Revisiting The Brothers Karamazov at 30

Ten years ago, at the age of 20, during a college gap year, I cracked open one of the finest works of literature humanity has ever produced. Did I understand it? Will I understand it now?

The Brothers Karamazov by Fyodor Dostoevsky is a beast. Tipping the scales at around 900 pages, it's a seminal work of Russian literature—and it belongs on every bookshelf. Dostoevsky doesn't pull punches. He dives headfirst into some of the darkest corners of the human spirit. He paints a gloomy portrait of a fallen people, divorced from their maker (whoever that may be), and spins a tangled thread of story, polemic, philosophy, and like… a bajillion different Russian names. He wrestles with faith, evil, Orthodoxy, God, family, murder, guilt—you know, light stuff.

I remember one special night clearly: Ivan's final conversation with the devil. I was sitting in a diner, sipping coffee around 1 AM. (Need I say more?) The electricity in that passage was palpable. I don't remember all the details—just the tone, the dread, the brilliance. I sat there, probably on my third refill, that sticky Texas summer, following Dostoevsky to some Orthodox purgatory, thinking about the decent man who had to walk a quadrillion miles to heaven.

Did I get it? What did it mean to me at the time?

I'm not sure. I don't consider myself religious. I have a spiritual side, sure, but I've never really believed in anything beyond what we can touch, see, or measure.

It's not that I'm some Reddit atheist man-baby—far from it—but if we're using Christian terms, I suppose you could say I've always "struggled with faith."

I've dabbled in other traditions too—Hinduism among them. There's a lot I admire in it: the architecture, the mythos, the devotion. But it never quite clicked. Not in the way I hoped.

This blog post isn't me fishing for faith—or even intending to find it. It's a retrospective. A breadcrumb in the forest. A mental note to self:

Ten years ago, I read The Brothers Karamazov. So what?

So what, indeed.

I don't remember much of it, to be honest. But I do remember the feeling. And that matters. It wasn't a book I "got" the first time around—but it did something to me. And now, at 30, I'm wondering what else it might have to say.

Back in my late teens and early twenties, I considered myself a Dostoevsky fan (as many young men do). I'd love to say I was on the bandwagon before Jordan Peterson was a thing—but that's not important. Whatever gets people to pick up great art—even if it's cliché—has value.

But this isn't about Jordan Peterson. Or Carl Jung. Or the chimps.

This is about me, revisiting a book that loomed large in my intellectual and spiritual development. A book I read when I thought I had questions. And now, ten years later, I know I do.

It's been a bumpy ride—these past ten years. (I'm even thinking of writing a memoir.) Life threw some wild stuff at me. Some of it heartbreaking. Some of it hilarious. All of it, I think, worth writing down.

A retrospective at the ripe old age of 30 might seem gauche, but here I am. And if something I write resonates with someone else out there, then great. I've never made music or written to get rich and famous. I just want to make cool shit for my bros.

So, yeah. What are you reading?

Me? I'm reading Dostoevsky.

Again.

I'll let you know how it goes.