Alice H (Year 11)

I recently finished Fyodor Dostoevsky’s classic The Idiot, no small task, particularly in year eleven. But I read the book. I primarily read it one the bus in fact, roughly 20 minutes each day while the cramped bus squished and pushed me around on my way home. I would look up occasionally and see phones, airpods and laptops, and no books. No kindles, no paperbacks, no magazines, nor even the archaic newspaper. I don’t doubt that people read articles, stories or fanfics on their phones, but the vast majority are on social media or playing games. I would see friends chatting animatedly then when the conversation died down, or someone left, the immediate response is to switch on their phones and scroll.  

I understand that people want to have a break after a long day at work or school. But why isn’t anyone reading books anymore? This is an extremely generalised question, because my real question would be too specific to make an impact – why don’t people read classics anymore?  

Naturally people would see the length of the book, like The Idiot and say no thanks that’s too boring, too long, too many words. Even if it’s a genre that is appealing to the individual, some would prefer to scroll than flip pages.  

I want to highlight the fact that all literature originated from a place, from an author living in a time where they felt a strong compulsion to write about it. Modern literature it is practically reiterations of classic texts, the same ideas, characters, plot, just in a different time. Then people are surprised that classic texts are so interesting, compelling, and ‘original’. It genuinely irks me that people would settle for a Temu rip off rather than the real thing.  

This leads me to the whirlwind of Dostoevsky and his beautiful Idiot, Prince Myshkin. I can list all the characters, the entire plot, or give a synopsis of the book, but you can look that up on Google. I am here to relay my experience of reading this book, here to show you, the reader, that reading isn’t just words, characters and events, but emotions written with powerful prose that leave you discombobulated and consumed by a human need to have stories.  

There are specific moments from this lengthy book, roughly 560 pages, that stick with me right now as I am writing this. Prince Myshkin, a man too good, too kind for this corrupt earth is rejected by all the sinful characters purely for being the perfect Christian man. He suffered from epilepsy, where his seizures were written so well, I left feeling like I had the seizure myself. This is no discredit to Dostoevsky’s writing style, but pure, genuine feeling of running down that snow laden lane, suspended in a tumultuous space of time and space suspecting that your rival has been watching you with the eyes of the devil ever since you arrived in St. Petersburg. Or Aglaia’s chaotic relationship with Myshkin, her quick quips followed by childish outbursts, her pride and all her emotions were raw and unfiltered. Her apologies were unconventional, odd and heartfelt, buying a hedgehog on a whim to apologise to Myshkin even though he loved her with his whole soul.  

Every single character was real. A real human being, standing upon the page, coming alive within your imagination. Petty fights and betrayals were avidly fought for pages, then resolved with an exchange of crosses, fervent penitence or a sister’s slap of reality. Each character, and there are so many, are crafted with such humanity, carrying motives, aspirations, and hamartia.  

I loved reading this book. It was such a page turner with grand conversations and gossip lasting for pages. I highly recommend reading this book to all, especially people who are looking for something purely exciting and beautiful.  

My love for this book will forever stay with me, it is original, it is compelling, it is extremely interesting. I want others to find a strong connection to any book or story, and not vapid fleeting videos. A connection with a book will last you longer than that three second video you saw an hour ago, because five years in the future you won’t even remember that reel, but you will remember the feeling of reading that one particular scene that made you cry, that made you rage, that made you feel.  

To genuinely feel something is the beauty of good literature. It lasts and it changes you. Whereas a lack of good literature leaves one starved for fulfilling knowledge, there’s an emptiness of the heart where there is no literature to be found. When the only source of knowledge is regressing our intellect then we become idiots. Not even the pure, kind-hearted naïve Idiot from Dostoevsky’s book, but the crude, barbaric idiots who rejected Myshkin without understanding the other view.  

This leads to a bigger problem, people forget that there is another point of view. A range of literature will teach you to look and understand the other point of view, whereas a catered for you page is only built to strike your dopamine high and keep you attached to the screen. 

How can we be challenged in a world designed for us? 

When will we reach out of our box and read a book that is different? 

How long will we accept placidly to be Idiots and stay stagnant in a world of endless knowledge?