Dostoevsky Attempts

January 19, 2024

Backstory

I began reading Dostoevsky in January of 2024. I had finished writing Between My Lines, and the next thing I wanted to do was write a full-length story. At that point, however, I wanted something new and abstract, not “just” a story. And having read two books by Dostoevsky, I felt inspired by his style, particularly the depth of the “I” in his books: the expression of the main character’s thoughts and feelings.

The themes with my attempts at utilizing his style were self-reflection and isolation. I quickly found, though, that creating a story out of what were merely feelings and abstract ideas was difficult. After a few attempts, I noted in my document: “Not a meaning, but a feeling.” The intent being to throw away the idea of a story altogether and immerse the reader entirely in the mind of the character. As I write this very paragraph, these ideas are still floating around in my mind. This is something I plan to return to, when I’m not working 200 hours a month while living in a run-down closet with four other people. But working 200 hours a month while living in a run-down closet with four other people is very inspiring for my writing.

The pieces are in newest-to-oldest order (with titles as written in my document). I’ll also add that I am very happy with the prose in these writing attempts.

Text

Green Walls

To walk along a winding road, to watch the swaying of the leaves. To feel the wind upon my skin, to feel the weight upon my mind. I walk, and I wonder. I can’t say I know where I am going. Somewhere, I hope, but where, I know not.

I wish I had a home, some place to call my mine. I wish I had a family, some people to call known. But I walk alone in a crowded forest. An oasis in a city. Beyond the grand walls of green stand taller walls of gray. Behind one such surface is people — a person, to be exact.

And who is she? I wish I knew. But I know for her to look to me would be to see nothing but a blur: a blur of gray and green. As would the ground beneath her feet be wet as that beneath mine. Though I stand outside and see walls clearly. And I don’t mind the rain.

The fault is mine, that I know. I knew better after my fault. As did she, or so I hope, for now I stand within these walls of green. Two worlds, too different. So it was meant to be. Or rather not. It was never meant to be.

And never does it come, the day the sun sets. Each day shall last unto the next. No night with which to weep. To moon with which to mourn. Only the sun. Its mocking smile. Who hides the traitorous stars.

Thus I walk. Thus I wander. Ever in search of the dark. Whilst I stand alone in the absence of people. Whilst she stands alone in a crowd.

Woe Is the Sun That Sets on Day

Oh dearest sun, whose light shines brighter than the stars of the night, whose glimmers stand brightest in the stead of the sun? When vanquished is the light that gives day its name, so shine brightly the stars who would reach to the moon. Though the moon bears no life. Only shame. For marked is its presence but the absence of the sun. And thus it shines brightly, lost amongst the stars.

Some other try

As a note, to quell any uneased hearts, I’ll mention that the use of “gender politics” in this one was simply experimentation.

The wind flowed gently through the trees. Shaking leaves whispered their sorrows. All the things the trees have seen: creaking branches, their weeping. I looked up to the sun: the dim glow offered its frown. Trees? it seemed to mock, what life on earth is worth living? The sun would know best. Its unrelenting battery is too much for man to bear. Only the trees would stand if the sun had its way. And the trees would watch the world burned to the ground.

I carried along into the setting sun. Each step towards it carried me back. No man can outrun the earth – these cosmic bodies set in motion against us. Not even the moon offers solace: to know the moon is to know darkness. As with the stars who shine down their false hopes. What wishes would we make? For anything we wish, they would twist our words into cruel reality. “I want peace,” I would beg. And they would answer: “You may know peace. We shall show you peace. You shall know it. So that we can tear it from your hands.”

With a sigh, I looked down to the grass; I dared not wonder what that whose sole purpose is to be trodden upon might say. So I carried on. To the setting sun.

Home at last, I took a seat. Before me, my bookshelf: pages of words so pleasantly arranged. Words written by other people. I have read their ideas, I have known them. They are others’. Stella Barne wrote twelve books in her lifetime. Thirteen rested on the shelf. One change to her second book made it worthy of a second copy, a new edition with a new introduction. I bought it for a paragraph:

When we women see a man, we wonder what is our duty. The cost of life is us, nothing else. Life is our responsibility. It is not an inequality of gender. It is a responsibility of gender. As men are to be human. As are we all. So what has happened to our society that a man should look down upon a woman? Gender inequality, they say. I spit at their feet. Raise up us women all you want. My responsibility is life itself. Am I meant to raise life in a world where women must be uplifted? What about a world where society raises men capable of looking women in the eye? My children will know no us versus them. They will know only responsibility – to be human. Because no human would look down on any other. The issue goes far beyond gender. But to question society is to be labeled inhuman.

I found the introduction rather profound. She wrote it because she was tired of being praised as a female author. “I am an author, and I am a female,” she once said, “is my value found only in the connection of those two words?” A “labelistic” society where equality is lost to the assignment of labels in the name of equality. And thus I pondered.

Other try #2

Tomorrow is a fantasy. Today is a nightmare. Yesterday was but a dream. I wake, but to what? I look, but to what? And for what does the sun rise? if not for the day? Should I go through life with closed eyes? Would I be better with the visions within my thoughts? Would the darkness of a room make a smile the sun? And who would smile? And what for? To wake is to scream. Thus are we born with closed eyes.

Not that it would matter in the darkness. Alas, the moon shines down on fields of blue. The light of the sun makes green the grass. And the moon’s light turns blue skies black. I would rather look to the ground. My blue grass gives way to the heavens: buried deep within the earth. Those below me are those I love. Thus are there none for whom my heart calls. To yearn, it may; to call, it does not. Who would hear me? Who would I want to hear me?

If the sun’s smile is the day, the moon’s sadness is the night. Unbeholden to the law of earth, may the stars be but glinting tears who catch the light of others’ hope. What, then, are the flowers? Be they nightshades, so what of that? The rose is known for its thorns. Perhaps it is in pain and sadness that beauty should be found. What sight could hold meaning more than to gaze upon these fields of blue? What feeling more somber than to gaze into the night, that though my mind should long for the sky, my heart should hold me fast to ground?

Is it a nightmare? Shall I wake up? Would I want to? I dream that I am other people. Each person, another life. I know who I am by losing who I am. When I dream, I do not question my own reflection: only when I wake. And I do. Each and every night. The sun should set on yesterday. It rises not for tomorrow.

I watched as the faintest light of day broke the veil of beauty. Standing, I looked again down to the grass, long strands between my fingers. I looked up to the moon, looking down upon me, I wondered: to it, do I smile?

Other try

Though I go unseen, it is they who are ghosts. I walk amongst them – walk through them. To me, they do not turn. Nor I to them, for who is there to see? Their mouths might move but speak no words. Their arms might wave but move no air. As with their eyes: those in which their death is evident. I would wonder whether mine are the same. But I have not the strength to bear my reflection.

“Who goes there?” they call out. And so I say my name. They are satisfied with my title, a spoken word brings them peace. So I carry on down this tunnel, to darkness and despair. “What say you?” they say. And I say all is fine. So they part the gates. I enter the church’s garden.

I hear its bell toll: nine strikes on this hour. The damp stone above reflects light like the stars. Our black sun stands strong, its light long lost to grass. Flickering glimmers dance above me. Each speck, the soul of a deceased. If I walk without light, does that make me alive? To what end do they carry lights? Closed eyes would serve them better: to dream they were awake.

There before me lies the castle. Yet more guards to beg my name. So I speak, and they listen, and they reply without a thought. Through parted gates again I enter. I enter into air that shivers, ideas not yet become thought. Faces turn. Into each eye, I look, awaiting the spark of life. But they turn back. I walk the parted, haunted halls, the only sign of life being flickering shadows. To the highest chambers I climb, to the seat that sits the stead of the sun.

“You’re back,” states the nightshade from atop his throne.

“I am,” I reply.

“And?” he asks, unamused.

“That’s all,” I answer, unashamed.

“So be it,” he says with a sigh and the wave of a hand. He looks at me with curiosity. His eyes alight with dancing flames. I meet them. He looks away. He sighs. I leave.

To my chambers I go. No more are the echoes of far gone souls: now echoing footsteps mark time’s passage. And from my window I gaze out. I gaze upon the sanctum, this place called home where stars lie beneath the earth and fall to ground as rain. Where the heavens are a place so high above in which are fields of grass. I gaze upon darkness, shone in the shadow of the sun turned black. What few people I see are wandering. The gates are locked. The earth is heavy. To see the sun would bloom their spirits. Yet those below wither. I have seen the sun – both light and dark. The sun above scorches. Sets fire to the wind. The sun below blossoms. Sets fire to the heart.

And what of me? Who am I in this place? In a cavern with no wind, I go where I am blown. “To the east,” I am told. And so I go. “To the west,” he commands. And there I set. I go because others dare not. I go because I care not. What happens holds no meaning. I want to live. I live to know life. And where shall I find it if not in this cave? Somewhere above must be our refuge. Our refuge from what? From each other? Can we not be happy here? Can I not be happy here? Only one of us is, who blossoms at night. Who himself is the sun turned black.

What makes him different? That to him, the faintest glimmer on the wall should be the sky’s reflection? While those below with hopeless hearts should dance unto day in a land without light. They would gather together, what few that they are and let their voices call the heavens though their prayers be unanswered. And I should stand to watch it all. My bedside holds a candle. By the very force that its smoke should rise, should my own heart be lifted. What else is the purpose? Where else is the day? Perhaps it stalks me, for I go where it is not.

I lie and dream of so far of places…

Attempt 1

I feel such an inexplicable sadness: a sense of overwhelming despair and helplessness. It’s as though I’m alone in this world. This great, vast world. It’s a terrifying place to be alone. And yet it’s filled with so many people. They surround me, everywhere. Everywhere I go, throngs of people, following me like a beast stalking its prey. How is it that I’m alone here? How is it that these people surround me, yet I am the only living person on this earth?

I look into their eyes, and nothing looks back. I speak to them, but their words have no meaning. As I watch them going about their days, I wonder what it is they are hoping to accomplish. Work? And for what? Fun? And to what end? Survive? And is that living? I’m no more than a silent onlooker. Somehow, they surround me all the same. Far away is never far enough. Close is never close enough as to blend in. 

It saddens me. I’m incapable of determining the cause. Is it me? Is it them? Is there something else at play here? I simply can’t make sense of it. My greatest concern, however, is myself. Like clockwork, I follow my schedule. Like the tide of the oceans, I am pulled into that swarming throng. Come day, we go forth into the streets. To stores and offices. To banks and markets. Come night, we are pulled back whence we came. To houses and apartments. To basements and cellars.

I go with them. I have no choice. As much as they are human, so am I… Though I certainly don’t feel the same. But I must buy groceries, too. I need to pay for the room in which I sleep. The clothes I wear. Even the streets on which we walk. It’s all mine as much as it’s theirs. And who are “they”? Who am I, even?

It seems that nobody ever asks. Perhaps that’s what separates us: I ask. I ask too much and far too often. “What’s the point?” I ask. “To what end?” I wonder. While they all make their way from face to face, asking questions like, “How was your day?” and “Did you see that thing?” Try as I might, I cannot care. If war broke out, what difference would it make? If my day was good or bad, would it even matter? Meaning. Purpose. That’s what I seek. To one day awake happy and at peace.

Destroy the world, it means nothing. Happiness doesn’t come from the grand buildings lining the streets. Nor the endless commodities and boundless entertainment. When there’s nothing left, what do we have? What else if not each other? So there lies my problem: that I am alone. Alone and surrounded by other people. None of whom are alone. At least if the world were burnt to the ground, they might finally find some silence in which to start asking more dangerous questions. The question, “How was your day?” would suddenly cease to make sense. Nothing would make sense. So they would seek to find sense.

Thus, I despair. I despair at all those wandering souls, looking into each other’s empty eyes. Churning out meaningless thoughts and speech. I despair at their resilience: that they are resilient without even knowing to what. And resilient, they are. To walk from day to day without asking those questions. They have no idea what tribulations they endure without so much as a second thought.

Is it better that way? To not know what’s going on? Is it better to wake up with a smile knowing that today is the big promotion day? Is it better to be at peace with the words others speak, knowing that what balls fly across the screens hold all the meaning any man could ever seek? Would we all be better off to embrace those around us as they are, for who they are? They ride rollercoasters with a smile on their face. Their souls are invigorated by speakers loud enough to shake their hearts.

Am I missing something? One of us is lost. And which one is it? Because if I am human, then what are they? And if they are human, then what am I? Only one of us can be. So, in either case, I am alone – either the first or the last of my kind… Such degradation. Such self-importance. If only I had another to slap me across my face. I must stand determined. But how can I? How can I do anything at all?

How can I accept that we are exactly the same? How can I ever reconcile the idea that there is not even the slightest difference in our humanity? Then what became of me? How did I end up here… there. “How was your day?” they ask one another. “Are you happy?” I wish to ask them. Is it not the same question? And yet my choice of words places a wall between us. “How was your day?” they ask me. “Not so great,” I reply. And the wall is doubled. Is it really my fault?

Questions. So many questions. So few answers. I would be better not to ask. But I must. I must lest I cease to exist. Before I become complacent. Before I, too, become resilient. Woefully resilient.