reader. My own sympathies are with Tolstoy, and even my criteria for judging a work of fiction, I admit, are relentlessly Tolstoyan"
It's all about the reader. The beauty is in the eye of the beholder. Now, I think you should think before replying.
>>7330789 Since your only reply is to say that my opinion is incorrect and that I am from Reddit, I can only assume you couldn't stand to hear someone say that they thought your beloved Tolstoy wasn't better than Dostoyevsky. Your opinion was no less ephemeral than mine, and it certainly wasn't insightful, profound, or enlightening. Consider suicide, my friend.
Not really insults, but okay. You resorted to telling someone that their preference in literature was wrong. Do you think you're smart or something? You sound like a high school sophomore who just finished his first pre-AP English class.
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