Somedays Alyosha, Somedays Ivan

Last night I met a writer at a birthday party and we talked about Alyosha and Ivan Karamazov.

She had a son--Alyosha--named after her favorite literary character. Surprised, I told her that Ivan is my favorite literary character and I tried to explain why. I feel like Ivan Karamazov most of the time, I told her, before droning into a flood of autobiographical musing.

 Once, I lived in an apartment with three other people. All four of us were reading The Brothers Karamazov. I don’t think any of the others finished the book, but I was struck by how closely we roommates corresponded to the titular brothers in Dostoyevsky’s novel. One roommate, our Dimitri, was full of passions he could not control. A second roommate was decent and gentle, our Alyosha. A close friend of ours squatted with us, only Smerdiakov in jest. And as we read, I was deeply wrapped up in Ivan. His voice was so similar to my voice, and his angers and doubts were just like mine.

Last night, I tried to explain to the writer that I feel like Ivan. I am fond of making devil’s-advocate arguments, I doubt the sincerity of the Alyoshas of the world but I find them lucky and I want to be one of them, though I can never stop being haunted by cruelty, no matter how distant. I am not willing to accept suffering and murder (particularly that of children) as part of a divine plan, pushing us to greater things or teaching us valuable lessons or happening for a reason. Or any of that bullshit. If these things happen for a reason they are not worth it. I refuse any plan that justifies or accepts them. Out of love for humanity, I return the ticket. Like Ivan.

The writer listened patiently and told me why she loves Alyosha, and why she could never be an Ivan. She praised Alyosha’s actions. His actions. his forbearance. There’s a scene early in the novel when Ivan and Alyosha have a conversation that spans chapters. The distance between them is immense. I felt that distance between the writer and I, but I also felt a kind of resonating sympathy, as with Ivan and Alyosha. I saw a startling goodness in this writer and I was humbled by it.

 Allegedly, Dostoyevsky planned to write more about these characters, but his death prevented him from doing so. Ivan is left guilt-stricken, lovelorn and sickly. Ivan is frozen on a good Friday, never given his Easter. Some of the things we can be, especially some of the things that people need us to be, are not happy things to be.