五月中旬读完John Steinbeck的游记， 5/19日写了一篇读书报告后，从女儿留下的一堆书里找了一本五百多页的小说《罪与罚》，俄国作家陀思妥耶夫斯基的作品。 开始读时觉得小说不吸引人，呈现在读者面前的不外乎是穷困潦倒的人，喝得烂醉如泥的酒鬼，一幅幅灰暗压抑的画面。不过想想这样的名著，这样一位和托尔斯泰齐名的作家，他的作品一定有其成名的原因，便硬着头皮读了下去。 5月21号，我微信女儿，让她帮我借这本书的电子版，这样至少读起来眼睛不累些。 女儿上网借了，回复说，书要两个星期后才能到。 等6月3号电子书到时， 我已经读完了纸书版的3/5，300多页了。电子书借到后，我见缝插针地看， 花了三四天时间就把剩下的2/5 全部读完了。读完后，面对女儿曾经问过的一句"喜欢吗？"， 我竟然答不上来。随后又上网查了作者的一些背景和其他资料。我想，或许这样的一本书不是寥寥喜欢或不喜欢就能概括的，也不是我这么初初读完一本就能深入了解的。所以，仅此在这里做个简短的人物、情节回顾，权当是一种记录。
小说以十九世纪俄国彼得堡为背景，讲述一个二十三岁穷困潦倒的青年人Raskolnikov, 为了生活和梦想的前程，起念杀了当铺的女老板和碰巧前来探望的老板妹妹。R在慌乱中偷了一些钱财，逃离现场，从此生活在惶惶不可终日的恐惧和煎熬中，直至最后自首，坐牢，发配到西伯利亚劳改。
小说有好几条线，主线当然是主人公R，一位大学辍学生。他有个姐姐和母亲。姐姐Dunya年轻貌美，为了摆脱贫穷，帮助弟弟，欲将自己嫁给一位有钱的中年律师。 姐姐带着母亲离开家乡来到彼得堡, 看望离家三年的R。 姐姐此次来的最主要目的是想和在彼得堡的未婚夫成亲，最后却被弟弟从中搅黄了。第二条线是一位名叫Svidrigailov的男子，姐姐Dunya曾经在他家做过管家, 被S看上。S当年欠了一屁股债，为了偿清债务，把自己"卖"给一位阔太太，阔太太不仅替他偿还了债务，死后还给他留了一大笔遗产。S带着太太的巨额遗产，追逐Dunya追到彼得堡，幻想着Dunya能倾心于他，最后遭拒绝而饮弹自尽。小说里还有一条很重要的线是一位名叫Marmeladov的男子。此人曾经在政府机关工作，后来失业了，沦落成为一个酒鬼，主人公R偶然在一家小酒馆里认识了他。M家中有太太和三个未成年的小孩，还有一位和前妻所生的刚刚成年的女儿Sonya。为了家庭生计，养活一大家人，Sonya去做了妓女。这家人最后的结局比较悲催, M酒后被马车撞死，随后太太因肺病也咳血而死，三个小孩去了收容所。Sonya最后跟着男主人公去了西伯利亚。
从读完小说的那一刻起一直在想一个问题，作为经典名著，它的杰出之处在哪里? 是主题吗？是成功的人物塑造吗？还是它的语言(语言是翻译的) 或是思想?
先来说说主人公Raskolnikov。 R可以算得上是一个有文化有思想的人。在他看来，这个世界上的人分两种，普通人(ordinary) 和非凡人(extraordinary)。非凡人是社会上层有决策能力的人，他们制定法律法规，左右着人的命运，而另一类人就是普通人，换句话说，就是守法公民，被管辖的人员。主人公R，愤世嫉俗，反社会道德，选择了他认为的社会残渣余孽人员-当铺又老又贪的店主-作为仇杀对象，想因此把自己的杀人抢劫合理化，认为自己杀的是社会上的无用之人，却可以借此让自己走出穷困， 登上社会上层，最后成就大事业而造福人类，普世济民，救水深火热的穷苦百姓脱离苦海。他相信凭着自己的聪明才智和能力，一定可以做一个非凡人。主人公的名字Raskolnikov中的Raskol的意思是"split" or "schism"的意思，这也说明作者或许从一开始就想塑造一个人格分裂、有着双重个性的人物。而R恰恰就是这样一个人物。他一边可以残忍地拿起斧头血腥杀人，一边面对穷得叮当响的一家老少慷慨解囊，把自己仅有的二十五卢布全部拿出送给人家作葬礼费用。他一方面因为杀人后，精神恍惚，被人当成是疯疯癫癫的精神病人，另一方面又有着深刻的思想，尖锐的目光，一眼看穿了他姐姐未婚夫的虚伪人品。也正是他的双重人格让他在杀人后如热锅上的蚂蚁，坐立不安，饱受内心煎熬不能自拔，精神近乎崩溃边缘。
小说运用大量的心理描写，人物内心独白，把一个杀人犯的心理描述得淋漓尽致，人物形象也因此栩栩如生。 我想，这或许是作品最成功的地方。
一部伟大的作品一定是源于生活的。作者自己就曾负债累累，又是个好赌之徒，有时靠写小说匆匆完稿清偿赌债。 他后来又因为卷入政治风波，蹲过监狱，在被送上断头台处决的一刹那被沙皇赦免，最后流放到西伯利亚四年。他的这些亲身经历无疑给创作带来了极大的灵感，独特的视觉。他对社会底层人民的了解，赋予了小说极强的真实性。另外，作者的个人经历又让他成为了一名虔诚的基督徒，他的宗教信仰也在他的小说中得到充分体现。
小说似乎在揭示这样一个道理，贫穷是罪恶的根源。为了摆脱穷困，人可以去卖身，可以去骗、去偷、去抢、去杀人，良知丧尽，犯下种种罪行。人或许可以逃脱法律的制裁，却终究难逃良心的谴责，老天的惩罚。
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Extracts:
There are chance meetings with strangers that interest us from the first moment, before a word is spoken.
Sonia took it, flushed crimson, jumped up, muttered something and began taking leave. Pyotr Petrovitch accompanied her ceremoniously to the door.
insufferable fit of coughing that lasted five minutes. Drops of perspiration stood out
he drank with fellows who were not worth the sole of his shoe.
All the clamour gradually died away at his entrance. Not only was this “serious business man” strikingly incongruous with the rest of the party, but it was evident, too, that he had come
Defend her now, at least!” The wail of the poor, consumptive, helpless woman seemed to produce a great effect on her audience. The agonised, wasted, consumptive face, the parched blood-stained lips, the hoarse voice, the tears unrestrained as a child’s, the trustful, childish and yet despairing prayer for help were so piteous that every one seemed to feel for her. Pyotr Petrovitch at any rate was at once moved to compassion.
Their eyes met, and the fire in Raskolnikov’s seemed ready to reduce him to ashes.
Again a wave of the same feeling surged into his heart, and again for an instant softened it.
“I’ve only killed a louse, Sonia, a useless, loathsome, harmful creature.”
His eyes shone with feverish brilliance. He was almost delirious; an uneasy smile strayed on his lips. His terrible exhaustion could be seen through
a new and sudden train of thought had struck and as it were roused him
that low ceilings and tiny rooms cramp the soul and the mind? Ah, how I hated that garret! And yet I wouldn’t go out of it!
I simply did it; I did the murder for myself, for myself alone, and whether I became a benefactor to others, or spent my life like a spider catching men in my web and sucking the life out of men, I couldn’t have cared at that moment.… And it was not the money I wanted, Sonia, when I did it. It was not so much the money I wanted, but something else.… I know it all now.… Understand me! Perhaps I should never have committed a murder again. I wanted to find out something else; it was something else led me on. I wanted to find out then and quickly whether I was a louse like everybody else or a man. Whether I can step over barriers or not, whether I dare stoop to pick up or not, whether I am a trembling creature or whether I have the right …”
I want to prove one thing only, that the devil led me on then and he has shown me since that I had
They sat side by side, both mournful and dejected, as though they had been cast up by the tempest alone on some deserted shore. He looked at Sonia and felt how great was her love for him, and strange to say he felt it suddenly burdensome and painful to be so loved. Yes, it was a strange and awful sensation! On his way to see Sonia he had felt that all his hopes rested on her; he expected to be rid of at least part of his suffering, and now, when all her heart turned towards him, he suddenly felt that he was immeasurably unhappier than before.
heartrending
it was as though a fog had fallen upon him and wrapped him in a dreary solitude from which there was no escape. Recalling that period long after, he believed that his mind had been clouded at times, and that it had continued so, with intervals, till the final catastrophe.
make head or tail of it;
It had been too stifling, too cramping, the burden had been too agonising.
The last moment had come, the last drops had to be drained! So a man will sometimes go through half an hour of mortal terror with a brigand, yet when the knife is at his throat at last, he feels no fear.
From a hundred rabbits you can’t make a horse, a hundred suspicions don’t make a proof, as the English proverb says, but that’s only from the rational point of view—you can’t help being partial,
It was conceived on sleepless nights, with a throbbing heart, in ecstasy and suppressed enthusiasm.
Men will catch at straws!
There was another thought which had been continually hovering of late about Raskolnikov’s mind, and causing him great uneasiness.
Nothing in the world is harder than speaking the truth and nothing easier than flattery. If there’s the hundredth part of a false note in speaking the truth, it leads to a discord, and that leads to trouble. But if all, to the last note, is false in flattery, it is just as agreeable, and is heard not without satisfaction. It may be a coarse satisfaction, but still a satisfaction. And however coarse the flattery, at least half will be sure to seem true.
There’s always a little corner which remains a secret to the world and is only known to those two.
Add to that, nervous irritability from hunger, from lodging in a hole, from rags, from a vivid sense of the charm of his social position and his sister’s and mother’s position too. Above all, vanity, pride and vanity, though goodness knows he may have good qualities too.… I am not blaming him, please don’t think it; besides, it’s not my business. A special little theory came in too—a theory of a sort—dividing mankind, you see, into material and superior persons, that is persons to whom the law does not apply owing to their superiority, who make laws for the rest of mankind, the material, that is. It’s all right as a theory, une théorie comme une autre. Napoleon attracted him tremendously, that is, what affected him was that a great many men of genius
It was a dark and stifling evening. Threatening storm-clouds came over the sky about ten o’clock. There was a clap of thunder, and the rain came down like a waterfall. The water fell not in drops, but beat on the earth in streams. There flashes of lightning every minute and each flash lasted while one could count five.
It appeared afterwards that on the same evening, at twenty past eleven, he made another very eccentric and unexpected visit. The rain still persisted. Drenched to the skin, he walked into the little flat where the parents of his betrothed lived, in Third Street in Vassilyevsky Island. He knocked some time before he was admitted, and his visit at first caused great perturbation; but Svidrigaïlov could be very fascinating when he liked, so that the first, and indeed very intelligent surmise of the sensible parents that Svidrigaïlov had probably had so much to drink that he did not know what he was doing vanished immediately.
The rain had ceased and there was a roaring wind.
one image rose after another, incoherent scraps of thought without beginning or end passed through his mind. He sank into drowsiness. Perhaps the cold, or the dampness, or the dark, or the wind that howled under the window
He kept dwelling on images of flowers, he fancied a charming flower garden, a bright, warm, almost hot day, a holiday—Trinity day. A fine, sumptuous country cottage in the English taste overgrown with fragrant flowers, with flower beds going round the house; the porch, wreathed in climbers, was surrounded with beds of roses. A light, cool staircase, carpeted with rich rugs, was decorated with rare plants in china pots. He noticed particularly in the windows nosegays of tender, white, heavily fragrant narcissus bending over their bright, green, thick long stalks. He was reluctant to move away from them, but he went up the stairs
her little face all aglow
A thick milky mist hung over the town.
Her eyes fixed upon him, betrayed horror and infinite grief. And from those eyes alone he saw at once that she knew.
There was a gleam of fire in his lustreless eyes;
By that stupidity I only wanted to put myself into an independent position, to take the first step, to obtain means, and then everything would have been smoothed over by benefits immeasurable in comparison.… But I … I couldn’t carry out even the first step, because I am contemptible, that’s what’s the matter! And yet I won’t look at it as you do. If I had succeeded I should have been crowned with glory, but now I’m trapped.”
a cold shiver ran over her, but in a moment she guessed that the tone and the words were a mask. He spoke to her looking away, as though to avoid meeting her eyes.
pestering me with their stupid questions, which
his ideas seemed to gallop after one another,
that he had left her in the middle of the room in her green shawl, not daring to stir after he had shouted at her, and he stopped short for a moment. At the same instant, another thought dawned upon him, as though it had been lying in wait to strike him then.
It came over him like a fit; it was like a single spark kindled in his soul and spreading fire through him. Everything in him softened at once and the tears started into his eyes. He fell to the earth on the spot.…
Sonia was with him for ever and would follow him to the ends of the earth, wherever fate might take him. It wrung his heart … but he was just reaching the fatal place.
he answered very clearly with the coarsest frankness that the cause was his miserable position, his poverty and helplessness, and his desire to provide for his first steps in life by the help of the three thousand roubles he had reckoned on finding. He had been led to the murder through his shallow and cowardly nature, exasperated moreover by privation and failure. To the question what led him to confess, he answered that it was his heartfelt repentance. All this was almost coarse.…
After a fatiguing day spent in continual fancies, in joyful day dreams and tears, Pulcheria Alexandrovna was taken ill in the night and by morning she was feverish and delirious. It was brain fever.
Razumihins and received an answer with unfailing regularity
his pride had been stung to the quick. It was wounded pride that made him ill. Oh, how
And what comfort was it to him that at the end of eight years he would only be thirty-two and able to begin a new life! What had he to live for? What had he to look forward to? Why should he strive? To live in order to exist? Why, he had been ready a thousand times before to give up existence for the sake of an idea, for a hope, even for a fancy. Mere existence had always been too little for him; he had always wanted more. Perhaps it was just because of the strength of his desires that he had thought himself a man to whom more was permissible than to others.
He suffered too from the question: why had he not killed himself? Why had he stood looking at the river and preferred to confess? Was the desire to live so strong and was it so hard to overcome it? Had not Svidrigaïlov overcome it, although he was afraid of death?
He preferred to attribute it to the dead weight of instinct which he could not step over, again through weakness and meanness. He looked at his fellow prisoners and was amazed to see how they all loved life and prized it. It seemed to him that they loved and valued life more in prison than in freedom. What terrible agonies and privations some of them, the tramps for instance, had endured! Could they care so much for a ray of sunshine, for the primeval forest, the cold spring hidden away in some unseen spot which the tramp had marked three years before, and longed to see again, as he might to see his sweetheart, dreaming of the green grass round it and the bird singing in the bush? As he went on he saw still more inexplicable examples.
From the high bank a broad landscape opened before him, the sound of singing floated faintly audible from the other bank. In the vast steppe, bathed in sunshine, he could just see, like black specks, the nomads’ tents. There there was freedom, there other men were living, utterly unlike those here; there time itself seemed to stand still, as though the age of Abraham and his flocks had not passed.
They were both pale and thin; but those sick pale faces were bright with the dawn of a new future, of a full resurrection into a new life. They were renewed by love; the heart of each held infinite sources of life for the heart of the other.
