The greatest novel of all time

Russia is celebrating Dostoevsky’s 200th birthday.

I am in California, ten thousand miles away from Moscow, my home city. Frankly, I might have missed this news if it weren’t for my mom’s message on Facebook’s messenger (that’s how we communicate a lot).

But it’s not some perfunctory “it’s cold today in Moscow, the winter is here” or “Covid is still raging in Moscow”. Mom knows that one of Dostoevsky's novels is my favorite book of all time. It’s hers too. The word “favorite” is an understatement. The greatest. The absolute greatest.

I don’t consider myself an intellectual, not at all. In Russia you have to read quite a lot; it’s part of every school’s program. You read during the school year and you go away for the summer with a big reading list.

So I am not special in having read some of Russia’s most famous authors at a young age.

Or maybe I did read a little more. Mom’s background is in the Russian language and literature. She never pursued a career in teaching. Except for the years when my parents were very young, we lived well in the Soviet Union, thanks to my Dad’s successful career. So Mom was able to stay at home and look after me. During my elementary school years, she got me started with a lot of adventure books — by Jules Verne, Thomas Mayne Reid, Fenimore Cooper, Walter Scott. By my teen years, I was reading the Russian classics — Tolstoy, Bulgakov, and Doestoevsky. Some were part of our school program; some — thanks to Mom.