The Brothers Karamazov

I finished the book about a week ago. It was a good read… all the way until the end, when I was somewhat surprised. Alyosha’s speech seemed to be on such a note of happy idealism that was a tad too dramatic and idealistic for me, in some ways I felt that the ending could have been better. I was expecting something dead realistic. ‘That’s how the world is, live with it, but live on christ-like’. Alyosha’s speech was more along the lines of ‘Whatever happens, let us live on with Hope and Love!’ You can argue that the content is by and large the same, but the tone was totally different.

I gave it some thought and eventually realised, upon a second reading of the ending, that it’s not altogether so incongruent with the rest of the novel. After all, is not a central theme in Dostoevsky’s novelistic outlook about Amazing Grace? That no matter what happens, how debauched Dmitry might be, he can be assured of Grace, most aptly portrayed in the form of his brother, the ‘cherub’ Alyosha? No matter how filthy and downtrodden human nature may be, there is always a sparkle of that noble aspiration to goodness, as Dmitry’s Confessions in prose and verse, show? (I must admit, I liked that section of the whole near-1000 page novel – it left an impressionable mark on me). What better way to end the novel than to introduce that little sparkle of hope in the otherwise dreary ending to the novel, where Dmitry was convicted of a crime he did not commit and sent to Siberia, and Ivan with not much hope of living?

Although I like the book for its explorations of such themes as human nature and guilt, and redemption and forgiveness, I cannot help but admit that certain places left me feeling rather letdown. For one, Dostoevsky seems to paint stock characters. His characters are larger than life, improbable, and he does not seem to care much about what happens to them as a character per se (we never see Alyosha marry although his starets, who has this prophetic quality about him, has predicted it, and in spite of the fact that his lifelong friend, Lise, had confessed earlier on in the novel about her ardent feelings for him and we see him reciprocating. And what will come out of Ivan in the end? Will he live? And barring that, what will happen of his tortured soul, between atheism and his desire to believe?), as long as he is able to use them to flesh out his main themes. His dramatic, sometimes gripping, pace of narration holds the reader in breathless suspense until the end, which was disappointing since I was already caught up in the whole chase-the-narrative mode until I squared with Alyosha’s somewhat anticlimax ending.

As regards the point I am going to make, this is probably personal, but I feel as though Dostoevsky had not really elucidated his themes really well. For a novel this size, I left off feeling like all I got were memorable snippets, such as Dmitry’s Confessions, The Grand Inquisitor, The Onion, The Devil visits Ivan etc. Towards the end, during the long trial, when Dostoevsky begins to dig into earlier parts of the novel which you would not have suspected to be part of the evidence against Dmitry’s committing the murder, I had already forgotten most of them and only had a faint inkling that I’d seen those before… It’s not surprising, I suppose, that when I finally put the novel down and was trying to analyse it in terms of themes and message, that I found the task insurmountable. I resolved to consult a critic’s works instead of go solo.

That said, however, I loved those scenes, they are really inspiring in terms of portraying the eternal struggle between rationalistic Ivan and his desire to believe, his conscience and his statement that ‘everything is permissible’, the strumpet Grushenka (for that really seems to be the main essence of her character, although I own that when she loves she loves steadfast – if only for a moment) and her sudden admission of granting an onion (an altruistic act counter to her base nature) and owning that she is like that old woman who granted an onion in that fairy tale… who will save Grushenka? In those memorable snippets I think I find the best this novel has to offer. It is touching, in a way completely Dostoevsky-an, the way these seemingly irredeemable characters can, in their most debased hour, suddenly turn in a frenzy and confess to nobler sentiments, and all in a way that actually moves people, instead of appear farcical. In a sense it is at these moments when I think I see a sneak-peek into the human condition: whatever the basest of characters may be, there be moments of introspection when they, in like frenzy, confess to better aspirations, if only… True to life, Dostoevsky’s characters return to the dirt and grime their impassioned states seem to be inevitably drawn to. Realistic and poignant, it is this that draws the reader to Dostoevsky.

The Seventh Seal

Ingmar Bergman’s critically acclaimed black-and-white medieval movie that reminds me more of a play.

Was browsing around the local library for the Dekalog to continue my episode-watching when I realised that the one and only copy was borrowed. I stumbled upon this and knowing my friend to have expressed her wish to watch it once, I peered with interest at the blurb and its first sentence about a knight, freshly returned from the crusades in the holy country for ten years, challenging Death to a game of chess to decide his impending fate, caught my eye.

I watched the film twice, the first time with the commentary on (this, after a previous bad encounter with Jean Cocteau’s Orphee, which I couldn’t understand unaided), and, not entirely getting the film, I watched it again unaided.

I’m come to think that the entire film revolves around the central theme of Death, which it is preoccupied with, and by implication, Life – the joys of being alive, the meaning of, and what can one know of the otherworld, if there is one (something that the knight’s squire, a cynic, refutes) beyond Death. And, it seems, inevitable in a Bergman film, the idea of religion.

Part of the reason why this film leaves a favourable impression on me, despite the rather stiff portrayal of characters and their movements, and the seemingly random scene-to-scene progression, is because of its medieval theme. I haven’t really seen a film that brings medieval times so much to life. The attire, which is strange enough to belong to that era, yet carries a rugged simplicity about it, fitting an era which had much less of the splendours of our current generation, the general simple make-up of the flimsy cart and the wagons, the modes of transport, the tavern with its straw laiden floor and the swine trodding them alongside the humans, the solemn yet messy procession of flagellants flogging themselves for God’s glory without pomp and ceremony – all these, probably a side-effect of a low-budget movie shot within 52 days in the summer, produced the ordinariness that lends the film an authenticity of portrayal of those times that I believe most other modern films cannot match up to.

Something of the medieval nature of the film is given by the ‘random’ scenes in the film – it just does not flow the way Hollywood movies and their equivalents do. How does a solemn round of chess with Death flow seamlessly into a lively tavern scene, or how does a scene of a medieval play synchronise with a (mock)bawdy scene of the seduction of an actor by a smith’s wife? To me this is reminiscent of a Shakespearean play – bare settings, stiff acting, scenes that are plainly separate and distinct, instead of melting into each other in a trend of continuity that seems to be all the rage these days. The beauty and essence of Bergman’s film is arguably in his Message, as evinced through the speech of the artistes, and the accompanying gestures and facial expressions. It has too much of a staged-up, dramatic, pregnant with meaning feel to be truely realistic. But then again, that wasn’t its aim.

Death is the central concern of the film, I see in the Knight a reflection of myself at my most doubtful moments regarding God’s existence. The Knight is tired of his life, which has been a meaningless search. What for? For definite knowledge of God’s existence, it seems. He does not want belief, he wants knowledge. He wants to know for sure that He exists, and not have Christ live painfully and in such a humiliating way, behind shrouds of doubt and speculation. He wants certainty, and it is in part for this knowledge that he desires a wager with Death, as the latter seeks him, in the form of a fateful game of chess in which Death would spare him if he wins, but claim him if he loses. I didn’t see it the first time round, but this is evident in the Confessions encounter he has with Death, and later, when, at the last chess encounter with Death, when the knight responds that Death will reveal his secrets when he comes to claim the knight and his friends the next time they meet. Unfortunately for the knight, Death replies candidly that he does not know anything, that he is ‘unknowing’. Belief (which seems impossible for the knight), or cynicism (of which his realistic Squire is the embodiment of), seems to be a necessary choice that the wavering knight has to make.

In a sense I am tempted to see the Knight as the representation, Everyman, in this allegory of every man’s universal wager with Death.

I cannot, however, figure out a couple of questions that remain lingering after I viewed the movie twice. Firstly, as the disbelieving son of a pastor/priest/church figure of a Father, Ingmar Bergman, I believe, associated more with the Squire than anyone else in the play, as Peter Cowie, the movie critic who gave the commentary, claims. If so, I cannot quite reconcile his ending with the consistent portrayal of the Squire’s ’superiority’ over the Knight in everyday matters – the Squire’s realism makes him the ’saviour’ of the mystic girl who would have been raped if not for his intervention, an aid to the smith and indirectly a help in the reconciliation of the smith and his wife, an equal ’saviour’ to the poor Joseph who was bullied at the inn, and Justice when he branded the seminarist. In stark contrast the Knight is the one whose idealism and subsequent pessimism tortures his inner soul, which had to be soothed and temporarily revived through Joseph and Mary’s hospitality over a bowl of wild strawberries and fresh milk. Why then, is the Squire also in the Dance of Death, when the more religious amongst them, his girl and the Knight’s wife, as it were, are not included? Why give the final triumph to religion?

And the weirdest part is that Joseph and Mary and little Michael, a parellel with the Holy Family, are the only persons in the fateful party who escaped from Death for the moment at the end of the story.

It is hard to reconcile this with the obvious portrayal of religious characters throughout the movie in a bad light. The seminarist resorts to stealing and attempted rape, the priest (I’m not sure if it is) at the head of the flogging procession stops to address the crowd in derogatory terms, insulting them and instilling fear if only for the purpose of turning them towards Christ and their salvation in this way. The priests are said to have been more approving of immolation for one’s sins than eternal suffering in hell. Death is twice disguised as religious personnel, once as the priest at Confession and another time as the monk who has broken the arms of the witch. Yet the pious are given such wonderful acclaim. Joseph and Mary and Michael are saved, the Squire’s girl tries to save the Seminarist when he is struck by the plague despite his earlier attempts to rape her, and she and the Knight’s wife are spared from the solemn Dance of Death. The only plausible way of reconciliation seems to be that Bergman, whilst distrustful of religion and its fanatic, oppressive leaders (not surprising, given his childhood), is nevertheless drawn by the good-naturedness of the pious, which I believe he credits to their simplicity rather than their piety.

Literature is Didactic: 23/5/08

I must not forget 23 May 2008.

On the morning of the 23rd of May 2008, I was reading a section of The Brothers Karamazov by Dostoevsky and afterwards I viewed the Dekalog. I think it was episode trzy (three). Then I had an epiphany: Literature teaches!

Later on I rode the bus to HKU whereon I was reading a book, ‘Why literature matters’ whose message was in accordance with what I was thinking about earlier.

Literature has a message. In The Brothers Karamazov, which others call a dark novel (I actually thought it was pretty optimistic), Dostoevsky interspersed sudden unexpected confessions from his characters of their guilt, their downtrodden natures, but, and most importantly, the hope they have of salvation and of divine grace descending upon them. The message is of man’s fallen nature and grace. I believe there are other themes as well, but the one that strikes me most is this.

The Decalogue also has a message, episode three was about honouring the sabbath, and, as I wrote earlier in a previous entry, I believe that it was kept, somewhat unconventionally. The series can be rather perplexing and grayscale in its message (it does not admit of a clear answer), and is food for thought.

But what distinguishes literature from hard-core thinking subjects like philosophy, for example, the book asserts, is (inter alia) literature’s sensuousness. Spot-on, it hit on the reason why I prefer literature. Literature is subtle. Literature does not seek to explicitly put forward its axioms and whatnot. Instead it spins a narrative, and sometimes does so in such a realistic manner that one is drawn into another world, but one no less realistic from the real one, whereby one learns to contemplate universal issues that have equal relevance in reality. One can choose how much one will really devote to rumination, but most of the time the author’s craft is such that one is drawn in, and one slowly starts to think…

Another great aspect of literature is that it does not always admit of a clear answer. When things are in narrative format it is hard to see it in definitive terms. The author’s ’solution’ may not always be agreed with, and at any rate, one can always think about alternative causes of action that led to the outcome in the narrative apart from what the author points out (I am thinking about Hardy’s idea of Fate leading to the demise of Jude and Sue in Jude the Obscure – at some points I believe that, had Jude and Sue been a little more clear-minded, they could have avoided their tragic outcomes). Literature does not command acceptance, it is not a proposition in philosophy or a theory in science that has first to be accepted before the rest of the exposition can go on (at least, not that necessary – I know that sometimes the author’s firmly held beliefs shape the way of his narrative and the reader feels at points so irritated and frustrated that he is ready to fling the book to the floor. But the essence of my argument is, the author has not at any point required the reader to accept his presuppositions before being able to carry on reading the narrative – the reader can disagree, and still reach the end of the work all the same).

I know I went on for a while and to the casual reader this may seem unnecessary. But having pondered and agonised over the question of why literature matters it was relieving to see that it has its importance and its place in society.

Who moved the stone? (Frank Morison)

Read as part of a church book club.

Have to admit that I don’t really enjoy the book, in its english or chinese (translated) version. Whatever Lee Strobel said about the book being used by God to bring him into His kingdom (and I give thanks for that), it didn’t work for me. The first half about events leading to the cruxificion (what was Jesus doing at the Garden of Gethsemane? Why did he wait that long? He led himself into the trial, without his cooperation the prosecution could not have succeeded…) seemed to be so… du-uh. Obvious, wouldn’t it have struck anyone as obvious that the whole narrative shows Jesus playing into the scheme? Perhaps the best parts I gleaned from the first few chapters were that Jesus had initially been staying at Bethany at Mary and Martha’s and was probably due that evening back again, so that his delay at Gethsemane would have been a great cause of concern and bewilderment for his sleepy disciples. Secondly, that according to strict Jewish laws a large case involving a human life ought not to be tried in the middle of the night, so the Jewish authorities (Caiaphas and gang) were toe-lining the entire process. No wonder they had to approach Pontius Pilate for his cooperation, since by Roman authority they could eventually seal the deal and get Jesus crucified. Pilate apparently is a man of fiery temper and great stubborness, and his reluctance to deal with Jesus was an exception, not the norm, and worth questioning – so why did he not swiftly put Jesus up on the cross? After all, what is one more human life on the cross to the many innocents that could have been crucified and subject to all manner of torture under the cruel Roman regime? Morison’s answer, if I remember correctly, seemed to be that his wife Claudia had sent him a note saying he was to have nothing to do with this man. So Pilate was hen-pecked? I don’t know. Or was he mystical? I’ve seen enough intellectuals reverently lifting joss sticks and offerings to statues that I can understand that being an official does not exclude flights of mysticism that are seemingly incompatible with a rational mind. My own problems are not really with why he delayed – after all, it is a human life, people do have consciences – my problem is with why he eventually went along with the crowd and crucified Christ. Because he was anxious to appease the Jews and because he was afraid of being denounced as not being a friend of Caesar’s? Come on. What is one ‘insignificant’ maverick crying that he is the king of the Jews going to be a threat to Ceasar’s place on the throne, and if Pilate could ruthlessly execute/crucify so many Jews in the past for whatever (there was an average of one cruxificion per day, it seemed), why should he care so much about appeasing Jews? Despite washing his hands symbolically off the matter, he went along anyway. Befuddling.

The part about the resurrection was a more engaging read. Morison refutes several alternative hypotheses to the gospel narrative that Jesus rose from the dead. Perhaps the part that I agree with mostly is that these hypotheses are not in accord with the striking omission of any historical evidence to show that the tomb of Jesus was not in fact empty after three days. No one seems to have raised any objections, no one has found his remains elsewhere, no one has asserted that his remains are still in the tomb or that the tomb is in any way intact. Very interesting in light of the fact that Caiaphas must have been hopping mad at the assertion by the bandy group of followers Christ had, whom he had effectively put to death a while earlier.

Morison goes on to say that by the personal testimony of the disciples themselves at the Feast of Weeks, some seven weeks after Jesus’ resurrection, points to the historical authenticity of the narrative. For no one would have believed the motley gang of, seriously, questionable faith and even intelligence, would have been so emboldened by anything short of solid truth in order to testify in front of 3000 people at the Pentacost. My personal opinion is that it is not hard for one to say that Peter would have firmly believed, after being taught a valuable lesson about staying faithful to the Master after the cock had crowed three times, whether it was truth or no, simply because he believed his rabbi’s words that the Lord would resurrect himself. Although I do not find the disciples’ faith part entirely persuasive (forgive me for my harsh standards), I am inclined to feel that the ‘bumbling recruits’, the disciples, would never have been a gang brave enough to stand in front of a crowd on a jovial, festive and large-scale occasion giving a public announcement about a controversy, and a pretty ridiculous one at that (that so-and-so had RISEN FROM THE DEAD), had it not been true. Just imagining Peter standing on the steps of a podium, eyes bright with anticipation and passion, loudly proclaiming the fanatical truth got me laughing.

Other parts about the testimony of the great stone, the testimony of Paul, at first a gentle-bred, sceptic Jew who turned to Christianity at a time when the grave was still open to scrutiny, was persuasive. I particularly like Morison’s way of reasoning that the reason why it was Jerusalem and not Galilee that experienced the great conversion of 3000 during the Pentecost has probably much to do with the fact that the empty grave was in such close proximity to Jerusalem that the truth could be so definitely verified. I also like the idea that there has not been any strong argument levelled against the early Christians suggesting that the tomb was NOT empty shows that the allegation that the tomb was indeed empty was an established fact that no one dared refute. That is telling enough. As icing on the cake Morison’s way of suggesting that the reason why the women’s testimony was not invoked by Peter as he preached openly on Pentacost of the resurrection and salvation had to do with the fact that 1) it was shadowy to allege that the women trespassed private property to get to the body of Christ, and may work against their favour by allowing the dissenters to insinuate that the disciples stole the body at the time it was supposed to have risen, and 2) because the open grave was an established fact that no one needed to buttress by any more rhetoric, goes down well with me. I think it cements the strong evidence for the resurrection of Christ through the testimony of the open grave.

The last few chapters were revolutionary and whilst I cannot exactly find fault with them I would be more cautious in accepting them. To suggest that Mary Magdalene and the rest of the women who went to the tomb that fateful morning saw, not an angel, but another living human being who got to the tomb of the risen Jesus before them, is probably seldom heard of. The reasons Morison uses to support this hypothesis of his are based on inductive reasoning and a slightly tenable piece of evidence from the Gospel of the Hebrews (I should think) which has a later part about the tomb episode that is corroborated by one of the Gospels (can’t remember which). The Gospel of the Hebrews states that the man the women saw was ‘the servant of the priest’. However telling, I consider it wise to suspend judgment since the authenticity of this account is not verified by other sources, and the fact that the part of the Gospel of the Hebrews that immediately follows is verified by an authoritative gospel, does not entail the truth of this preceding statement.