I read The Brothers Karamazov (here) a long time ago, when I was an undergraduate. By that time I had learned (finally!) that rounding up a cluster of neurons and throwing them into action (with purpose) could be exhilarating.

I plowed through that prodigious novel over a three-day weekend. A marathon event! One so dramatic that to this day I can conjure up the chair in which I sat enthralled for most of those hours. Occasionally, to ease creeping stiffness, I read with the book between elbows on my desk, or while stretched prone on my bed, a pillow under my middle, all of this in my small upstairs room on North Brook Street in Madison, Wisconsin.

Like many English speakers immersed in Russian literature, I initially had trouble sorting out the huge cast of characters. Their multiple names also confused me, but my brain was fresh enough to see that the youngest brother, Alexei Fyodorovich Karamazov, (for example) might be referred to as Alyosha, Alyoshka, Alyoshenka, or Alyoshechka, or even Lyosha or Lyoshenka.

Never had I read such a book! Dostoevsky’s insight awed me. I remember thinking his psychological acumen had anticipated Sigmund Freud, and probably even inspired him. Two years later, during my rebellious first year of medical school, I stupidly shunned textbooks and immersed myself in fiction, diving deep and making my way through a good number of Russian classics. I even skimmed through The Brothers again that year.

As I’ve said elsewhere, that bone-headed year of medical school produced oodles of painful regret (here). Finally, to exorcise all remaining demons, I wrote The Colors of Medicine and forced my protagonist to repeat much of my intractable behavior from that year. Relief at last!

I’ll talk more thoughts about my favorite Dostoevsky novel next time, describing my turtle’s pace of lumbering through it this time (not three days but three months!) along with other musings about the book. I won’t put that up for a few days. I’ve averaged about a post per week on this blog, and I think that’s a good pace for me. (An old guy, like an old forest, surely is more susceptible to burnout.)