Russian Literature 

 
Chapter 1: An Argument Against the Mutual Exclusivity of 
Madness and Reason 

Ronald D. Laing writes in ​The Politics of Experience​: “Madness need not be all

breakdown. It may also be break-through. It is potential liberation and renewal as well as

enslavement and existential death.” Like Laing, Nikolai Vasilievich Gogol and Leo

Nikolayevich Tolstoy, in “Diary of a Madman” and “Kreutzer Sonata,” rationalize madness as a

byproduct of a lack of freedom, stemming from the constraints imposed on individuals by

society and upheld by reason. To portray this connection and depict the inner psyche of repressed

and irrational protagonists, both authors embrace the art of storytelling. This self-reflective

narrative structure allows Gogol and Tolstoy to explain that reason fuels madness and question

the logical soundness of social conventions.

In “Diary of a Madman,” Gogol presents rank as the underlying force that both physically

and psychologically constricts individuals. The story introduces a protagonist named Aksenty

Ivanovich Poprishchin, a titular councillor of the 9th rank. Just one rank away from achieving a

hereditary social status, he vocally obsesses over his standing in society. Aware that rank is a

reflection of physical appearance, he exclaims “just give me a dress coat tailored in the latest

fashion… and you won’t be able to hold a candle to me” (Gogol, 163) and laments that his lack

of funds inhibits him. Clearly, Poprishchin understands the association of clothing with rank and

that his troubled financial position physically prohibits him from dressing the part of the higher

rank he strives to be. Nonetheless, he also sees rank as an intangible feeling of superiority that

you can neither see, nor “hold in your hand” (Gogol, 170). To him, rank encompasses a
psychological belief in one’s greatness or an acceptance of one’s inferiority. Poprishchin strives

to overcome these physical and psychological implications of a lower rank, questioning often,

“Why should I be titular councillor?” (Gogol, 171). This very goal ultimately drives him insane.

Similarly, the protagonist, Pozdnyshev, in Tolstoy’s “Kreutzer Sonata” attempts to

transgress the constraints that society imposes upon him, particularly through the tradition of

marriage. Going to great lengths to dispel the belief that “real marriage is only that sanctified by

love” (Tolstoy, 139), Pozdnyshev argues that marriage nowadays is built on physical, sexual love

rather than spiritual. Inherently superficial, marriage acts as “mere deception” that forces

individuals to live together eternally and leads them to “terrible hell” (Tolstoy, 141). Because of

the societal expectation that individuals marry, the protagonist personally finds himself in an

abyss of misery, where he and his wife “were like two convicts hating each other and chained

together, poisoning one another’s lives and trying not to see it” (Tolstoy, 167). Ultimately, the

motivation to escape the prison-like environment of his home by destroying his marriage pushes

him to madness and consequently murder.

In order to chronicle how frustration with society transforms into deep rooted madness,

both authors embrace the art of storytelling and first-person narration to depict the complex

psyche of their protagonists. In “Diary of a Madman,” Poprishchin offers his story to readers in

the form of a diary. Written in hindsight, a diary typically embodies retrospection and deep

thinking. However, Poprishchin employs the instrument as a way to present the best version of

himself to the world: intellectual, rational, detached and worthy of being higher rank. For

example, rather than retrospectively delving into his feelings of lust for Sophie, he ignores them,

repeatedly stating “oh rats!... never mind, my lips are sealed”(Gogol, 163). Poprishchin’s use of
the diary to storytell​ reveals that at the core of his discontent with his rank and social standing

lies a mindset grounded in reason and logic. As Poprishchin spirials deeper into insanity, his

arguments remain somewhat logically sound, further upholding his alternate reality. Arriving at

the madhouse he thinks is Spain, Poprishchin writes it to be “a strange place” and “extremely

odd” (Gogol, 175), yet simultaneously provides himself with a convincing, wordly rationale to

explain the peculiarities. Gogol reveals this type of reasoning to be nothing more than insanity.

Structured chronologically, the form of a diary allows Gogol to link discontent over rank with

the deterioration of ​Poprishchin’s mind by using dates as benchmarks. For example, Poprishchin

expresses his desire to be a general so he “could marry her [Sophie]” (Gogol, 170). However,

upon reading of her engagement to a Kammerjunker on December 3rd, his mind spirals into self

doubt about his own rank. In a manner of 6 days, Poprishchin convinces himself that he is the

missing King of Spain, and dates his entry “43rd day of april in the year 2000” (Gogol, 172). By

presenting a narrator that manipulates the retrospective structure of a diary to depict himself as

rational, Gogol elucidates how reason and logic can in fact fuel madness.

Similar to the way in which Gogol’s written word records thoughts post factum,

Tolstoy’s protagonist describes his descent into madness through the spoken word during a

conversation in a railway carriage. Although an uninvolved narrator recounts the story in first

person, the essence of the narrative lies in Pozdnyshev’s emotional monologues, or rather

confessions, in which he details the fate of his marriage. Fundamentally, his entire argument for

believing in his wife’s infidelity, and consequently murdering her, rests on deductive reasoning.

In order to defend his fatal jealousy and prove himself rational, Pozdnyshev presents the narrator

with a straightforward syllogism: a woman is happy when she has bewitched, or seduced, a man
(Tolstoy, 160); the chief aim of a woman is to bewitch a man in both maiden or married life

(Tolstoy, 160); his wife is happy because she is seducing the violinist, Trukhachevsky. Although

Pozdnyshev attempts to use this reasoning as an excuse for his actions after the fact, he instead

reveals that the logic fueled his enervating mistrust, immorality, and insanity in the first place.

Tolstoy illustrates this connection by presenting another, less convincing syllogism: “If life has

no aim, if life is given us for life’s sake, there’s no reason for living” (Tolstoy, 153). Contrary to

Poprishchin who fails to retrospect entirely, ​Pozdnyshev does so in way that convinces him that

life is dispensable and killing is rational, as he reflects on pursuing the murder amidst a bright

“light of consciousness [that] burnt” (Tolstoy, 191) within him. Overall, while Pozdnyshev feels

trapped within the confines of marriage, he ultimately persuades himself through coherent logic

of his wife’s infidelity and a pessimistic view on the meaning of life that the potential for

liberation exists.

By evoking the structure of a self-reflective and logical narrative of storytelling, both

authors equate madness with reason. Arguing against the interpretation of insanity as a departure

of reason, they lead readers through the mental conversations of the insane in order to illuminate

the ways in which logic and rationality provoke madness. In doing so, they call into the question

the very nature of reason: who decides when an argument is sound? why do we assume that logic

is the basis of an organized, stable society? Gogol argues that the widely accepted belief that

society knows best because society can reason is ultimately flawed, as too much reason leads to

dystopia. In a similar fashion, Tolstoy disagrees with social conventions. However, he embraces

reason only insofar as it upholds the teachings of the bible, rather than the

“precious priests of science” (Tolstoy, 158), or the church.

 Chapter 2: To what extent did Dostoevsky emerge from 

Gogl’s overcoat? 

Fyodor Mikhailovich Dostoevsky is often misattributed to saying, “We all emerged from

under Gogol’s overcoat.” Although the quote belongs to French critic, Melchior de Vogüé,

Nikolai Vasilievich Gogol’s influence on Dostoevsky is undeniable as evidenced in his short

stories “White Nights” and “Gentle Creature.” In these works, Dostoevsky continues Gogol’s

exploration of the perseverance of individuals compelled into metaphysical solitude by societal

pressures. Of the two stories, “White Nights,” published two years before his exile to Siberia,

shares the closest resemblance to “The Overcoat,” in its use of anthropomorphism and theme of

brotherhood to discuss the double-edged nature of an imaginative state of being. “Gentle

Creature,” on the other hand, was published after his exile and views imaginative alienation in a

negative light. Through a cynical tone and complex structure, Dostoevsky problematizes mental

isolation as dangerously irrational, self-indulging, and sinful. The darkest, most powerful work

of the three, “Gentle Creature” introduces a strong religious theme that offers a solution to a

morally degrading world and imbues the work with profound meaning. Moreover, it clearly

depicts Dostoevsky’s versatility as a writer that can both mimic and subvert Gogol’s style.

Shared among all three works, the employment of a protagonist dependent on dreams and

written works to escape reality allows both writers to emphasize the effects of solitude. Most

notably, the protagonist of “White Nights” embodies this character type in both name and being.

Named “A Dreamer” (Dostoevsky, 3) in the foreword by the author, the protagonist also

considers himself “ a character…, an eccentric, ridiculous individual (Dostoevsky, 16) and an

inhuman creature that “hides from the very daylight” (Dostoevsky, 17) when he tells his story to

Nastenka in the third person. Embellishing his biography with vivid metaphors and lengthy

sentences, The Dreamer proves himself well-read, as his imaginary world fills with references to

Thousand and One Nights​ and other great literature (Dostoevsky, 19, 22). The protagonist of

“Gentle Creature” also refers to himself as a dreamer who sees life as “ scenes and… material for

his dreams” (Dostoevsky, 89) and his peace of mind. He claims to “not be a literary man,”

(Dostoevsky, 61), yet owns a bookcase with an impressive range of works and reads philosophy,

like that of John Stuart Mill. Rich with intelligence and money left behind by his godmother, the

pawnbroker displays himself as socially and academically superior; nonetheless, he is unable to

engage in dialogue with his wife, further highlighting his hopeless alienation and unfortunate

inability to interact with the real, human world. Finding more joy through his thoughts and work,

the pawnbroker is greatly reminiscent of Akaky Akakievich in Gogol’s “The Overcoat.”

Akakievich too struggled to engage in dialogue, as he only communicated in “a jerky way”

(Gogol, 125). Failing to pay attention to the physical world around him, he finds “sheer pleasure”

(Gogol, 119) in the copying of letters at his monotonous job. Despite lacking the eruditeness in

character that The Dreamer and pawnbroker share, Akakievich is similarly disengaged from

society. He, too, is absorbed in fantasies, as Gogol hints at his abilities to daydream when

Akakievich returns home with his new overcoat and “[does] no copying, preferring instead to

laze about on his bed” (Gogol, 130). It seems, Dostoevsky has borrowed Gogol’s vague dreamer

character and transformed him into more intelligent, financially comfortable, protagonist to the

effect of complicating his works from an investigation on the pathetic alienation of the lower

ranked individual to a discussion of the universal dangers of an imaginative state of being.

 Published just six years after “The Overcoat,” “White Nights” explicitly appropriates

Gogol’s style by adopting his use of anthropomorphism. In “The Overcoat,” Gogol personifies

the coat, describing it as “ some fair companion who had agreed to step down life’s path with

him” (Gogol, 127). Impersonating the overcoat as a wife that completes Akaky Akakievich and

grants him reason to be proud, Gogol incorporates this bizarre anthropomorphism to shed light

on the irrationality of deriving happiness from material objects. Similarly in “White Nights,”

Dostoevsky lends buildings human qualities. The only dialogue in The Dreamer’s life is with

buildings who are his “dear friends” and bring him happiness (Dostoevsky, 5); thus,

anthropomorphism portrays The Dreamer’s withdrawal from reality as delirious and borderline

hallucinating. Creating an alternate reality, it seems, elevates the souls and happiness of

individuals while simultaneously degrading them to mental and societal isolation.

On the surface, both authors touch upon the themes of brotherhood and companionship as

forces that counter the societal stresses that push the dreamer into mental alienation. In “The

Overcoat,” Gogol introduces a young clerk who hears in the pleas of Akakievich the phrase “ I

am thy brother” (Gogol, 117). From then on, the clerk halts his selfish horseplay and often falls

into despair when he remembers the evil antics of people “whom society recognized as noble and

honest.” As Akakievich faces the dehumanizing ridicule by ​an important personage t​ hat refuses

to help him, he embodies the harsh reality of a world where, unlike the young clerk, people don’t

treat each other as equals. Ultimately the lack of brotherhood haunts society, holding the young

clerk back from experiencing his happiest moments (Gogol, 117) and, quite literally, terrorizing

St. Petersburg in the form of Akakeivich’s ghost. Dostoevsky’s “White Nights” similarly draws

attention to the significance of friendship in lifting the individual out of perpetual alienation.
Nastenka questions, “But you know what crossed my mind just now… why can’t we all behave

like brothers to one another.” While flawed in character and ambiguous in her intentions,

Nastenka undeniably influences the Dreamer’s regression from the alternate reality he used to

sublimate his adversities. Developing unrequited feelings for her and discovering his desire to

love, The Dreamer realizes his grave solitude. Thus, Dostoevsky seems to elevate the importance

of an authentic connection between humans as his short-lived experience with Nastenka affords

him unprecedented happiness. Simultaneously, however, he remains reminiscent of the times his

life consisted of dreams that gave him the feeling “that living was somehow easier and more

restful” (Dostoevsky, 27). The Dreamer’s final dismal, nostalgic state clarifies that although

companionship diminishes alienation, it does not necessarily bring about a better state in man.

Clearly, something remains missing in the complete and wholesome return of The Dreamer to

the reality. Perhaps at the time of writing the story Dostoevsky could not yet mitigate his

negative judgement of the imaginative existence with its satisfying and nourishing nature.

However, his exile to Siberia evoked a novel worldview that cleared his ambivalence and

solidified his pessimism.

Published two decades after his exile and just five years before his death “Gentle

Creature” takes on such an incomparably complex and cynical nature that clearly resembles

Dostoevsky’s fundamental views on the imaginative state of being. The structure of “Gentle

Creature” is highly complicated through its rendering as a stenographic account of the narrator’s

stream of consciousness. Clashing with Gogol’s suggestion that “you cannot see into the mind of

another person and discover what he is thinking” (Gogol, 131), Dostoevsky’s “extremely

realistic” (Dostoevsky, 59) examination of the inner psychological workings of the pawnbroker
lends itself to a more complete understanding of the dark effects of mental solitude. Earlier

incorporations of humor and anthropomorphism persist in the work; however, Dostoevsky

repurposes these devices to contribute to the the heaviness rather than lightness of the text’s tone.

For example, his humor largely diverges from that of Gogol, as even the slight mentions of

hilarity and joy are instances of “malicious laughter” (Dostoevsky, 79) directed at the

pawnbroker, not with him. Moreover, Dostoevsky reverses the function of anthropomorphism by

lending a human, the pawnbroker’s wife, qualities of an object and animal. Aside from the

pawnbroker’s treatment of his wife as disposable, he names her “a gentle creature,” to the effect

of dehumanizing her. Incorporating a complex structure to elucidate stream of consciousness and

repurposing the Gogol’s literary elements of humor and anthropomorphism, Dostoevsky presents

the dreamer’s imaginative state as alarmingly irrational, dangerous, and above all: sinful.

Paralleling Dostoevsky's embrace of religion after a decade of exile in Siberia, “Gentle

Creature” explores the consequences of atheism as it relates to the mental well being of an

individual. Dostoevsky implies of the pawnbroker’s lack of spirituality through the protagonist’s

own questions. For example, he wonders “whom to ask forgiveness?” (Dostoevsky, 77) for

mistreating his wife and later asks for the author of a quote from a biblical verse. Additionally,

he does not pray. Framed in the context of his arrogant and materialistic characterization, the

pawnbroker’s atheism suggests of the negative, self-indulging consequence of the imaginative

state of being that detaches the individual from reality and from belief. This is further highlighted

in the use of the Gentle Creature as a foil to the pawnbroker’s character. Equally as prideful and

cultured, materialistic (as she blasphemously pawns her icon), and subjected to a life of physical

solitude, the Gentle Creature differs from the pawnbroker in the gentleness, or goodness, of
character that stems from her piety. Illustrating the Gentle Creature clenching the icon with

“hands clasped in prayer” (Dostoevsky, 77) as she fell to her death, Dostoevsky implies of her

submission to divine will and ultimate forgiveness to juxtapose the pawnbroker’s existence on

Earth in hell-like conditions surrounded by corpses and silence. Clearly, Dostoevsky has lost

hope in the inherent goodness of man, blaming his atheism on his selfish and self-fulfilling

imaginative detachment from reality. People, such as Gogol’s ​important personage​, early

Dostoevsky’s Nastenka, and the pawnbroker, are egotistical; brotherhood alone cannot mitigate

their effects on society. Nonetheless, a collective return to Old Christian values can.

In the introduction to Dostoevsky’s text, W.J. Leatherbarrow elucidates Dostoevsky’s

biographical timeline as it lines up with his publication of “White Nights” and “Gentle

Creature.” He explains that “White Nights,” in its sentimentalism and seemingly prophetic

ending, resembles the author’s encounter with a group of political idealists named Petrashevsky

Circle that envisioned paradise on Earth through brotherhood. It is during this period that

Dostoevsky most closely shares Gogol’s idea that literature functions to entertain readers through

readability and lack of one, didactic message or meaning. However, his time in Siberia

convinced him of the deep rooted cruelty of mankind that cannot be saved by brotherhood alone.

Assuming the spiritual desolation of the world, he wrote “Gentle Creature” with great urgency to

reverse society’s lack of morality and plea for the return of old, Orthodox Christian values.

Overall, a dynamic history of changing political beliefs and worldviews yielded Dostoevsky a

versatile mind and way of seeing the world. As a writer, this variability allowed him to borrow

Gogol’s style and literature, and at the same time subvert it and create a more meaningful work.
   
Chapter 3: ​Alexander Pushkin’s Examination of Fate and Free 
Will in the Romantic Genre  

Alexander Pushkin published “The Queen of Spades” and “The Blizzard” in the 1830s,

during the last decade of M.H. Abram’s distinguished “Romantic Period” in ​The Glossary of

Literary Terms​. Both short stories share several defining Romantic characteristics, such as “the

exploitation of the realm of the supernatural” (Abram, 177), “the use of poetic symbolism”

(Abram, 177), and a “concern with central human experience” as “stimulated by a natural

phenomenon” (Abram, 177). Pushkin incorporates these elements in order to reveal the

omnipotence of destiny. At the same time, he seamlessly weaves in Romantic parody and irony,

allowing readers to realize the absurdity of rigid fatalism and embrace a degree of rationalism.

With this approach, Pushkin elevates the importance of a conscious and righteous execution of

free will, as each story concludes after the character makes a final choice. While fate may guide

the circumstances in which free will and choice are expressed, Pushkin maintains that

psychological conflicts that arise from decision-making remain central to the human experience.

In Pushkin’s works, the supernatural world controls human fate. Pushkin, like many

Russians of the time, took great interest in fortune-telling, superstitions, and enthralling

breakthroughs in science as an attempt to understand chance and coincidence. This fascination

manifests itself in the very first line of “The Queen of Spades” in an epigraph quoting a

fortune-telling book: “The queen of spades signifies secret ill-will” (Pushkin, 211). Neither

disorienting nor misleading the reader, Pushkin proves the fortune credible as the protagonist,

Hermann, eventually loses his entire fortune by accidentally selecting the queen of spades in a
game of faro. Additionally, the prose employs superstitions, with similar credibility. For

example, Pushkin describes Hermann as “subject to many superstitions” and “ believ[ing] that

the dead Countess could exercise an evil influence” (Pushkin, 228) if he does not attend her

funeral. Although less straightforward, this conviction proves true as well. After paying a visit to

the deceased’s funeral, Hermann leaves with an “inflamed imagination” (Pushkin, 229) that

results in an encounter with a ghost and the fortuitous knowledge of three winning cards ​in

sonica, ​an arguably positive influence of the dead Countess. Lastly, Pushkin references

“Mesmer’s magnetism,” “the philosopher’s stone,” and “galvanism” in an attempt to incorporate

science to substantiate several phenomena. For example, in describing the Countess after the

ball, Pushkin details her as“barely alive” (Pushkin, 223) and with a “lifeless face” (Pushkin,

224). Her insomniatic swaying, he explains, is “caused, not by her own free will, but by the

action of a hidden galvanism” (Pushkin, 223). Alluding to the shock of electricity in Galvani’s

experiments that twitched the legs of dead frogs as if giving them a second chance at life,

Pushkin depicts the moribund Countess to be propelled to move by some mysterious electric

force that controls her fate and deprives her of her will. Additionally, the Countess’s

metamorphosis into a ghost parallels the effects of galvanism. She is born again, but not by her

choosing as she declares to Hermann, “ I have come to you against my will” (Pushkin, 229).

Overall, while “The Queen of Spades” is saturated with twists and events that exceed the

imagination, Pushkin employs the supernatural world to explain the unexplainable.

While not as dense with discussions of the supernatural world, “The Blizzard” also

confronts omens and superstitions to explain fate. Most obviously, the blizzard itself stands as a

physical and metaphorical barrier to the nuptials of Maria Gavrilovna and Vladimir. To Maria,
“[the blizzard] seemed a threat and a bad omen” (Pushkin, 78) yet she carried on with her

journey and survived untouched due to “her lucky stars” (Pushkin, 78). Maria correctly reads

into the foreshadowing of the blizzard as it separates her from Vladimir forever, and drives her

lover into insanity. The ominous blizzard, in and of itself, represents fate. Like the unforeseeable

and unfathomable nature of destiny, the blizzard obscures visibility and the readers’

understanding of the fabula. Pushkin leaves readers with no explanation as to why Maria and

Burmin arrive at the church on time and Vladimir does not. Instead, he simply describes three

characters, equal in recklessness and naiveness, that press forward into the storm, fueled by

passion and “inexplicable restlessness” (Pushkin, 85), and suffer confusing fates (Vladimir from

insanity and later death, Maria from delirium, and Burmin from obligatory fidelity to an

accidental marriage). The snowstorm, a Romantically natural phenomenon, acts as a divine

invisible hand that predetermines the circumstances of the lives of the characters.

Yet, while the supernatural world exhibits overbearing power over the lives of Pushkin’s

characters, many subtle incidences of parody and irony remind the reader not to place too much

significance on fate and the explicit. Both “The Blizzard” and “The Queen of Spades” ridicule

the Romantic genre. Maria, for example, is described as “being brought up by romantic novels

and consequently in love” (Pushkin, 76). Here, Pushkin caricatures Maria as a stereotypical,

innocent young woman, attaching her passionate emotions to the genre and denying her romance

authenticity. In the end of the prose, he depicts her reading a book under a willow tree, painting

her as the same hopeless romantic and comparing her to the “veritable heroine” (Pushkin, 84) in

the novels she grew up on. Pushkin humors readers with such nonchalant references to Romantic

literature before an abrupt and unexpected ending, thus challenging their Romantic
predispositions in assuming Maria’s tragically eternal despair. This subtle touch of satire is

evident in “The Queen of Spades” when the Countess asks to not be sent a novel of the

contemporary (Romantic) genre, when Hermann confesses his love by “translat[ing] word for

word from a German novel” (Pushkin, 220) to the enjoyment of Liza because she cannot

understand, and when Liza’s imagination of Hermann reflects the hackneyed protagonist “of the

latest novels” (Pushkin, 226). Here too, parody works to distinctly separate Pushkin’s work from

the tradition of Romanticism by introducing humor, encouraging a lighthearted reading, and

denying the expectations of a Romantic hero and a fatalistic conclusion.

Nothing is “fixed” in the human life -- neither a game of faro nor a tragic romantic

destiny. At the core of Pushkin’s stories is in fact the execution of free will that determines the

conclusion of each story. Pushkin introduces the sixth chapter of the “Queen of Spades” with the

quote: “ Two fixed ideas can no more coexist in the moral sphere than can two bodies occupy the

same space in the physical world” (Pushkin, 230). A master of irony, he presents readers with the

suggestion of an overarching theme of choice late in the tale, forcing readers to re-examine the

opposing forces that exist in the story thus far, and furthermore influencing how they continue to

read the unfolding drama. Re-examining Hermann’s psychosis through the lens of indecision, it

becomes clear that the reason to his madness lies in an inner turbulence caused by an inability to

confront his two fixed desires: gambling on the faro and marrying Liza. Never steadfast in his

intentions, Hermann finds himself revisiting the Countess’s house without making attempts to

charm the old woman, as he had first planned. Instead, he passionately composes love letters to

Liza, following through with his ambush only when she provides him with clear directions in an

innocent invitation to her house. Even so, he still finds himself first opening the left door that
leads to a staircase to Liza’s room, yet “draws back” (Pushkin, 222) not by the same fateful “ an

involuntary agitation” (Pushkin, 223) that urged him to confront the Countess in the next scene,

but by his own free will.

However, Pushkin’s discussion of choice does not end here. Instead, the author embraces

the symbolism of the flower in order to shed light on the persistence of Herman’s irresolute

psyche. After accidentally murdering the Countess, Hermann rushes to see Liza, who is sensually

dressed in a gown with a deep decolletage and “still adorned with flowers” (Pushkin, 226). This

image of a beautifully innocent lady of flowery complexion remains Hermann’s last memory of

Liza, yet it repeats itself as Hermann starts losing sanity. Upon knowing the fortuitous sequence

of cards, Herman associates the trey with a “young girl,” “hearts,” and a “great luxuriant flower”

(Pushkin, 230) in his everyday life. The flower, a symbol of young life, represents Liza and

proves that she remains on his mind. Furthermore, the pervasiveness of the flower confirms that

Hermann selected the queen of spades by his own mistake and not a supernatural force. In

traditional Russian cards, the queen of spades is the only queen that holds a flower. Most likely,

the image of Liza occupied Hermann’s mind so deeply that his subconscious reached for the

queen that resembles her, not the winning ace. Pushkin proves that beyond all destined

circumstances, Hermann’s inability to clear his mind of two opposing ideas and rationalize his

desires ultimately led to his failure and insanity.

Similarly in the end of “The Blizzard,” the male lover, Burmin, must confront his own

indecisiveness. Like for Hermann, love occupies a significant aspect of Burmin’s thoughts, as he

courts Maria despite knowing his tragic fate. This fate, a secret of a previous marriage, coexists

in the same moral sphere and ultimately leads him to reveal his secret to Maria and place an
“insurmountable barrier between [them]” (Pushkin, 85). Unlike Hermann, Burmin’s self

awareness leads him to choose the morally right path. Pushkin rewards such brave exercise of

free will and choice through an unexpected ending that reveals Burmin and Maria were married

all along.

Considering the dynamic saturation of Romantic elements in his short stories, it is

indubitable that Pushkin’s prose accurately fits the genre. However, the creative tension induced

by parody and examinations of rationalism in the human psyche highlights the presence of an

additional layer of realism. According to Victor Terras’s definition of Romantic Realism in ​A

​ ushkin’s work most certainly “combines certain romantic

Handbook of Russian Literature, P

attitudes and devices with a realistic poetics” (Terras, 376). However, it does not go insofar as to

focus only on the ordinary people of contemporary society, as Pushkin still writes to and about

an intended audience of aristocratic, educated readers. Rather than classifying Pushkin as a

Romantic Realist, critics and readers alike must observe his works as characteristic of a Russian

author, jaded by the repetitiousness and lack of originality in decades of European Romantic

literature and creatively inspired to create a distinctive collection of literature.

Chapter 4: Pushkin and Gogol’s Approach to the Art of 

Skeptical Story-listening

Alexander Sergeyevich Pushkin and Nikolai Vasilievich Gogol took great liberty in

experimenting in the art of storytelling. Investigating how narration and structure affect the

readers’ perceptions of reality, they both employ the use of a character-narrator to recount an
impersonal story. While Pushkin’s first-person narrators in ​The Tales of the Late Ivan Petrovich

Belkin​ utilize parody to frustrate the readers’ Romantic expectations, Gogol’s third-person

narrators in various ​Petersburg Tales​ combine ​skaz​ and satire to comment on the subjectivity and

dubiousness of the press and gossip. Despite their varying narrative modes and styles, both

authors stimulate readers to engage in active skepticism, either in the realm of literature or in

their own social experiences.

In ​The Belkin Tales,​ Pushkin employs the perspective of an unreliable, first-person

narrator. Listed in the footnote of the introduction, the publisher, A.P., clearly identifies the voice

of each tale. By adding rank to each name, A.P. primes readers with hints of the narrators’

character and personalities, shedding light on certain inherent biases. Some narrators, such as

Titular Councillor A.G.N. in “The Stationmaster” and Lieutenant Colonel I.L.P. in “The Shot,”

directly engage in the action of the stories. For example, Colonel I.L.P. is well acquainted with

the protagonist, Silvio. He determines the story’s structure and drives the chronology of the plot

by framing his narrative around a coincidental encounter with the Count’s perforated landscape

painting, a key element in tying the story together​.​ Moreover, he openly expresses his inherent

subjectivity by, stating, “By nature I had a romantic imagination, and till now I had felt a

stronger bond than anyone with a man whose life was an enigma and whom I had viewed as the

hero of some mysterious tale” (67, Pushkin). Even Silvio’s name appears to be Romantic

embellishment, as Colonel I.L.P. adds that “Silvio” is personally what “[he] will call him” (66,

Pushkin). Clearly, Colonel I.L.P. possesses a certain predilection for Romantic imagination and a

craving for drama, leading the reader to question the reliability of Colonel I.L.P. as a narrator

and, consequently, the factual integrity of the story. Maiden K.I.T., while never directly
partaking in the storyline of her tales, also illustrates her character by referencing Romantic

literature of the time. She explains that Lizaveta “derived her knowledge of the world and of life

from books” (105, Pushkin) and Masha was like a “veritable heroine in a novel” (84, Pushkin).

Additionally, she is keen to build suspense by emitting important details of the storyline. For

example, scenes in “The Blizzard” change abruptly, creating gaps in the readers’ understandings

of the plot and mystifying the details of the serendipitous conclusion. These allusions to

Romantic novels and crafty manipulation of the plot are suggestive of maiden K.I.T. own

narrative idiosyncrasies, such as her interest in sensational, melodramatic plots and insistence on

banal happy endings. Overall, Pushkin not only makes readers aware of the narrators’

personalities, but also diminishes the credibility of their stories.

The tendencies of Pushkin’s narrators to reference other literary works serve as elements

of parody meant to frustrate the readers’ Romantic expectations. ​The Belkin Tales​ are at least

three times retold, beginning with the aforementioned narrators and ending with the publisher,

A.P. Deciphering the initials to correspond to Alexander Pushkin unlocks the first of many

satirical elements of the introductory letter; afterall, the style of the letter does not match that of

Pushkin’s. Rather, it is highly verbose and complex in tense, stating “having undertaken the task

of publishing… and thus at least partially to satisfy the legitimate curiosity of lovers of our

literature” (62, Pushkin). Here, Pushkin is mocking the haughty, polished, and seemingly

cultured characteristics associated with publishers of the time. Moreover, the publisher is the

crafter of the epigraphs beginning each story that often allude to earlier Romantic literature. For

example, “The Shot” references a short story by A.A. Bestuzhev-Marlinskii whose classic dark

Romantic hero seeks to complete a duel with an adversary but cannot follow through due to
honorable circumstances outside his control. Through the deliberate inclusion of the epigraph,

the publisher manipulates readers to expect a parallel between Mechin and Silvio. Instead, “the

reasons why Pushkin’s hero does not fire his gun contrast ironically with the circumstances that

prevent Mechin from shooting” (503, Debreczeny). In presenting both a deceiving publisher and

unreliable first-person narrator, Pushkin stimulates readers to re-examine their own biases and

assumptions when reading literature.

Although Gogol inherits Pushkin’s unreliable character-narrator, he frames most of the

stories of ​Petersburg Tales​ in a limited third-person perspective. The narrators are limited in that

they do not have insight into all the thoughts of the characters, even that of the protagonist. As

the narrator of “The Overcoat” summarizes, “you cannot see into the mind of another person and

discover what he is thinking” (131, Gogol). Although this statement is self contradicting, since

the narrators do have a certain grasp, albeit limited, of the thoughts and intentions of their

characters, they indeed cannot account for all the motivations and deep-rooted insecurities of

protagonists, like Kovalyov, Pirogov, and Akakievich. Moreover, often times, the

character-narrator is missing details and explanations of the plot line of the story. For example,

the narrator of “The Nose” ends each chapter with a sudden uncertainty in the chronology of

action, blaming this on St.Petersburg’s foggy climate. The narrator of “Nevsky Prospect,” too,

cannot fully understand nor describe the unfolding events. Instead, he simply attributes the

strangeness of the plot to Nevsky Prospect’s ability to deceive “at all hours of the day” (36,

Gogol). Candidly expressing their fundamental inadequacy to fully explain the reasoning behind

their characters and the developing plotline, the speakers undermine their credibility as

third-person narrators.
 Despite the nescient narrators’ bafflement and uncertainties, they are verbose and highly

opinionated in their storytelling. Gogol presents this paradox through ​skaz,​ a literary technique

that allows third-person narrators to reveal personal sentiments. Evoking the “I” pronoun and

referring directly to the audience, narrators inclusively engage the reader, as if telling a story face

to face. Conversational in their nature, the narrators’ abruptly disrupt the rising action of the plot

to introduce background information of new characters, as if suddenly remembering the readers’

unfamiliarity with the story and feeling obligated to digress. For example, the narrator of

“Nevsky Prospect” interrupts, “At this point I think it would not go amiss to acquaint the reader

somewhat more closely with Schiller” (31, Gogol). In a similar way, using identical lexicon, the

narrator of “The Nose” states, “But I have been rather amiss thus far to have told you nothing

about Ivan Yakovich, a person commanding esteem in many respects” (39, Gogol). Clearly, the

narrators find great importance in revealing to the reader as many details of the impersonal story

as they know of. Understanding ​skaz​ as a technique that mimics the oral tradition of gossip,

Gogol’s narrators take on the character of a city dweller with a curious ear for chatter and an

excited mouth for spreading rumors. Unlike Pushkin’s literate and sophisticated narrators with a

partiality for melodrama and a tendency to mislead readers, Gogol’s narrators are merely naive,

enthusiastic bystanders that colloquially communicate the story with no intention to trick or

misinform.

While Gogol’s narrators, as characters, inherently do not possess any ulterior motives,

Gogol frames their storytelling through satire in order to progress a social commentary on the

subjectivity of the press. Structurally, “The Nose” is written as a spoof on a newspaper article.

Beginning with a specific date and place that sets the scene of the “most extraordinary
occurrence” (37, Gogol) and later recounting the return of the nose to have taken “place on 7

April” (58, Gogol), “The Nose” frames an unlikely, supernatural occurrence as if it was printed

in an objective, credible newspaper. Moreover, the narrator recalls an incident when Major

Kovalyov visits the local newspaper to run an advertisement about his missing nose, an action he

describes to be “indecent, improper, incorrect!” during an irate rant. Additionally, he adds the

clerk’s caustic suggestion to submit an article about his nose to the ​Northern Bee​ “for the

edification of our young people or just for the interest of the general public” (49, Gogol).

Overall, the narrator is irritated that newspapers publish articles of such subject-matter as there is

“no benefit to the nation.” The narrator of “Nevsky Prospect” also pokes fun at the Bee, writing

that after reading the newspaper at the pastry shop, Pirogov was “his way feeling rather less

angry” (31), as if the trivialities published in the paper were so entertaining that they uplifted

him, the opposite of what a fact-driven, qualified newspaper must seek to do. Thus, through

elements of satire and sarcasm, Gogol displays his own abhorrence of the ​Northern Bee,​

especially for conducting a campaign against him and upholding the status quo. He comments on

how easily modern press presents skewed versions of reality and urges the reader to approach

this writing with skepticism and mistrust.

Both Pushkin and Gogol investigate the inherent nature of storytelling, questioning how

much is truth and how much is gossip in the tales we pass down verbatim. Arguably, Pushkin

cared little for the validation of truth in the ​Belkin Tales.​ Through explicit parody in his initials

as the Publisher and the signing of the Nenaradovo neighbor’s letter a week ​before h​ e even

received the correspondence, Pushkin clearly portrays the fictionality of his tales. Understanding

that Ivan Petrovich Belkin never existed in the first place, readers are less motivated to decode
the authenticity of the tales. Instead, Pushkin presents the ​Belkin Tales​ as pieces of clever

literature with the sole purpose of entertaining, much like gossip, especially those in the boring,

provincial life. Gogol too seeks to entertain, yet he does so by engaging readers to laugh through

the tears. While humor amuses readers, it is through the tears, the pitiable circumstances and

fates of his characters, that Gogol evokes thoughtfulness in readers. As his narrators struggle to

make sense of the world, Gogol urges readers to relate to their irrational tendencies to believe

that “highly implausible” events “happen all the time” (Gogol, 61). ​Petersburg Tales,​ then,

become a test drive, a rehearsal, for readers to practice their skepticism and reluctance to believe

all they hear, as they are faced with “rumours...circulating around the capital, and in the way of

things, not without certain embellishments” (57, Gogol). Approaching the task of reading and

listening with suspicion, readers are more likely notice the discrepancies of speech, such as how

often “​important personages”​ (135, Gogol) act indecently and how deceiving social and media

salience may be. Afterall, we “will always find people who regard as important things that are

considered unimportant by others” (136, Gogol.)

Bibliography

Gogol, N.V., et al. Plays and Petersburg Tales. Oxford University Press, 2008

Pushkin, A. S., and Paul Debreczeny. Complete Prose Fiction. Stanford Univ. Press, 1995

 
Chapter 5: Dostoevsky’s debunkment of ​Nietzche’s 
“Ubermensch” theory

To commit a crime, one must have a reason and a motive. The two are neither

synonymous nor equally apparent, as Dr. Fredric Wertham explains that the former stems from

the conscious and the latter from the subconscious. Further complicating the disparities between
the two, Fyodor Mikhailovich Dostoevsky presents a paradoxical murderer in ​Crime and

Punishment​ whose intentions are clear neither to himself, nor to the readers. A character of

schismatic personalities, Rodion Romanovich Raskolnikov suffers from an inability to make up

his mind. Analyzing Raskolnikov’s psychological state before the murder as a reflection of other

characters, it is clear that the reason for murder lies in an anguished desire for moral freedom.

Through a discussion of subconscious and conflicting intentions, Dostoevsky debunks

Nietzche’s “Ubermensch” theory by showing that no man is capable of surpassing morality

because of man’s inherent guilt, which ultimately prevents them from being creatures of pure

intellect and reason. To sanction bloodshed as a matter of conscience contradicts the very nature

of man.

A man of many contradictions, Rodion Raskolnikov suffers from a debilitating

ambivalence. Uncoincidentally, ‘Raskol’ in Russian means schism and accurately reflects the

nature of the character’s mental state. Like any human being, he often finds himself choosing

between the good and the bad. However, unlike others, this conflict overwhelms him so deeply

that he wavers between moods, to the extent of having split personalities. Razmuzhin, his closest

friend, accurately describes his varying personas, stating “sometimes though, he’s not

hypochondriac at all, just cold and unfeeling to an almost inhuman degree, as if two contrasting

characters were taking turns inside him” (Dostoevsky, 200). Moreover, this apparent ‘inhuman

unfeelingness’ reflects Raskolnikov’s miserable and detached state of being. Fitting ‘The

Dreamer’ character prototype Dostoevsky so often employed in his novels to shed light on the

dangers of psychological solitude, Raskolnikov spent his days lethargically, convincing himself

of the productivity of his thinking and daydreaming (Dostoevsky, 28). Although intelligent and
ambitious, Raskolnikov dropped out of law school, refused to see friends, and passed his time

reflecting on his disgust for St. Petersburg. The city, he makes clear, is a dreadful, morbid place.

Encountering a young girl abused on the street and later a drunk named Marmeladov, he finds

himself intrigued by their struggles, scornful of their lousiness, and yet, above all, sympathetic

and willing to help them through his philanthropy. Later during his trial, Raskolnikov’s true

humanitarianism comes to light at the revelation of his remarkable care for a fellow student

dying from tuberculosis. Fluctuating between disdain and compassion, Raskolnikov locks

himself in his room rather than interacting with society. Clearly, the protagonist neither knows

himself well, nor understands his place in the world.

By unpacking Raskolnikov’s diverging personalities and reserved mental state, the reader

can better navigate his conflicting, personal explanations for committing the crime. Before the

homicide, he mutters his contempt for the pawnbroker, Alyona Ivanovna. As if justifying the

possibility of her murder to himself, he hypothesizes that the city would be a better place without

the evil old woman, who keeps the poor indebted to her and enslaves her niece. To him, one

death for the benefit of tens of lives proves fairly reasonable. Yet, after committing the deed,

Raskolnikov admits to Sonya that good-willed utilitarianism never truly pushed him to murder.

He cries that he didn’t want “to make [himself] a benefactor of humanity” (Dostoevsky, 393) and

in fact he did it only for himself. Here, he appears to have uncovered the true motive that pushed

him to wield his weapon amidst his uncertainty about the crime. It seems, Raskolnikov knows

that deep inside, a flaming ambition to prove himself a Napoleon, a man of confidence, the “ he

who dares most” (Dostoevsky, 392), controlled his every action. Undoubtedly, this conviction is

deeply rooted, exemplified by the fact that he published literature inline with Nietzsche's
“Ubermensch” theory. Yet, to write is one thing, and to brutally murder --twice!-- is another.

Moments before the homicide, Raskolnikov “wasn’t thinking nor was he capable of thinking”

(Dostoevsky, 58). When the opportunity presented itself, rationalism escaped his mind. He no

longer dwelled on his Napoleonic heroism nor thought about the money he would steal and

redistribute to the poor. He sought to embody confidence, yet found himself dreading the deed

and approaching it like his own death. These opposing forces fully constitute his paradoxical

state, in which mind and body bifurcate into two contradictory and exhausting personalities.

Thus, his two reasons essentially negate each other.

While several authors look the punishment part of the story to decipher the enigma of

Raskolnikov’s motivation for the murder, they fall into the trap of mistaking Raskolnikov’s

confession and introspection for truth. For example, Oliver Ready simplifies Raskolnikov’s

intentions to the elementary -- that of a child needing to prove himself, to test if “he could

‘dare’” (Ready, 26). Ready bases the idea off of Raskolnikov’s confession to Sonya, like

Maurice Beebe who points to a later part of his confession in which Raskolnikov’s admits of his

inability to deal with the emotional burden of the crime. Since he seemingly knew himself as

susceptible to feeling shaken and horrified, yet still did not vocalize remorse for the murder,

Beebe concludes his motivation as that of a desire to suffer for masochistic pleasure (Beebe,

158). Paul Chatham Squires reverses Beebe’s “will-to-suffer” analysis, arguing instead for

Raskolnikov’s “will-to-dare” motive as the main cause. Desiring independence, he thinks of the

“perfect crime… as his only hope for bursting asunder the slave-shackles of fear” (Squires, 485).

Clearly, literature on the topic agrees that Raskolnikov’s daringness and magnified ego serve as

motivating forces, yet it fails to answer: why does Raskolnikov kill, but not Dunya, who reflects
the same upbringings and suffers from the same feeble social status, or Luzhin and Svidrigailov,

who so readily rely on malicious means to fulfill their egocentric desires? Moreover, could a

man’s introspective confession be taken at face value, when he has already proven himself to

lack in self-awareness and reason?

These hypotheticals could not be reasoned through Dr. Fredric Wertham’s suggestion of

looking at the “continuing developing process” (Beebe, 152), or evidence after the crime, to

determine a murderer’s true motive to kill. Instead, one must look no further than the mental

state of Raskolnikov before the murder and the reflection of his traits in other characters, to

apprehend the several factors that pushed him to murder. Without a doubt, Dostoevsky wrote in

the third-person omniscient, rather than Raskolnikov’s first-person, in order to portray the full

integrity and honesty of Raskolnikov’s thinking without falling into the limitations of an

unreliable narrator. For example, he records Raskolnikov’s mental dialogue: “It is enough to

preserve all my faculties of will and reason, and those obstacles, in their turn, will all be defeated

when the time comes to familiarize myself with the finer details of the venture;” yet, he adds, in

third-person, that Raskolnikov thought of his definitive decisions least of all (Dostoevsky, 67).

Through the juxtaposition of mental discourse and action, Dostoevsky highlights the discrepancy

between Raskolnikov’s assumption of the interconnectedness of his reasons and will (or motives)

and his inability to act on the rationalism of preparing for the murder and following through with

his conscious plan. In this way, he urges readers to not only be skeptical of Raskolnikov’s

confessions and expressions of self-awareness, but also to rely on the descriptions of his mental

state and the intricacies of his actions. For starters, Raskolnikov deeply alienates himself from

society. This isolation acts as a unique breeding ground for unchecked hubris, allowing
Raskolnikov to spiral into a deep conviction of his greatness with no one around to tell him

otherwise. Once immersed in his illusions and completely sure of his exceptionalism, he wishes

to escape the constraints of society that have alienated him in the first place -- that is, the moral

law that confuses his self-image and the conscience that pushes him to do good without much

reason. As a man of seemingly split personalities, his ambitions elucidate the schism to fall

between his ‘ordinary’ and ‘extraordinary’ natures. The murder, then, represents an escape from

ambivalence and an opportunity to be just one man-- an extraordinary man.

Dostoevsky saturates ​Crime and Punishment​ with numerous anti-heroes and characters,

all of whom reflect and often exaggerate an aspect of Raskolnikov’s being. Concentrating on the

dichotomy of his benevolent and malicious tendencies, Porfiry Petrovich and Arkady Ivanovich

Svidrigailov depict Raskolnikov’s two sides. Petrovich symbolizes compliance with (moral) law,

as he works as an investigator assigned to bring the murderer to justice. A man of mindfulness

and rationalism, he shows signs of deep empathy in his ability to relate to Raskolnikov, to the

extent of appearing to have once suffered from the same youthful daringness and enthusiasm.

Moreover, he reasons with Raskolnikov’s worldview, claiming his “little article struck a chord,”

(Dostoevsky, 425) with him. Petrovich sees straight into Raskolnikov’s immaturity and

recklessness, so much so that it causes him “indescribable agitation” (Dostoevsky, 427), the

same frustration that persisted in his mind before the murder. Uncoincidentally, shortly after his

conversation with Petrovich, Raskolnikov seeks out Svidrigailov to ease his unrest. In fact,

Svidrigailov holds “some hidden power over him” (Dostoevsky, 435) and reflects the other half

of his split personality. Writing of his torment by something important and “extraordinary”

(Dostoevsky, 435), Dostoevsky’s word-choice clearly points to the essence of Svidrigailov, a

man who, by Raskolnikov’s definition, holds the potential to be an extraordinary man.

Self-willed and “always plotting” (Dostoevsky, 436) malicious, self-indulging deeds, he

represents the rejection of moral law. Although Raskolnikov appears equally resentful and

skeptical of Svidrigailov as he is of Petrovich, his physical vacillation between the two

represents the complicated workings and indecisiveness of his mind. Furthermore, the same way

that both characters push him to the point of debilitating guilt that creates an anguished need for

redemption, his ruptured personalities before the crime drive him to the brink of insanity and

intense desperation to escape. While the murder later appears as a test to challenge and

understand Raskolnikov’s capabilities, in its inception, it only represents a placebo to his

extreme, underlying feelings of disgruntlement and depression.

As Andreas Masvie points out in his article “Dostoevsky, Nietzsche and God,” it is useful

to think of Raskolnikov as the incarnation of Nietzsche’s Übermensch. In doing so, Raskolnikov

epitomizes the one inescapable aspect of our human nature which holds us from being morally

free: guilt. Unarguably, Raskolnikov ultimately chooses to follow his inner goodness – that

which sides with Petrovich – by confessing because he wants to see Sonya sometime again in his

life. However, given the intense pressures of his inner mind that work as the motive behind his

actions, guilt ( and a need for purification), ultimately drives hims him to confess. Accordingly,

if love is the reason Raskolnikov gives himself to confess to the murder, then guilt is the motive

of his confession. Nietzsche’s Übermensch, then, cannot escape its one weakness (guilt), for it

works through man subconsciously. Moreover, Nietzsche’s ideology for the next step in the

human evolution proves to be utopian belief, much like a dream; if implemented in reality, it

would result in a dystopian society, as Dostoevsky alludes to in the drama preceding and ensuing
the crime. Not surprisingly, ​Crime and Punishment​, which was published before Nietzsche’s

idea of the Übermensch, proves to be ahead of its time.

Bibliography:

- Beebe, Maurice. “The Three Motives of Raskolnikov: A Reinterpretation of Crime and

Punishment.” ​College English,​ vol. 17, no. 3, Dec. 1955, pp. 151–158., doi:10.2307/495737.

- Dostoyevsky, Fyodor, and Oliver Ready. ​Crime and Punishment​. Penguin Books, 2015.

- Masvie, Andreas E. “Dostoevsky, Nietzsche and God.” ​MENTSCH MAGAZINE​, 4AD,

www.mentschmagazine.com/home/2018/2/3/dyvs08zmioeq77elhouc5zseecjvti​.

- Squires, Paul Chatham. “Dostoevsky's ‘Raskolnikov’: The Criminalistic Protest.” ​Journal of

Criminal Law and Criminology (1931-1951),​ vol. 28, no. 4, 4 Nov. 1937, p. 478.,

doi:10.2307/1136780.