Upon hearing of Crime and Punishment, I was simultaneously drawn to the book and somewhat intimidated. This intimidation stemmed from the book’s impressive size and well-known, difficult subject matter. However, I was attracted to it both because my mother had enjoyed reading the book at my age and because it formed one of the literary cornerstones of existentialism, a philosophy I have been fascinated by for over a year now. In truth I had no idea what I would find sheltered away in the book’s niches, encoded by Dostoevsky one hundred and fifty years ago. What I discovered was, at first glance, an incarnation of some hell on Earth. Following his years in Siberia, Dostoevsky conjured a landscape so vile and disturbed that it seemed to burn through the pages. It became clear, however, that this world is none other than our own. And it only took so long to realize this because it takes so long to admit to oneself that one also seethes from the inside, as did Raskolnikov, the protagonist. That in a world utterly indifferent to the petty strifes of the individual, we sometimes feel the urge to break all moral boundaries just to stick our head above the waves and breath fresh air, only to be judged and condemned by those who drown below us.
Dostoevsky’s story is a tale of humanity’s attempt to be recognized in a changing world. By whom? By itself. Dostoevsky’s Russia was dealing with the hypocrisies and tensions between a tsarist, Orthodox Christian rule and a rising radical minority. Raskolnikov himself is caught between these two forces, having been raised by religious parents and subsequently assimilated into the academic institutions that gave birth to this radicalism. But because of his inability to continue his studies due to financial restraints, he became isolated, letting his wounded pride fester like a wound. His torment is distinct from others who suffer around him. That is a point that must be addressed, for he is surrounded by suffering. Some, like Lebezyatnikov, seek to cover up their suffering by adhering to some utopian social ethic. Some, like Sonya, seek to cover it with a false sense of piety and sacrifice. I believe that Raskolnikov’s suffering was quite simple: he merely wanted to be noticed and to be understood. But the opposition that stood against him (invisibility, poverty, ridicule, etc.) projected this simple, human need into something that assumed a revolutionary tone. Was Raskolnikov mad? Perhaps to a certain degree, but perhaps everyone around him was simply blind. Were they so unwilling to break with the laws of society and God that they either committed themselves to a life of futile servitude or ended it all together? Raskolnikov, unlike nearly everyone else in the book who suffered (besides maybe Svidrigailov), was the only one who was willing to shatter the chains of society and religion that physically restrained the individual impulse to rebel. The irony in this is that despite his rebellious nature in a Christian society, it was he who assumed a Christ-like role. He expected others to see him as the murderer and sickened at the thought of their naivety, their lack of understanding. Indeed most people did see him like that. But some, particularly his mother and Sonya, acknowledged his suffering and met it with pity. This was the ultimate force that subdued his torment and redefined his identity, his self.
Reading this book has been a brutally raw experience, but one that dug deep into the mental labyrinths within which we often lose ourselves. Raskolnikov projected his anguish onto the society around him, spreading fear, concern, rage, and confusion among those he encountered. But through this anguish, we can glimpse the spark of individuality which, like in the dusty streets of St. Petersburg, are often lost in the glare of normality.
