Complex and subtle. Can there be a crime beyond the bounds of God's love? Can morality exist without God? How can a just God allow the innocent to suffer? (That ties in with The Razor's Edge.) How much does suffering affect your goodness?
Thank goodness for Sparknotes and a Dartmouth page about reading it. Without those questions to structure my reading, which was mostly listening, I would have been even more befuddled. Sparknotes alleges that Katya suffers to draw attention to the wrongs of others who make her suffer. I inferred self-sacrifice and even martyrdom, but not that motivation. Agrafena is unloveable, but so is Dmitri, so maybe they do belong together. But I don't understand about Lise and Alexei.
While I have a shadow of a hope of reading a regular European language and do not feel guilty in the slightest for not reading any Asian one, Russian occupies the middle ground of my never being able to read it even though I once made an attempt. So as most often happens with Russian translations, how the rendering into English happened intrigued me most.
How should one choose among the following translations?
Pevear and Volokhonsky, Vintage Classics
There's just one thing: how can I make a compact with the earth evermore? I don't kiss the earth, I don't tear open her bosom; what should I do, become a peasant or a shepherd? I keep going, and I don't know: have I gotten into stench and shame, or into light and joy? That's the whole trouble, because everything on earth is a riddle. And whenever I happened to sink into the deepest, the very deepest shame of depravity (and that's all I ever happened to do), I always read that poem about Ceres and man. Did it set me right? Never! Because I'm a Karamazov. Because when I fall into the abyss, I go straight into it, head down and heels up, and I'm even pleased that I'm falling in just such a humiliating position, and for me I find it beautiful. And so in that very shame I suddenly begin a hymn. Let me be cursed, let me be base and vile, but let me also kiss the hem of that garment in which my God is clothed; let me be following the devil at the same time, but still I am also your son, Lord, and I love you, and I feel a joy without which the world cannot stand and be.
Constance Garnett
But the difficulty is how am I to cling forever to Mother Earth. I don't kiss her. I don't cleave to her bosom. Am I to become a peasant or a shepherd? I go on and I don't know whether I'm going to shame or to light and joy. That's the trouble, for everything in the world is a riddle! And whenever I've happened to sink into the vilest degradation (and it's always been happening) I always read that poem about Ceres and man. Has it reformed me? Never! For I'm a Karamazov. For when I do leap into the pit, I go headlong with my heels up, and am pleased to be falling in that degrading attitude, and pride myself upon it. And in the very depths of that degradation I begin a hymn of praise. Let me be accursed. Let me be vile and base, only let me kiss the hem of the veil in which my God is shrouded. Though I may be following the devil, I am Thy son, O Lord, and I love Thee, and I feel the joy without which the world cannot stand.
Andrew H. MacAndrew, Bantam Classic
But what makes it hard for me is that I don't know how I could possibly enter that eternal alliance with Mother Earth. I don't kiss Mother Earth, I don't plow her soil... Should I, then, become a peasant, a shepherd, or what? I go on and on, and I don't know where I'll find myself next - in stench and disgrace or in light and joy. And that's where the main trouble likes: everything in this world is a puzzle. Whenever I've sunk into the deepest shame and depravity - and that has happened to me more often than anything else - I've always recited that poem about the goddess Ceres and man's fate. But has it reformed me? No - because I'm a Karamazov, because if I must plunge into the abyss, I'll go head first, feet in air. I'll even find a certain pleasure in falling in such a humiliating way. I'll even think that it's a beautiful exit for a man like me. And so, in the very midst of degradation, I am low and despicable. I must still be allowed to kiss the hem of the veil in which my God is shrouded; and even if I may be following in the devil's footsteps, I am still Your son, O Lord, and I love You, and fell the joy without which the world cannot be.
David McDuff, Penguin
But the only thing is, how am I join eternal union with the earth? I don't kiss the earth, I don't churn up her breast: What am I to do, become a muzhik or a shepherd? I go and know not whether I have landed in foulness and ignominy or in light and joy. I mean, that's where the trouble lies, for all the world is an enigma! And whenever I've had occasion to wallow in the very deep ignominy of lus (and that's all I've had occasion to do), I've always read that poem about Ceres and man. Has it set me on the right road again? Never! Because I'm a Karamazov. Because if I throw myself into the abyss I do it straight, head first and heels last, and am even glad that I've fallen in such a degrading posture and consider it flattering to myself. And it's there, in that very ignominy, that I suddenly begin the hymn. I may be cursed, I may be base and vile, but I too shall kiss the hem of the robe in which my God enwraps Himself; Even though at the very same time I may still be following the Devil, I am Your son, O Lord, and I love You, and sense the joy without which the world cannot stand and be.
Bike 8.3 miles. Swim 1000 meters.
I intended 2000. The fellow in the next lane said he was getting his laps in before the storm, and I looked to the west and northwest since that's whither most of the weather comes, but he was looking south. The southern sky was pretty dark, and it occurred to me that last night's storm was from the south: we had had to close the dining room windows instead of the bedroom.
Just to seal my fate--I first typed fail, as in failure, though I was also thinking of bail--I swam the next length after the first k in butterfly. My lungs were going to surge out of my chest by the last meters because I have no pulmonary capacity, and I flipped to my back and didn't even swim but reached over my head for the rope, pulled until my hand was by my thigh, and so towed myself until, about halfway back, I bothered to add some desultory kicks.
The rain started as soon as I got home, so I chose to believe my bailing was prudence instead of laziness.