The Brothers Karamazov

Sometime in August, being of questionably sound mind amidst the worst summer on record, I got it in my head that it was time to finally read that forbidding classic, The Brothers Karamazov. Or try to, anyway.

To more fully inhabit the setting of nineteenth century Russia, I decided I’d crack the book open when the weather cooled off a bit, once there was no more baseball on TV in the evening. So, November.

Then I discovered, to my great delight, that Fyodor Dostoevsky and I share a birthday: 11/11. I took it as a sign. Come hell or high water I’m starting Karamazov this Wednesday, on the occasion of my 38th birthday – which would have been his 199th. And because I’ve heard horror stories about the shapeshifting character names and vagaries of plot, I’ll also be reading Robin Feuer Miller’s companion book. Maybe I'll wrap up this reading project by Dostoevsky's 200th. Wish me luck.