Didn't want The Brothers Karamazov to end, but it did for me yesterday. My assumption that Dostoevsky would somehow sustain the brilliance of his final novel to the last page was borne out. I'm not sure about the circumstances of its composition, but, like Dickens, the impression of astonishing spontaneity within a capacious frame dominated my reading. And, as with Dickens at his best (Little Dorrit, Bleak House, Our Mutual Friend) Dostoevsky seemed to know exactly how to put his magical jigsaw of meaning together.
In truth, the Russian Master's superiority over The Inimitable, in this novel at least, was wonderfully obvious. To take a single example: both writers are unafraid to deal with the unashamedly sentimental, but in Dickens's case this can topple over into something so blatantly manipulative that even in his greatest fiction there's the danger of unintended bathos. In contrast, Dostoevsky's sentimentality is so vividly sincere that it overwhelms.
The ending of The Brothers Karamazov, focused on a child's funeral, in a sub-plot entirely distinct from the central thrust of the novel really shouldn't work. But it's a triumph. Completely unexpected yet perfect in its evocation of grief and suffering and resilience.
I'm still rearranging my head over all this.
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