If you ever pick up The Idiot, don’t do it when your heart is in turmoil. It’s not a good recovery book. No one recovers in that book. Don’t get me wrong, it’s a damn good book, but I have to wonder, was that man, ever happy? Was his Russian sadness so deep that he almost drowned each night to get up each morning to write not quite recovered?
I made that mistake, but now I’m as far from Dostoyevsky as one can get. I brought down The Trial, but I think I’ll pass for now. Kafka’s another one of those you only read a certain times.
Right now I’m reading a fluff book for the first time in years, one that I picked up off the take a book leave a book wall, and I’m getting lost in simple violence and intrigue, nothing complex at all, at least not for a few days. Maybe I’ll read Behan or Forster next, and leave the Russians off for a month.
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