In this blog post, I’ll focus on ‘The Brothers Karamazov’—one of Dostoevsky’s major works—to explore my empathy with and resistance toward the characters, the inner demons and spiritual reflections, and the exhaustion and sweetness of the reading journey.

The Reading Journey and Emotions

I’ve finally finished it. It feels as though I’ve completed a truly long journey. Starting with ‘Crime and Punishment’, moving through ‘The Idiot’ and ‘Demons’, I’ve finally reached my final destination: ‘The Brothers Karamazov’. Along with a sense of accomplishment and satisfaction, an overwhelming sense of exhaustion washes over me. But it’s an incredibly sweet kind of exhaustion. It’s only natural that happiness and sweetness accompany the fatigue that follows such a long journey of the soul.
I’m sure you feel the same way, but when I read Dostoevsky’s novels, I can’t just sit back comfortably and watch the characters’ spiritual journeys unfold. Without even realizing it, I find myself participating in that journey—not in a state that’s familiar or perfectly normal to me, but in situations that are extremely extreme, bordering on madness… So, of course, I can’t help but feel exhausted. However, thanks to those extreme states—that madness—I hear the echoes from the deepest recesses of my soul, places I normally cannot see or even sense. And above all, what truly exhausts me is the fact that these echoes consist not of just one or two voices, but of a vast array of voices.

Empathy for Characters and Inner Reflection

While reading Dostoevsky’s novels, you’ve likely had experiences similar to mine. At times, you may have found yourself becoming Raskolnikov from ‘Crime and Punishment’, empathized with Prince Myshkin from ‘The Idiot’, or felt both repelled by and fascinated by Nikolai Stavrogin from ‘Demons’. You likely felt similarly not only toward these protagonists but also toward the actions and words of the countless other characters appearing in his novels. And while reading ‘The Brothers Karamazov’—which can be seen as the culmination and final destination of all his novels—you probably felt that way toward nearly every character in the story.
However, there is another factor that actually wears us out even more as we read, captivated by these feelings. As we read a novel, we sometimes become this character and sometimes that one. Feeling the myriad “other selves” within us stirring, we might mutter, “There are so many of me inside me.” That alone is exhausting. Yet our feelings toward those “other selves” are not consistent. Think back on it for a moment. Even when immersed in a novel’s characters, haven’t you sometimes empathized with them and at other times felt a strong aversion toward them?
Let’s take Ivan as an example. In a way, Ivan is a truly captivating character. He is an intellectual who is wrestling with extreme anguish in his quest to make this world a happier place. Moreover, the epic poem “The Grand Inquisitor,” which he recites to Alyosha (Alexei), represents the climax of the work. The Grand Inquisitor in that poem perfectly embodies Ivan’s inner turmoil. His central dilemma is how to bring happiness to the people of this world. It is a profoundly noble concern. In the face of his selfless concern, his vast knowledge, and his persuasive logic, we bow our heads in respect.
However, the path he has chosen stems from a negative view of humanity and the world. In his view, humans are inherently flawed beings, capable only of three-dimensional thinking. Granting freedom to such humans would, in fact, plunge them into suffering and anguish. To make humans happy, we must give them bread instead of freedom. We must deceive them under the banners of “mystery,” “miracle,” and “authority.” That is the path the devil proposed when he tempted Christ in the Bible. The path he has chosen is one that denies the existence of God. It is a path that denies and deprives humans of all their potential. On that chosen path, humans become nothing more than docile lambs submitting to authority. The pretext of seeking human happiness leads to the contradiction of denying the very value of human existence itself.
So what is lacking in him that has led him to this state? It is precisely concrete life and love. Because the path he chose is one of intellectual logic, it lacks concrete life; and because he is mired in skepticism and denial regarding the world and humanity, it lacks love. Dmitri (Mitya) calls Ivan a “grave.” This means both that his life is a life akin to death and that, even beyond the grave—that is, beyond death—there is nothing but darkness and death. Regarding such an Ivan, Alyosha says the following:

“What about the leaves in spring? What about those holy graves? What about the blue sky and a beloved woman? Brother, how on earth do you intend to live? How can you love such things? How can you go on living with such a hell in your heart and mind?”

This digression has gotten a bit long. Since I’m not writing this commentary to analyze the work itself, I suppose I’ve strayed from the main point. To return to the topic at hand, many readers likely feel aversion toward Ivan. Even if one isn’t a Christian, how could one not rebel against his line of reasoning, which ultimately advocates for autocratic dictatorship? Thus, we find ourselves both empathizing with and resenting the character of Ivan.
The same goes for Mitya, who, on the surface, has a violent temper and leads a dissolute life. What do you think? Even as you shudder at his various immoral acts, didn’t you find yourself sympathizing with him because his sense of honor—which regards theft and lying as the greatest of dishonors—seemed so precious?
To us, these characters may seem utterly unrealistic. They may appear to be wildly exaggerated. At least, that’s how it appears on the surface. But let’s all take a moment to look deep within ourselves. And let’s pass judgment on ourselves. Can’t you see that the very being we felt revulsion and antipathy toward while reading this novel is actually inside us? Don’t be disappointed by this. It’s perfectly natural. That is precisely what it means to be human—and it is also the human condition.
That’s right. Dostoevsky’s novels—especially ‘The Brothers Karamazov’—blatantly confront us with the aspects of ourselves that we usually deny, the aspects we’ve been trying so hard to forget. They even make us feel familiar with those aspects. It’s an utterly exhausting process. They even make the devil feel familiar to us. What on earth is the point of doing that?
What does it mean when we sense that repulsive entity lurking deep within us—the devil breathing there? Doesn’t it imply that there is some standard by which we find that entity repulsive and recognize it as a devil? Consider the case of a person who, having habitually committed evil deeds without a second thought, suddenly cries out, “I’m a bad person!” Doesn’t that moment signify the awakening of something good—something that recognizes evil as evil? If so, there is a strange paradox at play.
The fact that I clearly recognize the demon within me might mean that I have already set foot on the path to heaven, the path of religion. At the very least, that path is far closer to a truly spiritual path than the one marked by arrogance—the path of declaring, “There’s no such thing as a demon inside me! All my thoughts and actions are exactly as God has commanded.” Such arrogance carries a high risk of causing me to accept myself and this world simply as they are. It carries a high risk of actually distancing me from spirituality. In fact, there are far too many believers like this around us. To such believers, I dare to suggest: Get a little closer to the devil! Don’t shun the devil within yourself—look at it squarely in the eye! And acknowledge that it is indeed the devil!
As I shout this in such a devilish manner, laced with a touch of spite, it feels as though someone beside me is gently nudging me to stop. It is Alyosha. He is a character quite different from the others who so mercilessly shook us to our core. In a way, he even seems like a minor character in this novel. He neither torments us nor excites us. He isn’t caught up in any major events. He seems like a presence that’s there yet not there. Yet Dostoevsky refers to him in the opening of the work as “the future protagonist of this novel.”
But no matter how I look at it, he doesn’t seem like the protagonist. Moreover, he even seems a bit foolish. Compare the flamboyance of the “Grand Inquisitor” portrayed by Ivan with the speech he delivers to the boys at the end. It is far too ordinary—even trite.
Yet he possesses one very significant trait: everyone trusts and likes him. Even his monstrous father, Fyodor, likes him, and Mitya confides in him everything he hides from others. Moreover, like Prince Myshkin in ‘The Idiot’, he influences and transforms others. Kolya is a prime example. In short, he is as essential as air and as seamless as a heavenly garment. And he is the embodiment of action rather than words. His words aren’t flashy because he prioritizes actually practicing love over putting words first.

Alyosha and the Meaning of Ideals

That is why the story he tells the children at the end of the novel is so simple and ordinary. It is a call to live virtuously. It urges us not to forget—and to remember—that, at the very least, we are all currently harboring only good thoughts and doing good deeds, and that through those thoughts and actions, we were all one. It is a story that is nothing out of the ordinary.
But let’s think about it carefully. Is that really such an easy thing to do? I’d like to ask you this in a different way. Among the characters in this work, who is the least like you? Who is the person you’d find it truly difficult to emulate? Perhaps some of you might answer “Ivan,” having grown weary of his genius. Others might answer “Mitya,” with his beast-like nature.
But I would say “Alyosha.” It’s truly difficult for me to live as kindly as Alyosha. It’s really hard for me to be as flawless as Alyosha. It’s really hard to be loved by everyone like Alyosha is. Rather than just hard, it’s downright impossible. If I grit my teeth and study hard, I can become somewhat like Ivan, and if I close my eyes tight and act according to my desires, I can become closer to Mitya. It’s easy to feel anger toward the despicable actions of a bad person, but it’s really hard to forgive and reconcile.
That is why Alyosha is an unrealistic character. No one in this world is that kind or that pure. He is Dostoevsky’s ideal. An ideal cannot become reality. However, saying that an ideal cannot become reality does not mean that an ideal is merely a useless illusion. This is because that ideal guides us and prevents us from becoming beasts. It is because that ideal leads us toward a good heart and good deeds. That is why Alyosha tells the boys to remember this very moment. Remembering this moment is exactly the same as cherishing that ideal, that dream, without forgetting it.
I hope as many people as possible will read Dostoevsky’s works. Almost every character in this novel is a manifestation of Dostoevsky himself. He came from a family of impoverished small landowners; he was sentenced to death but pardoned just before his execution, and subsequently spent eight years in exile. Moreover, he suffered from epilepsy throughout his life. Living such a life, he felt, above all else, a thirst for the salvation of the soul. He was an intellectual and a man of faith, and above all, a passionate man within whom good and evil raged. The fates of the characters in this work are his own fate. The crimes committed by the characters in this work are precisely the crimes hidden deep within his own mind. He portrays the criminal’s true nature without reservation. By laying bare his inner self in this way, he reminds us that this image is, in fact, our own.
The reason he was able to stand tall at the pinnacle of world literature is precisely because his image is our own. And it is because, while revealing that image without reservation, he never forgot the thirst of the soul and cherished his ideals as memories. In a world where all the fundamental virtues of human life—honor, shame, love, and goodness—have become objects of ridicule, if the experience of reading his books remains as a memory within us, our lives will become worth living, and the world, too, can become such a place.
And, like Mitya, we may come to see the world with fresh eyes, asking, “No, why are those people so miserable? Why is that baby poor? Why are the fields so desolate? Why don’t they embrace one another? Why don’t they sing songs of joy? Why don’t they give the baby something to eat?” If only the feeling of reading this book could remain as a memory within us……
I said that Alyosha is a dream, not reality. Dostoevsky conceived a novel in which that dream descends into reality. According to his writer’s notes, he planned a sequel to ‘The Brothers Karamazov’. In those notes, he wrote that Alyosha becomes a revolutionary after undergoing a spiritual pilgrimage. Whereas Elder Zosima lived in seclusion in a hermitage, preaching the Gospel to those who sought him out, his faithful disciple Alyosha descended into the marketplace to live among the people of the world.
I sometimes wonder how wonderful it would have been if Dostoevsky had died after finishing that novel. Then our secondary curiosities might have been resolved as well… Did Mitya actually succeed in his escape? Did he actually go to live in America and then return? What became of Liza, who appeared only once in this work and was never mentioned again? Did Alyosha actually marry Liza? What became of the twelve children who shouted “Long live!” in front of Alyosha? Did they truly live lives in which they never forgot that moment? And above all, how could Alyosha have become a revolutionary—a role so completely at odds with his own nature? How would the revolution that Alyosha embodied differ from the socialism that Ivan pursued? How was it possible to imbue human life on earth with spirituality while simultaneously guaranteeing earthly happiness? How could earthly life be elevated to a heavenly one, and how could a heavenly life be realized on earth?
Why don’t you try conceiving a novel like that yourselves?

Dostoevsky’s Life and Literary Influence

‘The Brothers Karamazov’ influenced not only writers but also philosophers; even scientists and politicians have confessed to being moved and influenced by this work. These include scientists like Einstein; philosophers such as Nietzsche, Heidegger, Freud, and Wittgenstein; novelists like Kafka, Tolstoy, Hesse, Camus, Henry Miller, and Haruki Murakami; and even politicians such as Putin and Hillary Clinton. Tolstoy, in particular, stated that the state of spiritual exaltation revealed by the characters in Dostoevsky’s novels in the midst of madness is the source of greatness, while Hermann Hesse praised Dostoevsky as a prophet rather than merely a novelist.
It goes without saying that this work has been adapted into countless films and plays.
Dostoevsky was born in Moscow in 1821 as the second son of Mikhail Andreevich Dostoevsky, a physician at a charity hospital, and his deeply devout mother, Maria Fedorovna Nechayeva. In 1838, at the age of 17, he enrolled in the Engineering School; in 1840, he was appointed a non-commissioned officer; two years later, he was commissioned as a second lieutenant; and in 1844, at the age of 23, he was discharged from the army.
Thereafter, he devoted himself entirely to writing, publishing “The Poor Folk” in 1846 and continuing to publish more than ten novels and short stories. Then, a life-changing event occurred.
Dostoevsky was not a revolutionary, either by temperament or personal conviction. However, he regularly attended gatherings of young writers who read the works of the socialists Fourier and Proudhon. In 1849, he was arrested along with other writers on charges of being a subversive and sentenced to death. In December of that year, he was dragged out to Semenovsky Square and found himself on the brink of being executed by firing squad. However, at the very last moment, the execution was halted by a special decree from the Emperor, and his sentence was commuted to hard labor.
After serving the remaining four years of his sentence, he was released from prison in 1854. He then re-enlisted in the army and served until 1859, when he turned 38.
In 1861, the year he turned 40, the Emancipation Edict was enacted, and he published ‘The Wounded’ that same year. Despite being plagued by two afflictions—a gambling addiction and epilepsy—and constantly struggling with poverty and debt, his prolific writing never ceased. He serialized ‘Crime and Punishment’ in 1866, ‘The Idiot’ in 1868, and ‘The Possessed’ in 1871; he began serializing ‘The Brothers Karamazov’ in 1879 and published it as a book the following year.
In 1881, at the age of 60, he suffered a ruptured artery and died on January 28; he was laid to rest in the cemetery of the Alexander Nevsky Lavra in St. Petersburg.
No one disputes that he is considered one of Russia’s two greatest writers alongside Tolstoy, nor does anyone hesitate to call him one of the greatest masters in the history of world literature.