How Hard Is Crime and Punishment to Read
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On the terrible burden of pretending you've read Criminal offense and Penalisation
A story past someone who has 100% definitely read Dostoyevsky'due south archetype meditation on moral dilemma and human being nature.
I
At the beginning of Apr, during an extremely rainy spell, towards evening, a swain left the closet he rented in Hampstead, walked out to Waterstones, and slowly, as if indecisively, slipped a copy of Crime and Punishment into his bag.
He paid for it, mind (What do recollect he is, a criminal?), but he safely avoided anyone he knew noticing, or telling anyone he'd bought it – the terminal thing he needed was people asking him nosey, needling questions (Ah, haven't read it before, eh?). After all, why shouldn't he read a lovely bit of Dostoyevsky? He was a clever lad! Perhaps he'd be laughed at, though: Who do yous retrieve you are, Mr Ivory Belfry? Or, perhaps, Mr Ivory onion dome. In his torment, he reckoned they'd make clever Russian compages references at his expense.
Two
It was in this state, which lasted for the swain a slap-up many days, that he constitute himself in a pub garden, surrounded by friends, at the convergence of fateful happenstance: his mind aflame, and left without any other conversational anecdotes, social or otherwise – scarcely, during the last yr, had literally fifty-fifty i single interesting thing happened, and he'd already mentioned his "big Sopranos rewatch" like that was news – he blurted aloud that he'd purchased Law-breaking and Punishment.
An countenance raised here, and there 1 of the boyfriend's friends opened their oral cavity to speak. The young man anticipated a response, of course, just of a sudden, brimful with guilt at having never read one of 'the greats', he was unable to bear it. Without thinking – and in a searing flash of haste and recklessness, like the devil himself had possessed his tongue – he bludgeoned them over the heads with a sharp fib, whetted and heavy like an axe: that he hadn't just bought the book but read the matter, too.The whole thing.
And enjoyed it, he said: "A masterpiece, obviously."
No sooner than he'd committed the regrettable deed, the young homo felt a stifling sense of scepticism suffuse the tabular array, like hot, crimson blood pooling. Two of the friends looked impressed. Another smiled and leaned forward: "Ilovethat novel. Isn't itsucha keenly observed descent into madness? You experience like y'all're right inside his heed."
The swain paused. Was that sarcasm? It was difficult to tell: that friend was always taking the mick, just he was a literature student, also. A existent bookworm. "Correct", the beau replied, adopting a wise, knowing tone: "Because of the crime."
"Er.. yep. What did you make of the equus caballus dream, eh? In part one – the old mare?"
The horse dream? What the hell is a horse dream?When, he wondered, would these torturous questions end? What could he even say? (Equus caballus dream?!) Did his friend know? Did they all know? He would be caught, he could feel it. What a heinous web had been woven! But the seconds were snowballing; time had slowed to a crawl. He had to speak.
"It felt to me," he feigned, pausing for time to hastily concoct a reply both specific plenty to audio plausible and vague enough to allow a range of literary potentialities, "that the dream wasn't real but a metaphor; that dreams can be a manifestation of our mind'due south innermost workings, which can often feel (Oh my god…, he thought) like a kind of (…nailed information technology, as the word came to him) punishment."
It was at this betoken that the young man's roommate joined the wretched scene. "Room for i more?" he asked, pulling his chair to the table. "What were you all talking about?"
No, the young man idea. No no no. My roommate will know. What if he'd seen the book on his desk at domicile, its broad spine utterly wanting for a pucker, anything to point he'd even touched the thing? Had his roommate noticed he'd spent the last few nights on the PlayStation, the volume sat pristinely next to him? Why, he thought, didn't I just put a bookmark in information technology somewhere?
"We were talking aboutCrime and Punishment," merrily persisted some other friend. "Take y'all read it?"
"I haven't," the roommate replied, gesturing to the young man, "but you merely bought a copy last week, no? How is it?"
The fellow's head was pond at present.
"Howwasit," corrected the same friend. "He's read the whole bloody affair already! He was but explaining an important dream scene."
The young man felt a dewdrop of sweat, which had been collecting on his forehead, roll hotly onto his cheek. The table had turned to him in oppressive apprehension. Maybe he should merely come clean? He'd wanted to read the book, he really had, only at present fate seemed to exist swallowing him whole, delirium setting in every bit his circumstances worsened and his pale lip began to quiver.
"I thought–" he started, the edges of his vision blurring. "The dream, it's… Dostoyevsky, he… it'southward not the crime the character commits, per se, but the punishment… I don't know. I don't know. I couldn't I haven't I didn't–"
And then he blacked out.
Epilogue
The boyfriend came to moments later, the table leaned in effectually him, their faces slackening in relief, turning from worry dorsum to mirth.
"I haven't read the book," the swain gasped, a confession. He felt a lightness course through him, or at least the blood returning to his brain. "I just bought it. I lied. I lied!"
"Yeah, we know," the friend who had read the volume laughed, tossing the book'due south receipt across the table. "You bought information technology three days ago. 5.23 p.m. Waterstones. This cruel out of your pocket, and so we thought we'd air current y'all upward.
"And anyhow, wait mate, it'southward but a book – it's not similar you murdered someone."
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Image: Mica Murphy/Penguin
Source: https://www.penguin.co.uk/articles/2021/may/fyodor-dostoyevsky-crime-and-punishment-parody.html