Review: Fyodor Dostoyevsky, Crime and Punishment

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Mr Dostoyevsky has written a long book – 650 pages in my Penguin Classics edition – but it is still a gripping psychological thriller. In the foreground of the story are poverty, prostitution, mental illness according to the latest theorising, God according to more traditional theorising, the Russian soul and, seemingly inseparable from that, Russian vodka. There is a lot of vodka in this book, as there was and still is in Russia where it has always held down male life expectancy. The short Epilogue suggests a sort of redemption through suffering and unconditional love but I think it would be wrong to see Mr Dostoyevsky as a simple bringer of The Good News. He is too clever to fall into that trap, though there will be readers who try to push him into it.

His substantial cast of characters do genuinely seem to develop in the course of the novel, and to go off in unexpected directions. It doesn’t feel as if they are mouthpieces for views Mr Dostoyevsky has fully worked out in advance. They each have a distinctive voice and the author allows those voices plenty of free expression throughout the book. Indeed, the largest proportion of the book is given over either to set-piece conversations between two or more characters or to interior monologue. There is little commentary or obvious authorial intrusion, to the extent that rather than have a character exclaim something within inverted commas with an authorial remark like he laughed to follow it, Mr Dostoyevsky (at least, in my translation) incorporates the laughter into the speech with a he-he or ha-ha. I have to say that I found this rather wearing and unsatisfactory since it is so clearly authorial anyway and also terribly repetitive.

Professor Bakhtin has said that the style adopted in this book could be called polyphonic. Dostovevsky assembles a cast of characters, as one might in a play, and lets them speak, each in their own voice. None of them speak with the voice of the author though he clearly has his partialities, most obviously in regard to Sonya, a Magdalen figure who is chosen by Raskolnikov as his confessor – a traditional role for a prostitute. In this case, confession is a route to intimacy rather than a result of it. 

It is part of his skill that at the same time as he is setting off characters by their conversations, Dostoyevsky manages to move the narrative story line forward in a way which keeps the reader reading. It helps in this respect that he has an astute detective who is hot on the trail of the murderer and keeps up a cat-and-mouse game intended to bring the perpetrator to the point of confession, a strategy in which he is arguably successful. The detective plays a vital role in moving the story along.

As with many Russian novels, it is hard to keep track of characters who sometimes appear with first name and patronymic and sometimes with familiar names.My edition lacks a Cast of Characters such as often appears at the front of  Russian novels. One would have been useful here, at least for this older reader.

Review: Martha Nussbaum, Anger and Forgiveness

I knew Martha Nussbaum’s name but had never studied her work until I came across, by chance, an old essay of hers which offers a wonderfully clear and decisive critique of the work of Judith Butler (best known for her 1991 book Gender Trouble). I was sufficiently impressed to order a couple of Nussbaum’s books online and this is the first one I have read. It originated in the 2014 John Locke lectures at Oxford. It’s very wide-ranging, starting in Ancient Greece and ending in the liberation struggles and civil rights movements of twentieth century India, USA and South Africa. It stays throughout with a few key concepts – anger, forgiveness, gratitude, punishment, justice.

Nussbaum’s characterises her overall ethical and political philosophical vision as essentially forward-looking and welfarist, indebted among more modern writers to the utilitarians (specifically J S Mill) and liberal theorists (specifically John Rawls). From this very general position, she tries to discourage any enthusiasm we might feel for anger as a virtue of some kind. She doesn’t like conditional forgiveness – here she is very forceful in her critique of pervasive religiously-inspired views. If there is to be punishment at all, it should not be backward-looking retribution or payback but forward-looking deterrent. 

Very interestingly, she partitions her discussion in terms of areas of social life: the intimate relationships of family and close friendship; the non-personal relationships of daily life where we meet other people as waiters, travellers on the same plane, drivers on the same road; the more enduring but non-intimate relationships we have with people like work colleagues; the world of criminal justice, where the courts act for those who have been wronged and against those who have wronged them; and the more historically specific worlds of revolutionary justice where fundamental social re-orientation is at issue. Here she focusses on the Civil Rights struggle in America, the campaign for Indian independence, and the re-organisation of South Africa achieved by the ANC with Nelson Mandela as its leader. The discussion is packed with examples and with different ways of coming at the same questions. It’s readable throughout and I found myself thinking of how her arguments relate to contemporary issues like Twitter shaming and apologising, safe spaces and no platforming.

I had one general disquiet which emerged when I read the chapter on the Middle Realm of non-intimate everyday relationships (chapter 5). She discusses various cases where we have to respond to people who have angered us by inconsiderate behaviour or worse and where we may feel the need to vent our anger or seek apology or in some other way basically stick up for ourselves, our dignity or our status. She canvasses various strategies and they do indeed fall into the category of strategic action rather than communicative action (using Habermas’s terms, but others make the same distinction). In strategic action, we do not aim to say what we think or express what we feel but, rather, aim to get someone else to improve their behaviour by saying or doing whatever seems most likely to work even if that involves telling untruths. So, for example, in order to discourage a stranger on a plane giving unwanted help when it comes to getting her cabin bag into the overhead locker, she imagines saying and does say (falsely), I’m terribly sorry. That suitcase contains fragile items, and I’d rather handle it myself so that, if anything should happen, I would know that I’m responsible and not you (p. 148).

Quite a speech, but this is a pure example of strategic rather than communicative action. In the present instance, communicative action might involve saying. No thank you. I prefer to do it myself which is a polite form of saying I don’t want your help which is what she actually feels.

Now, we act in strategic ways all the time in the Middle Realm but the fact that it can be ethically dubious emerges the moment we switch the context to that of intimate relationships. Here we rely on people close to us to say what they think and express what they feel, not least because intimate relationships become deserts if people don’t do that for each other. So, suppose a wife knows her husband hates wearing suit and tie but wants him to dress up for some social occasion which might be important for his career or their social standing. Even though she has no great love of suit and tie herself, she hits on the strategy of saying, Why don’t you wear a suit and tie this evening? It makes you look so handsome. The strategy may work but it involves dishonesty and that is high-risk in an intimate relationship and, over time, can be very damaging to it.

This may seem at some distance from the concerns of Nussbaum’s book but I think it connects. Indeed, she herself edges towards a discussion of the problem when she writes admiringly in chapter 7 of the ways in which Nelson Mandela brought important white groups onside in the transition to majority rule in South Africa. But when she discusses, for example, some of the ways in which Mandela won over the Springboks (pp. 234-37) she realises that what he did could be seen either as strategic – the work of a man who had read up on winning friends and influencing people – or as the expression of his personality. This leads her to point out such things as that Mandela was a real sports fan, not a fake one.

But it is arguable that in chapter 5, she seems happy to deploy pure strategic action which is  insincere or untruthful and this is in obvious respects more consistent with her overall forward-looking, welfarist position which obviates any prying into people’s souls to test their sincerity. The problem I find with her very strong expression of such forward-oriented welfarist views is that though they are meant to be both politically progressive and consistent with a liberal pluralism (of the kind articulated by John Rawls), they have a general paternalist (or maternalist) feel so that other people are to some degree manipulated or infantilised. The exchange over the suit and tie which I just sketched could be construed as manipulative or infantilising and, indeed, when writing about difficult colleagues (pp 154 – 160) Nussbaum characterises one as a “selfish genius  two year-old” (p 159) and others as suffering from “infantile narcissism” (p 160) and  who have to be handled accordingly – that is, handled strategically as patients rather than agents. Sometimes it will work when you handle someone else strategically, but at other times you will cause offence and invite anger when your ruse is seen through. In intimate relationships, give the other cause to think you are treating them as a patient and you are in deep trouble. Likewise, treat  Springboks patronisingly as patients and you will be told to fuck off. Kantians would simply shake their heads, advising that treating people as means rather than ends - objects of strategy rather than partners in communication - can never be justified.

Well, I have done my duty as a critical reviewer in outlining an area of doubt but it remains the case that this is a very impressive, wide-ranging, much reflected upon work of moral and political philosophy with much of which I am in cheerful agreement (as the chapters on “Crimes and Punishments”, “Ingratitude and Disloyalty” in my book The Best I Can Do will attest).

Review: Madeleine Thien, Do Not Say We Have Nothing

The 2016 Man Booker Prize was won by Paul Beatty's The Sellout which I reviewed on this Blog 2nd November 2016. Madeline Thien's much longer book ( 470 pages against 288) was short-listed. Both books will be challenging for most readers because they are written from inside specific cultures about which many readers will have only schematic knowledge. Beatty's is written from inside Black American cultures and Thien's from inside the cultures of  Western classical music and Chinese literary, musical and political life.

So I am sure I missed a lot reading both books but I ended up feeling that Thien's multi-layered historical novel is a much more significant work than Beatty's. She takes seventy years of Chinese history, a cast of characters in love with stories and music - and in the central cases, professionally engaged with Western classical music -  and she writes about the experience of civil war, The Great Leap Forward, The Cultural Revolution, Tiananmen Square,  Bach, Beethoven, Profokiev, Shostakovich and much more besides. The novel is not only panoramic but complexly structured and at times I had to check back when I lost a thread. I read the book slowly.

It has very clever aspects especially in the way it acknowledges its own partiality and incompleteness, just one among the millions of  stories which circulate in the world. It emphasises how things are lost but often not completely so that fragments remain, which may be greatly valued in themselves - a theme which I no doubt responded to because I make something of it in my own book Materials and Medium: An Aesthetics (2016).

There is an extraordinary, haunting theme about searching for lost others by leaving coded stories lying around the world in bookstores, libraries, on Blogs and websites.

The book is an extraordinary achievement. It must be out there at the limits of what a single writer can be capable of creating. Maybe the sheer layered complexity of the book put off the Man Booker judges. I just hope it wasn't the severe, critical narrative of Chinese political history since 1945 which deterred them.

Review: Sebastian Barry, Days Without End

This novel belongs to the Stiff Drink school of writing. You adopt your voice, you start in the middle of things and you keep going until, ninety thousand words later, you bring it all to a close. You provide the reader with no more than a small geographical map of Civil War America and you offer no Acknowledgements to anyone for anything. I guess when it’s all over, you pour another stiff drink.

So you begin with the sentence, “The method of laying out a corpse in Missouri sure took the proverbial cake” and, starting from that, introduce your two main characters, John Cole and the narrator Thomas McNulty – who start out as two teenage boys saving themselves from famine and disease, lost in the frontiers of frontier America. They make shift as improvising stage artists, join the army to fight the Indians, join again to fight the Confederate rebels and along the way of killing for their supper, acquire a child - an orphaned Indian Sioux to whom they give the name, Winona.

Winona is not much more than a cypher. She is young, traumatised, pretty, clever and determined. In a world which has not yet replaced brute force with bureaucracy, she easily becomes their daughter and more precious to John and Thomas than their own lives. The reader is led to agree. Nothing bad must happen to Winona, absolutely nothing.

On this foundation, Sebastian Barry is able to carry off John and Thomas as gay men and Thomas as a cross-dresser when opportunity demands and with a taste for continuing that way anyway. In a society no more regulated by convention than bureaucracy, John and Thomas also carry off their difference, indulged by the black members of the household they eventually join, and enjoying Winona’s uncurious love.

Inevitably, there is a whiff of opportunism in this gay men and cross dresser casting but the Stiff  Drink approach allows Sebastian Barry to carry it off. But not only that; it is the rootedness of a story of violence and suffering in some very simple values which carries us along. At one point, I felt that all was revealed when at page 136, John occupies himself trying to soothe a restless, troubled Winona to sleep. He succeeds. “Got her sleeping” he says, “You sure do” says Thomas and adds for the reader one of his short, characteristic lines of laconic wisdom, “Not much more than that needed to make men happy”. All’s well in a world where grown men can soothe troubled children to sleep. If they can do that, who’s gonna care if they’re gay?

Social Text two decades on from the Sokal Affair

Social Text covers a broad spectrum of social and cultural phenomena, applying the latest interpretive methods to the world at large. A daring and controversial leader in the field of cultural studies, the journal consistently focuses attention on questions of gender, sexuality, race, and the environment, publishing key works by the most influential social and cultural theorists. As a journal at the forefront of cultural theory, Social Text seeks provocative interviews and challenging articles from emerging critical voices. Each issue breaks new ground in the debates about postcolonialism, postmodernism, and popular culture.

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In 1996, the academic journal Social Text was hoaxed by an academic physicist, Alan Sokal, who submitted a deliberately absurd, ridiculous and partly unintelligible article - but laced with “Right On” references. A pre-Twitter furore and debate ensued. In connection with something I am writing now, I wanted to check what happened to Social Text. Well, surprisingly, it didn’t fold and above I quote from its initial self-presentation on its current website page.

I found myself thinking, What would a tutor say if this little bit of text was submitted in fulfilment of the requirement for a course in Writing Publicity Blurbs? Would the tutor wonder, Does this student want to fail the course? Or would they confine themselves to a Comment, Too many adjectives? Or Well, I suppose at least you avoided the ultimate cliché, "cutting edge".

The idea of reading and interpreting the “world at large” as if it was a literary text is not absurd and has a long pedigree, starting I suppose with the idea of the “Open Book of the World”. So we are already into centuries of effort. But in post-modernist / post-structuralist or simply low-grade academic writing, the genre has been much abused. You can try to get away with anything and you will probably be applauded if you provide enough Right On signalling.

The really idiotic part of this PR blurb is in the last sentence in which the breaking of new ground is confidently  programmed according to the requirements of a publishing schedule. Oh vanity! I thought that intellectual discoveries came along at ten or twenty year intervals and that then three came along all at once. But, no, your Subscription to Social Text  will guarantee Order.

Review: Svetlana Alexievich, Second-Hand Time

It’s often said that in Russia human life has never been valued. Ever since the Romanovs installed themselves back in 1613, human beings have been at the mercy and disposal of state and state-backed power. Tens of thousands serf labourers died to create Peter the Great’s capital, St Petersburg. Plough a field almost anywhere in Russia and you turn up more recent human bones.

I don’t often read a 700 page book now, but Svetlana Alexievich’s oral history, Second-Hand Time is gripping. It’s also harrowing and I found myself putting it down at the end of a section, as if it would be indecent to hurry on to the next tale. People tell her their stories back to the 1930s and in to the early 2000s and the themes are repetitive but realised in different ways in every case. State violence, a mendacious bureaucracy, poverty, alcoholism (without end), domestic violence, forced separation of parents and children, husbands and wives, love in a cold climate, the importance of books, the failure of perestroika, a seemingly unshakeable loyalty to Stalin. And then there is the thin and uncertain line which separates those who do evil from those who try to do good.

Alexievich is a seventy year old Nobel Prize winner and what is remarkable in this book is how she elicits narratives from her cast of mainly female characters and how, in what I guess is an exceptionally good translation, those narratives pull you along. You never want to stop reading.

Many of her cast want to memorialise lost grandparents, parents, lovers, children. It’s one of the few things you can do to try to make reparation to them and to heal yourself. In the week when I was reading this book, I came across a story of a man, Andrei Zhukov, who has just completed a twenty-year  self-imposed task. He has sat in the archives and made a list of all the names of all the 40 000 NKVD officers who executed Stalin’s Terror in the 1930s. The victim count is thought to number 12 million and the Russian organisation Memorial has so far managed to list about a quarter of the names. In Alexievich's book, that Terror still affects everyone.

This book should sit alongside the kinds of memoir and historical work which I have reviewed elsewhere on this Blog – see the labels to this post.

The footnote apparatus provided by the translator to assist the reader is excellent; I noticed only one error, Latvia rather than Lithuania (page 341). As for the translation itself, I queried only kikeling (basically, little Jew) finding that little kike sounded better to me.

Trevor Pateman, Silence Is So Accurate

Available now. The book is only available in Hardback and offers 224 pages of essays in autobiography and criticism. Find it at Amazon or order from your bookseller.

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