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Crime and Punishment (Bantam Classics) (Paperback)
by Fyodor Dostoevsky, Constance Garnett (Translator)
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This Russian masterpiece is the profound human drama of Raskolnikov, a classic of dramatic literature by one of the greatest novelists of all time. |
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Author: Fyodor Dostoevsky, Constance Garnett (Translator)
Publisher: Bantam Classics; Reissue edition
Pub. in: October, 1996
ISBN: 0553211757
Pages: 576
Measurements: 7 x 4.2 x 1 inches
Origin of product: USA
Order code: BA00771
Other information: ISBN-13: 978-0553211757
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- Awards & Credential -
An all-time bestseller by one of the best known Russian novelists. After so many years, this book still ranks #2,308 in books out of millions on Amazon.com as of February 5, 2007. |
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- MSL Picks -
Crime and Punishment is quite possibly the most widely read 19th century Russian novel in the English-speaking world, and while I might say it's a tad overrated (for reasons discussed below), there are many good reasons for its exalted status. In case you're not familiar with the story, it begins with the decision of an impoverished student, Raskolnikov, to rob and kill a pawnbroker, having justified his decision with the argument that her death will do the world more good than harm, both because she cheats her clients and because the money from the robbery will give him the start he needs to become a great man and ultimately benefit humanity. The action of the novel is confined to the day of the murder and a few days following it, during which time, in addition to dealing with a murder investigation led by a clever and intriguing detective who suspects him, Raskolnikov spends time with his mother and sister, who have just come to visit, and with the tragic Marmeladov family, consisting of a drunken father, a consumptive mother, three young children, and an eighteen - year old girl who is forced into prostitution in order to support the family.
Dostoevsky is notoriously good at investigating the psychology of his characters, and from that standpoint his treatment of Raskolnikov is probably the best in all of his work. While, as in many of his works, Dostoevsky includes a meek saint-figure (in this case Sonia, the prostitute mentioned above) through whose Christian love the other characters will hopefully be redeemed, Dostoevsky's most remarkable characters tend to be not the ones he idolizes but rather the "devil's advocates" with whom he disagrees, and Raskolnikov is probably the finest example of that. There are lots of other interesting characters too, and the plot is fairly action-packed with many moving and haunting scenes (Katerina Marmeladov's final descent into consumptive madness especially comes to mind), making the novel a surprisingly quick and enjoyable read considering its length and depth.
Unfortunately, there seems to be a tendency among some readers of the novel to be interested in it exclusively for Raskolnikov's proto-Nietzschean philosophy of the "Extraordinary Man" who, like Napoleon and, or so he believes, Raskolnikov himself, has a duty to overstep the most basic bounds of morality in order to achieve a high end. I say this is unfortunate for a couple of reasons: First, the majority of the action of the novel has nothing directly to do with the idea of the Extraordinary Man, so a reader who is concentrating exclusively on Dostoevsky's treatment of this idea will be missing out on the many other redeeming qualities of the book and will probably find most of the book a bit boring as a result. Second, especially from a modern, post-Nietzschean, point of view, Dostoevsky's treatment of the Extraordinary Man doesn't strike me (especially after a second reading, by which time the novelty had worn off) as being especially interesting philosophy. Granted, given that he was writing in 1866, it does seem somewhat impressive, but I'd have to say Nietzsche advocated the position better than Raskolnikov does, and I'm not sure how much enduring value there really is in this philosophical aspect of the novel. There is, however, immense enduring value in both the characters and the action of Crime and Punishment, and that strikes me as clearly the best reason to read the book. If you read Crime and Punishment in hopes of deriving as much as you can from the work, and not just in order to read arguments about a once-fashionable philosophical idea, I can't imagine that you'll disagree with myself and the vast number of others who regard this as one of the greatest works of world literature.
(From quoting an American reader)
Target readers:
General readers.
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Fyodor Dostoyevsky (1821-1881), one of nineteenth-century Russia's greatest novelists, spent four years in a convict prison in Siberia, after which he was obliged to enlist in the army. In later years his penchant for gambling sent him deeply into debt. Most of his important works were written after 1864.
David McDuff was educated at the University of Edinburgh and has translated a number of works for Penguin Classics, including Dostoyevsky's The Brothers Karamazov.
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From Publisher
A desperate young man plans the perfect crime - the murder of a despicable pawnbroker, an old women no one loves and no one will mourn. Is it not just, he reasons, for a man of genius to commit such a crime, to transgress moral law - if it will ultimately benefit humanity? So begins one of the greatest novels ever written: a powerful psychological study, a terrifying murder mystery, a fascinating detective thriller infused with philosophical, religious and social commentary. Raskolnikov, an impoverished student living in a garret in the gloomy slums of St. Petersburg, carries out his grotesque scheme and plunges into a hell of persecution, madness and terror. Crime And Punishment takes the reader on a journey into the darkest recesses of the criminal and depraved mind, and exposes the soul of a man possessed by both good and evil... a man who cannot escape his own conscience.
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CHAPTER 1
On an exceptionally hot evening early in July a young man came out of the garret in which he lodged in S. Place and walked slowly, as though in hesitation, towards K. Bridge.
He had successfully avoided meeting his landlady on the staircase. His garret was under the roof of a high, five-storied house, and was more like a cupboard than a room. The landlady, who provided him with garret, dinners, and attendance, lived on the floor below, and every time he went out he was obliged to pass her kitchen, the door of which invariably stood open. And each time he passed, the young man had a sick, frightened feeling, which made him scowl and feel ashamed. He was hopelessly in debt to his landlady, and was afraid of meeting her.
This was not because he was cowardly and abject, quite the contrary; but for some time past, he had been in an over-strained, irritable condition, verging on hypochondria. He had become so completely absorbed in himself, and isolated from his fellows that he dreaded meeting, not only his landlady, but any one at all. He was crushed by poverty, but the anxieties of his position had of late ceased to weigh upon him. He had given up attending to matters of practical importance; he had lost all desire to do so. Nothing that any landlady could do had a real terror for him. But to be stopped on the stairs, to be forced to listen to her trivial, irrelevant gossip, to pestering demands for payment, threats and complaints, and to rack his brains for excuses, to prevaricate, to lie--no, rather than that, he would creep down the stairs like a cat and slip out unseen.
This evening, however, on coming out into the street, he became acutely aware of his fears.
"I want to attempt a thing like that and am frightened by these trifles," he thought, with an odd smile. "Hm . . . yes, all is in a man's hands and he lets it all slip from cowardice, that's an axiom. It would be interesting to know what it is men are most afraid of. Taking a new step, uttering a new word is what they fear most. . . . But I am talking too much. It's because I chatter that I do nothing. Or perhaps it is that I chatter because I do nothing. I've learned to chatter this last month, lying for days together in my den thinking . . . of Jack the Giant-killer. Why am I going there now? Am I capable of that? Is that serious? It is not serious at all. It's simply a fantasy to amuse myself; a plaything! Yes, maybe it is a plaything."
The heat in the street was terrible: and the airlessness, the bustle and the plaster, scaffolding, bricks, and dust all about him, and that special Petersburg stench, so familiar to all who are unable to get out of town in summer--all worked painfully upon the young man's already overwrought nerves. The insufferable stench from the pot-houses, which are particularly numerous in that part of the town, and the drunken men whom he met continually, although it was a working day, completed the revolting misery of the picture. An expression of the profoundest disgust gleamed for a moment in the young man's refined face. He was, by the way, exceptionally handsome, above the average in height, slim, well-built, with beautiful dark eyes and dark brown hair. Soon he sank into deep thought, or more accurately speaking into a complete blankness of mind; he walked along not observing what was about him and not caring to observe it. From time to time, he would mutter something, from the habit of talking to himself, to which he had just confessed. At these moments he would become conscious that his ideas were sometimes in a tangle and that he was very weak; for two days he had scarcely tasted food.
He was so badly dressed that even a man accustomed to shabbiness would have been ashamed to be seen in the street in such rags. In that quarter of the town, however, scarcely any short-coming in dress would have created surprise. Owing to the proximity of the Hay Market, the number of establishments of bad character, the preponderance of the trading and working class population crowded in these streets and alleys in the heart of Petersburg, types so various were to be seen in the streets that no figure, however queer, would have caused surprise. But there was such accumulated bitterness and contempt in the young man's heart that, in spite of all the fastidiousness of youth, he minded his rags least of all in the street. It was a different matter when he met with acquaintances or with former fellow students, whom, indeed, he disliked meeting at any time. And yet when a drunken man who, for some unknown reason, was being taken somewhere in a huge waggon dragged by a heavy dray horse, suddenly shouted at him as he drove past: "Hey there, German hatter!" bawling at the top of his voice and pointing at him--the young man stopped suddenly and clutched tremulously at his hat. It was a tall round hat from Zimmerman's, but completely worn out, rusty with age, all torn and bespattered, brimless and bent on one side in a most unseemly fashion. Not shame, however, but quite another feeling akin to terror had overtaken him.
"I knew it," he muttered in confusion, "I thought so! That's the worst of all! Why, a stupid thing like this, the most trivial detail might spoil the whole plan. Yes, my hat is too noticeable. . . . It looks absurd and that makes it noticeable. . . . With my rags I ought to wear a cap, any sort of old pancake, but not this grotesque thing. Nobody wears such a hat, it would be noticed a mile off, it would be remembered. . . . What matters is that people would remember it, and that would give them a clue. For this business one should be as little conspicuous as possible. . . . Trifles, trifles are what matter! Why, it's just such trifles that always ruin everything. . . ."
He had not far to go; he knew indeed how many steps it was from the gate of his lodging house: exactly seven hundred and thirty. He had counted them once when he had been lost in dreams. At the time he had put no faith in those dreams and was only tantalising himself by their hideous but daring recklessness. Now, a month later, he had begun to look upon them differently, and, in spite of the monologues in which he jeered at his own impotence and indecision, he had involuntarily come to regard this "hideous" dream as an exploit to be attempted, although he still did not realise this himself. He was positively going now for a "rehearsal" of his project, and at every step his excitement grew more and more violent.
With a sinking heart and a nervous tremor, he went up to a huge house which on one side looked on to the canal, and on the other into the street. This house was let out in tiny tenements and was inhabited by working people of all kinds--tailors, locksmiths, cooks, Germans of sorts, girls picking up a living as best they could, petty clerks, etc. There was a continual coming and going through the two gates and in the two court-yards of the house. Three or four door-keepers were employed on the building. The young man was very glad to meet none of them, and at once slipped unnoticed through the door on the right, and up the staircase. It was a back staircase, dark and narrow, but he was familiar with it already, and knew his way, and he liked all these surroundings: in such darkness even the most inquisitive eyes were not to be dreaded.
"If I am so scared now, what would it be if it somehow came to pass that I were really going to do it?" he could not help asking himself as he reached the fourth storey. There his progress was barred by some porters who were engaged in moving furniture out of a flat. He knew that the flat had been occupied by a German clerk in the civil service, and his family. This German was moving out then, and so the fourth floor on this staircase would be untenanted except by the old woman. "That's a good thing anyway," he thought to himself, as he rang the bell of the old woman's flat. The bell gave a faint tinkle as though it were made of tin and not of copper. The little flats in such houses always have bells that ring like that. He had forgotten the note of that bell, and now its peculiar tinkle seemed to remind him of something and to bring it clearly before him. . . . He started, his nerves were terribly overstrained by now. In a little while, the door was opened a tiny crack: the old woman eyed her visitor with evident distrust through the crack, and nothing could be seen but her little eyes, glittering in the darkness. But, seeing a number of people on the landing, she grew bolder, and opened the door wide. The young man stepped into the dark entry, which was partitioned off from the tiny kitchen. The old woman stood facing him in silence and looking inquiringly at him. She was a diminutive, withered-up old woman of sixty, with sharp malignant eyes and a sharp little nose. Her colourless, somewhat grizzled hair was thickly smeared with oil, and she wore no kerchief over it. Round her thin long neck, which looked like a hen's leg, was knotted some sort of flannel rag, and, in spite of the heat, there hung flapping on her shoulders, a mangy fur cape, yellow with age. The old woman coughed and groaned at every instant. The young man must have looked at her with a rather peculiar expression, for a gleam of mistrust came into her eyes again.
"Raskolnikov, a student, I came here a month ago," the young man made haste to mutter, with a half-bow, remembering that he ought to be more polite.
"I remember, my good sir, I remember quite well your coming here," the old woman said distinctly, still keeping her inquiring eyes on his face.
"And here . . . I am again on the same errand," Raskolnikov continued, a little disconcerted and surprised at the old woman's mistrust. "Perhaps she is always like that though, only I did not notice it the other time," he thought with an uneasy feeling.
The old woman paused, as though hesitating; then stepped on one side, and pointing to the door of the room, she said, letting her visitor pass in front ...
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Paul McGrath (MSL quote), USA
<2007-02-02 00:00>
I initially approached this book with a great deal of trepidation. I had never read Dostoyevsky, and was concerned that I would get bogged down in some lengthy, mind-numbingly boring, nineteenth-century treatise on the bestial nature of man or something. I am happy to report this is not the case. Instead, and to my delight, it is a smoothly flowing and fascinating story of a young man who succumbs to the most base desire, and the impact this has both psychologically and otherwise on himself and those around him.
To be sure, the book seems wordy in places, but I suspect this has to do with the translation. And what translator in his right mind would be bold enough to edit the great Dostoyevsky? But this is a very minor problem.
What we get with Dostoyevsky is dramatic tension, detailed and believable human characters, and brilliant insight into human nature. Early in the novel our hero meets and has a lengthy conversation with Marmeladov, a drunkard. This conversation is never uninteresting and ultimately becomes pathetic and heartbreaking, but I kept wondering why so much time was spent on it. As I got deeper into the book, I understood why this conversation was so important, and realized that I was in the hands of a master storyteller. This is also indicative of the way in which the story reveals itself. Nothing is hurried. These people speak the way we actually speak to one another in real life, and more importantly, Dostoyevsky is able to flesh out his characters into whole, three-dimensional human beings.
And what a diverse group of characters! Each is fleshed out, each is marvelously complex. Razujmikhin, the talkative, gregarious, good-hearted, insecure and destitute student; Sonia, the tragic child-prostitute, with a sense of rightness in the world; Petrovich, the self-important, self-made man, completely out of touch with his own humanity; Dunia, the honorable, wronged sister: we feel like we know these people because we've met people like them. They fit within our understanding of the way human beings are.
Dostoyevsky also displays great insight into human nature. Svidrigailov, for example, talks of his wife as liking to be offended. "We all like to be offended," he says, "but she in particular loved to be offended." It suddenly struck me how true this is. It gives us a chance to act indignantly, to lash out at our enemies, to gain favor with our allies. I don't believe I've ever seen this thought expressed in literature before. In fact, it never occurred to me in real life! Petrovich, Dunia's suitor, not only expects to be loved, but because of his money, and her destitution, he expects to be adored! To be worshipped! He intentionally sought out a woman from whome he expected to get this, and is comletely flummoxed when she rejects him. His is an unusual character, but completely realized.
There is so much more to talk about: the character of Raskolnikov, which is meticulously and carefully revealed; the sense of isolation which descends on him after committing his crime; the cat and mouse game played on him by the police detective. I could go on and on. I haven't even mentioned the historical and social context in which this takes place. Suffice to say this is a very rich book.
Do not expect it to be a rip-roaring page turner. Sit down, relax, take your time, and savor it. It will be a very rewarding experience. And thank you SL, for recommending it.
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Streutker (MSL quote), USA
<2007-02-02 00:00>
Dr. Phil: My first guest tonight is a man who has some impulse-control problems.
Raskolnikov: What do you want? When will you leave off tormenting me?
Dr. Phil: Hold it right there. Seems to me you need an attitude adjustment.
(Raskolnikov turns abruptly and stares at the wall.)
Dr. Phil: Says here you murdered an old lady for her money. You murdered her, and then you murdered her sister. What were you thinking?
Raskolnikov: (Making a violent effort to understand what it all means) I murdered myself, not them! It was the Devil that killed them. Enough, enough! I killed a noxious insect of no use to anyone, so what is the object of these senseless sufferings?
Dr. Phil: You need to get a grip on yourself, and you need to take some responsibility and make healthier choices.
(Applause from studio audience.)
Raskolnikov: (Breathing heavily, his upper lip twitching.) My choice was to be a great man dedicated to improving the lot of humanity. The vast mass of mankind is mere material, and only exists in order by some mysterious process to bring into the world at last one man out of a thousand with a spark of independence.
Dr. Phil: Let's talk about the independence thing, since you brought it up. You're still receiving money from your mother, isn't that right? And you have a college degree but no job? And recently you've embarked on a life of crime?
Raskolnikov: The extraordinary man has the right to find in his own conscience a sanction for murder, if it is essential to the practical fulfillment of his idea. Our rulers destroy men by millions themselves and look on it as a virtue. They are knaves and scoundrels.
Dr. Phil: Ho ho, well I'm not an expert on politics, but don't you think you have enough problems of your own to keep us busy here? I understand you're in love with a prostitute?
Raskolnikov: Sonia is a woman of the utmost purity whom I love with a Christ-like intensity that drives me to torment and humiliate her.
Dr. Phil: Be honest with me now. Don't you think she'd prefer a relationship in which two healthy people come together because they complement each other on an equal footing of respect and love?
(Applause from studio audience.)
Raskolnikov: (Grinds his teeth.) A dull animal rage boils within me.
Dr. Phil: We need to extinguish these self-defeating behavior patterns of yours.
Raskolnikov: Pain and suffering are always inevitable for a large intelligence and a deep heart.
Dr. Phil: I one-hundred percent disagree. You can do better than that. Now I understand Sonia can't be here tonight because she's ministering to the needs of plague victims, but once you get out of prison for those murders, supposing this Sonia's still waiting for you, what do you think
you'll have to do to repair the damage you've already done to the relationship?
Raskolnikov: My mind is clouded and I am almost unconscious of my body.
Dr. Phil: I'm sending you to the green room to do some figuring.
Raskolnikov: Why must you persecute me with kindness, when I would rather boil over with a rapturous agony. (Laughs insanely.) Perhaps I am really mad, and all this happens only in my imagination.
Dr. Phil: Nope, you ain't getting you off the hook that easy. Fact is, you are accountable for your actions. What I'm asking you to do is take responsibility. Are you willing to give that a try?
Raskolnikov: (Bows down to kiss the earth.) Good God, man is a vile creature.
Dr. Phil: Do we have a deal or not?
Raskolnikov: I could strangle you at this moment. Why must you torture me? I feel a physical hatred for you, cannot bear you near me, and am becoming convinced that you are the most aggravating bully on the face of the Earth.
Dr. Phil: You see, now we're getting somewhere. Pain, once it's acknowledged, can be a powerful motivator.
Raskolnikov: Be silent, I beg of you. (Shuddering nervously, a malignant expression in his black eyes.) I am a louse, a wretch, a fool.
Dr. Phil: It's time for you to identify and confront the behaviors that are making you unhappy. I always tell people, you don't need a diploma to hose down a mule.
(Standing ovation from studio audience.)
Raskolnikov: I feel sublimely indifferent to your opinion. (Walks toward the exit.) No, I retract everything I have said, your words make perfect sense, you are a seer, a god. (Bounding out of the studio, his voice carrying from afar.) If only I had met you before I became an axe
murderer, perhaps I would now be among the saints.
Dr. Phil: Oh boy.
(Raskolnikov returns after a tumultuous inner struggle, pushing his way through a dense crowd of peasants.)
Dr. Phil: We're going to take a break now.
Raskolnikov: (Strikes Dr. Phil repeatedly on the head with the blunt side of an axe, then leaves overcome with remorse.)
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Asphlex (MSL quote), USA
<2007-02-02 00:00>
You know, for years I avoided Dostoevsky. What had I heard about this guy, this looney, Christian fanatic that some pompous jerk in a university somewhere anonymous proclaimed as, "The greatest author - ever"? Hell, I'm an American and we got our pride, right?
So everything I knew about Dostoevsky is that he wrote long books that dissect every minute detail of every character, no matter how small. Sounds dull, right?
But this book (and all the others I have thus far read: The Brothers Karamozov, Notes From Underground, The Idiot, The Eternal Husband--the list goes on, but I'll spare you) is formed by the plot, by the actions and activities of its so dissected characters. Crime and Punishment is the rare book when we, the reader, can truly understand the character. We see the germ of a thought forming and how this affects Raskolikov, how he acts on it and the consequences for him personally, both physically and, moreso, emotionally. Dostoevsky had initially planned this novel as a shorter work (perhaps half its length), a chronicle of the psychological ramifications of a crime. He succeeded with this probably better than he had set out to do (though of this I can't be sure--I've heard Fyodor was a tremendously arrogant guy). So here, take this, pick it up, buy it right now. It is not some lofty, unaccessable work of "high art" (although it is a work of art), but a slam-bang, thrilling, action - packed study of a crazy guy getting crazier until he finally gets sane, understanding himself, what he's done and why. Also, the translation by Richard Pevear and Larissa Volokhonsky is wonderful, far more lucid than the still good but dated version by Constance Garnett.
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Morse (MSL quote), USA
<2007-02-02 00:00>
Many of the "classic novels" I have read were originally written in English, and therefore forego translation in modern bindings. Dostoevsky's Crime and Punishment, although written in the latter half of the 19th century, holds up well to the conversion from the original Russian to English.
Rodion Raskolikov is a student, an author, an intellectual. Like countless others in Russia at the time, he is also very poor. His empassioned mind imagines that a local woman, a pawnbroker is evil, a parasite, for taking the valued trinkets of her neighbors and paying them a pittance in return, and for holding promisary notes over their heads. His rage turns to murder, justifying his actions later on as doing a greater good for many by taking the life of this one person. However, his crime is two-fold, as he is discovered by the woman's sister, still with the murder weapon in his hands, and in a moment of terrified frenzy, murders her as well.
The bulk of this novel, exquisitly written, is the slow realization of Raskolnikov that his crime was just that, a crime, no matter how good his intent. Raskolnikov struggles with the guilt of his actions, even as he time and again proves his worthiness as a person in his actions regarding others, giving up his last bit of money to help another less fortunate than himself, attending to a dying man in the streets, trying to secure a good future for his sister, with a worthy man. Raskolnikov, as the reader discovers, is a good and decent man.
The underlying message of this book seems to be that even a man of conscience cannot commit an unconscienable act without repurcussion, without 'punishment', and that no matter how justified you think you may be in your actions, no matter how many good deeds you may do, with conscience there is always a higher authority to answer to, that of your own mind, and what you can or cannot live with.
Dostoevsky had been described to me as dry, turgid reading. I found it to be nothing of the sort. The story never drags on or belabours a point without logic and qualification. The characters, although the focus of the story is Raskolnikov, are all well realized, and developed.
The story itself remains interesting and engaging throughout every page, with a well crafted conundrum once you reach the epilogue, and leaves the reader, at least this one, with a desire to read more about this man, beyond the final words of the book.
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