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| The Dream of a Ridiculous Man, Petrov (1997) |
I know it's a bad idea to read Dostoyevsky when you're depressed because he doesn't exactly tell happy stories. The magic of Dostoyevsky's books however has always been in their honest and childlike depiction of reality. I use childlike not in the sense that it's good for children or that it's simplistic but childlike because he always seems to imbue a certain innocence of mind in his language.
There are only a select number of books that I can read when my mind is reeling with unhappy thoughts and my chest bombarded by unwholesome feelings. One of those is Dostoyevsky. His stories are always a forceful slap in the face that eventually become a gentle caress. "Look this way, at reality, for all its sufferings and joys. Face it with honesty and humility," he seems to be saying.
"The Dream of a Ridiculous Man" is about a nameless man who has been trying to shoot himself every night for the past couple of weeks. He has irrevocably decided to do it tonight, but not before meeting a little girl (see painting) who desperately asks for his help, which he refuses. He goes home that night thinking about her and feeling ashamed of himself (although he justifies his refusal to help). He falls asleep on his armchair and this is where the dream begins (if you want to know what it is, read it yourself; it's only five chapters long).
A dream! Was it really a dream? Could the human mind formulate a dream so elaborate, so chronologically solid? Whatever it was, it changed the ridiculous man when he woke up and made him even more ridiculous. He saw an earth that was uncorrupted by sin and fell in love with it but at the same time witnessed it turn into the same world that he had wished to leave using his revolver. The strange thing was that he found a new appreciation for this corrupted world, a kind of love that is consubstantial with suffering. A sad kind of love, if you may.
Dostoyevsky has once again cleared my vision polluted by the unsatisfaction and selfishness endemic to sentimentalism. This story reminded me of how much I loved the world and the people in it—the silent splendor of nature, the fluid existence of humans and the mysterious looks in their eyes when they think. They are all beautiful. Reality is beautiful.
I woke up today feeling grateful. I looked at the children who rode in the jeepney with me and was amazed at the wide-eyed wonder with which they looked at everything. At that moment, I wished I could be like them, that I could see the world again and be enchanted by its wonders. I realized that it's really all you need to be happy: to see reality with the eyes of a child.
And what does it matter if I get sad and lonely sometimes? Isn't that only testament to my humanity? What does it matter that I suffer if it allows me to love deeply and truthfully? So thank you. Thank you, Dostoyevsky, for waking me up and making me realize that dreams, no matter how ridiculous, are sometimes necessary to face and appreciate reality.
There are only a select number of books that I can read when my mind is reeling with unhappy thoughts and my chest bombarded by unwholesome feelings. One of those is Dostoyevsky. His stories are always a forceful slap in the face that eventually become a gentle caress. "Look this way, at reality, for all its sufferings and joys. Face it with honesty and humility," he seems to be saying.
"The Dream of a Ridiculous Man" is about a nameless man who has been trying to shoot himself every night for the past couple of weeks. He has irrevocably decided to do it tonight, but not before meeting a little girl (see painting) who desperately asks for his help, which he refuses. He goes home that night thinking about her and feeling ashamed of himself (although he justifies his refusal to help). He falls asleep on his armchair and this is where the dream begins (if you want to know what it is, read it yourself; it's only five chapters long).
A dream! Was it really a dream? Could the human mind formulate a dream so elaborate, so chronologically solid? Whatever it was, it changed the ridiculous man when he woke up and made him even more ridiculous. He saw an earth that was uncorrupted by sin and fell in love with it but at the same time witnessed it turn into the same world that he had wished to leave using his revolver. The strange thing was that he found a new appreciation for this corrupted world, a kind of love that is consubstantial with suffering. A sad kind of love, if you may.
Dostoyevsky has once again cleared my vision polluted by the unsatisfaction and selfishness endemic to sentimentalism. This story reminded me of how much I loved the world and the people in it—the silent splendor of nature, the fluid existence of humans and the mysterious looks in their eyes when they think. They are all beautiful. Reality is beautiful.
I woke up today feeling grateful. I looked at the children who rode in the jeepney with me and was amazed at the wide-eyed wonder with which they looked at everything. At that moment, I wished I could be like them, that I could see the world again and be enchanted by its wonders. I realized that it's really all you need to be happy: to see reality with the eyes of a child.
And what does it matter if I get sad and lonely sometimes? Isn't that only testament to my humanity? What does it matter that I suffer if it allows me to love deeply and truthfully? So thank you. Thank you, Dostoyevsky, for waking me up and making me realize that dreams, no matter how ridiculous, are sometimes necessary to face and appreciate reality.
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