It took me a surprisingly long time to get into this book, though not for the reasons my sister Tammy seems to have settled on. Seven hundred pages may have been a few too many for this novel, though, unlike Les Miserables, this book had no truly extraneous chapters. I most identified with Nicolas Stavrogin as his character reached the crises that really brought out Peter's true nature and peculiar madness. I am hardly as admirable and accomplished as this character, nor am I subject to hallucinations, so this is not one of those novels in which I see myself reflected particularly well in one person. I could understand Shatov's reasons for loving Mary so much, because that resonates with my own life and feelings, but I hope I am not so desperate for someone to love me as all that, to marry someone because they once said "I love you." Nicolas Stavrogin talks in his confession about feeling things at the wrong times or feeling the right things but so that he could turn off those feelings at will, as if they were only fake, and he tells Dasha and Lisa that he could not really love them, and that any feelings he might have for them could only be superficial. This might have been enough for Mary, just for him to treat her with kindness, but she saw through his actions and recognized his lack of true feeling for her. I think, though, that most people act on that more superficial level. Just as the bishop explained that other men committed similar crimes and are not tormented by them, most people never examine their feelings thoroughly enough to see how deeply they run, nor do they necessarily need to. I doubt if I was content to live on that level that I would still be living alone in a basement apartment by now. I have met men in my 12 years since I left home, and some still in high school, who would have been happy to settle into marriage with me after a suitable courtship, and have a nice normal life. As an Adventist I might not have had to worry about a career either, since I could be active in the church instead.
Certainly I could avoid all the compromising and sometimes humiliating episodes in my life where I have 'wasted' time and energy loving men who could never love me. If it did not matter how deeply my feelings ran I would not have any reason to single out those people for whom I care most deeply, nor would I need to bother acknowledging the nature of those feelings. Life could be so much simpler without all that, and a great deal less lonely. This last one is a great microcosm of the whole idea. I had two men, of similar age, and both very attractive, re-enter my life. One was more likely to be interested in dating me than the other, but the one I was in love with, unfortunately, was also the one less likely to return that interest, at least right away. I suspect that the one I love, if he did return my feelings, would do so much more permanently and significantly than the other could. If I had said nothing I could have had myself an attractive boyfriend right now, but instead I took the necessary steps to ensure that I could not be tempted to do anything inappropriate with the other man. I made a fool of myself as well, by my admitting to being in love with the other one. At least I am starting to get used to feeling like a fool.
The biggest problem I could see with identifying too strongly with characters out of a Dostoyevsky novel is they so often end in tragedy. Shatov is murdered, and Stavrogin hangs himself. Stavrogin's death was a natural conclusion from his confession. So long as he cared at all about Dasha, or about anyone else in his life he had to die. He was one of those pigs, sort of anyway, from the Bible story, in whom the devils met their end, and he could not live without infecting others with those devils and their mischief. I am hardly a devil-possessed entity, at least, and have no active tragedies to propel me to end my life immediately, at least so long as those I love are well. I could easily work myself into a Dostoyevsky character, but I think I could do better as a Steinbeck character. I seem to always do the right things at the wrong times, or when I get the timing right, fate steps in to nullify my efforts, keeping me always in limbo, never truly suffering, but never really succeeding either. I have never been homeless, because there is always somewhere I can go, and I am never really penniless, because either a job turns up at the last minute, or a friend turns up with a loan to last till the job turns up. The job is never great, either paying very little, or lasting only a month or two, and while I get great references from them all, they never lead to anything better in the same field or anywhere else. So, at 29, I am still not any better off than at 23, except that I have more experiences in my head. It of course came to my mind to question, though obviously with no expectation that it would be an issue in reality, whether I could really marry a man 9 years my junior. If I had a great career, or had a solid idea as to where I am headed with my life, a 20-year old man would be a ridiculous match not for the age difference so much as for his sheer age. At 18 I had a better idea of my future plans than most 20-year olds, so by that measure, by now I ought to be dating men in their 40's, yet the way my life has gone, I am still mired in the same life-issues as he is , and with just about the same amount of success. At this rate we both will figure out our careers at about the same time, only his won't have met with quite so many dead-ends. It is a good thing he most likely wants to have children, because otherwise I might be more tempted to hold out real hope for 'us.' I am not exactly past child-bearing age, nor am I am dead-set against having them, but he is much more likely to choose a younger woman who actually wants to become pregnant, if he wants his own children. So I remain more in keeping with David Copperfield's aunt, a much less tragic figure, overall, I hope.
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