August is naptime

Jack Deatherage

(8/2020) As 2020 lumbers on, either cringing before the Wuhan flu hysteria, or laughing at reports of Marxists attempting to tear down the Democrat strongholds that allowed them to establish themselves in the first place, I struggle to consume "The Short Novels of Dostoevsky" before the Marxist revolutionaries begin collecting and burning books- as is their wont. Had I not read Bradbury's "Fahrenheit 451" and Orwell's "1984" I'd likely have offered to throw Dostoevsky's book into the burn barrel as well, so tedious is the writing, or so it seems to my ever dimming mind.

Finding aspects of myself among many of Dostoevsky's venally despicable characters certainly hasn't endeared me to him. On the other hand, he was interested in Christian socialism, an ism I find fascinating in its attempt to combine supposed good with obvious evil. Tolstoy, Einstein and Nietzsche praised him while Hemingway wrote of Dostoevsky's work: "there were things believable and not to be believed, but some so true that they changed you as you read them; frailty and madness, wickedness and saintliness, and the insanity of gambling were there to know"

Gods! Does Dostoevsky hit close to home!

Normally I'd be lost in some ridiculous "adventure" formula novel cranked out on a computer keyboard rather than scratched out on paper with pen and ink. But normally went out the window when the governor shut down the state's non-essential businesses and public entities. Not being able to access the local library, never mind losing access to all the other counties libraries through the state's Marina system, has been the only hardship I've suffered during the stay at home order.

Snarling worthless, but heart felt curses at communist China, Hogan and Gardener, I dug my way through the piles of junk and barely reached the wall of books I've been collecting for the last few decades. Choking and coughing on layers of accumulated dust, I began searching for some author or topic to distract me from the daily news of fear and disgust. I'm not sure how I ended up with Dostoevsky, other than the book is heavy, both in weight and content. My thinking probably went along the line of, "Any author who writes page length paragraphs and salts them with frog (sigh) French phrases is sure to bore me into extra naps." And so the book has, mostly.

Mostly, but not enough to keep me from seeking out the Russian, via wikipedia (which seeks a donation from me as I use the site so often when doing causal research). Living from 1821 to 1881, Dostoyevsky, a Russian novelist, short story writer, essayist and journalist. His "works explore human psychology in the troubled political, social, and spiritual atmospheres of 19th-century Russia, and engage with a variety of philosophical and religious themes. His most acclaimed works include "Crime and Punishment" (1866), "The Idiot" (1869), "Demons" (1872), and "The Brothers Karamazov" (1880). Dostoevsky's body of works consists of 12 novels, four novellas, 16 short stories, and numerous other works. Many literary critics rate him as one of the greatest psychological novelists in world literature. His 1864 novel "Notes from Underground" is considered to be one of the first works of existentialist literature." Whatever the hell existentialist literature is, I'm intrigued by "The Idiot" and "Demons"- how could I not be?

I think the DW just rolled her eye. She'll fire it up when I tell her I've found copies of both books for sale in online book stores.

"Why can't you wait until the library opens back up normally?" She grumbles.

Now there's another thing that has come out of this. I find myself no longer having any use for the library. I've a quarter ton, no doubt, of books piled and stacked that I haven't gotten around to reading yet, and while the library is no longer of use to me, online book stores have met my needs during the China created pandemic- delivering my purchases within days of my placing orders. (Actually quicker than Marina usually was.)

"But, but you love the library!"

Loved, dear one. Loved. Attitudes change with circumstances. I once loved tramping through field and wood with a shotgun. I once loved sending a motorcycle through rush hour DC beltway traffic at speeds occasionally touching 90mph. I once loved wading creeks and working a fly rod. I once loved spending miserably hot summer days stacking straw and hay bales in sweltering, breezeless barns for two dollars a wagon load, plus a two week long asthma attack! Freaking idiot that I was/am. Having been forced to read from my own library, and currently having no interests that I don't have books in-house to reference, and having the internet and online book stores, I've no reason to continue using the public libraries.

"But you told Librarian Penny you'd do another bread lecture when the library opens again."

That's different. That I no longer have need of the library doesn't mean I'll abandon it. If Penny calls, I'll show up with dough, bread, recipes and some vague idea of a lecture on how to build the breads. Between that happening and now, I've books to chase down while there's a few dollars in the bank after paying the county and town taxes, car repair bills and replacing a recently broken pair of eye glasses.

Besides, I'm learning about a world I barely knew existed. During Dostoyevsky's day Western Europe was seriously corrupting Russian society- hence the frog... grrr French phrases in his stories and some of his characters complaining about some Englishman, Willy Shakespeare, influencing the younger generation with fantastical ideas. Dostoevsky also thought the Christian religion in Russia was closer to the true teaching of the Rabbi Jesus and Protestant Europe led to the birth of atheism. The latter progression is a knew concept to me.

I feel the room warm suddenly as the odor of heating iron reaches my nose. DW's channeling Balor- the eye is glowing. Oops.

"If you took time to clean up and organize your library you wouldn't need long winded, boring old Russians to put you to sleep! Some honest work would tire you out!"

I need a nap so I can think about her suggestion while the air conditioner struggles to cool my scorched hide. Gods! Those old specs she's wearing have the thicker lenses and seem to focus the flaming beam better'n the broken ones ever did. I allow she's right as I cautiously slip past her on my way to the bedroom.

Usually I nap upstairs, well hidden from Balor's glare, but the Mad One and cousin Luke are visiting and occupy that apartment. The Mad One mentioned on the second day of staying with us that she would enjoy seeing me die slowly, in great pain. I remember her reading a book I have about Lucrezia Borgia and how fascinated the Mad One was with the various poisons the woman's family used to get rid of people who irritated them.

Ummm... maybe it's time I gather a blanket, a trap, some simple fishing tackle, the rottweiler and Dostoevsky, and go camp along Flat Run until the seasons change? I'd not want the Mad One's incarceration on my conscience after she justifiably murdered me.