五月中旬讀完John Steinbeck的遊記， 5/19日寫了一篇讀書報告後，從女兒留下的一堆書裏找了一本五百多頁的小說《罪與罰》，俄國作家陀思妥耶夫斯基的作品。 開始讀時覺得小說不吸引人，呈現在讀者麵前的不外乎是窮困潦倒的人，喝得爛醉如泥的酒鬼，一幅幅灰暗壓抑的畫麵。不過想想這樣的名著，這樣一位和托爾斯泰齊名的作家，他的作品一定有其成名的原因，便硬著頭皮讀了下去。 5月21號，我微信女兒，讓她幫我借這本書的電子版，這樣至少讀起來眼睛不累些。 女兒上網借了，回複說，書要兩個星期後才能到。 等6月3號電子書到時， 我已經讀完了紙書版的3/5，300多頁了。電子書借到後，我見縫插針地看， 花了三四天時間就把剩下的2/5 全部讀完了。讀完後，麵對女兒曾經問過的一句"喜歡嗎？"， 我竟然答不上來。隨後又上網查了作者的一些背景和其他資料。我想，或許這樣的一本書不是寥寥喜歡或不喜歡就能概括的，也不是我這麽初初讀完一本就能深入了解的。所以，僅此在這裏做個簡短的人物、情節回顧，權當是一種記錄。

小說以十九世紀俄國彼得堡為背景，講述一個二十三歲窮困潦倒的青年人Raskolnikov, 為了生活和夢想的前程，起念殺了當鋪的女老板和碰巧前來探望的老板妹妹。R在慌亂中偷了一些錢財，逃離現場，從此生活在惶惶不可終日的恐懼和煎熬中，直至最後自首，坐牢，發配到西伯利亞勞改。

小說有好幾條線，主線當然是主人公R，一位大學輟學生。他有個姐姐和母親。姐姐Dunya年輕貌美，為了擺脫貧窮，幫助弟弟，欲將自己嫁給一位有錢的中年律師。 姐姐帶著母親離開家鄉來到彼得堡, 看望離家三年的R。 姐姐此次來的最主要目的是想和在彼得堡的未婚夫成親，最後卻被弟弟從中攪黃了。第二條線是一位名叫Svidrigailov的男子，姐姐Dunya曾經在他家做過管家, 被S看上。S當年欠了一屁股債，為了償清債務，把自己"賣"給一位闊太太，闊太太不僅替他償還了債務，死後還給他留了一大筆遺產。S帶著太太的巨額遺產，追逐Dunya追到彼得堡，幻想著Dunya能傾心於他，最後遭拒絕而飲彈自盡。小說裏還有一條很重要的線是一位名叫Marmeladov的男子。此人曾經在政府機關工作，後來失業了，淪落成為一個酒鬼，主人公R偶然在一家小酒館裏認識了他。M家中有太太和三個未成年的小孩，還有一位和前妻所生的剛剛成年的女兒Sonya。為了家庭生計，養活一大家人，Sonya去做了妓女。這家人最後的結局比較悲催, M酒後被馬車撞死，隨後太太因肺病也咳血而死，三個小孩去了收容所。Sonya最後跟著男主人公去了西伯利亞。

從讀完小說的那一刻起一直在想一個問題，作為經典名著，它的傑出之處在哪裏? 是主題嗎？是成功的人物塑造嗎？還是它的語言(語言是翻譯的) 或是思想?

先來說說主人公Raskolnikov。 R可以算得上是一個有文化有思想的人。在他看來，這個世界上的人分兩種，普通人(ordinary) 和非凡人(extraordinary)。非凡人是社會上層有決策能力的人，他們製定法律法規，左右著人的命運，而另一類人就是普通人，換句話說，就是守法公民，被管轄的人員。主人公R，憤世嫉俗，反社會道德，選擇了他認為的社會殘渣餘孽人員-當鋪又老又貪的店主-作為仇殺對象，想因此把自己的殺人搶劫合理化，認為自己殺的是社會上的無用之人，卻可以借此讓自己走出窮困， 登上社會上層，最後成就大事業而造福人類，普世濟民，救水深火熱的窮苦百姓脫離苦海。他相信憑著自己的聰明才智和能力，一定可以做一個非凡人。主人公的名字Raskolnikov中的Raskol的意思是"split" or "schism"的意思，這也說明作者或許從一開始就想塑造一個人格分裂、有著雙重個性的人物。而R恰恰就是這樣一個人物。他一邊可以殘忍地拿起斧頭血腥殺人，一邊麵對窮得叮當響的一家老少慷慨解囊，把自己僅有的二十五盧布全部拿出送給人家作葬禮費用。他一方麵因為殺人後，精神恍惚，被人當成是瘋瘋癲癲的精神病人，另一方麵又有著深刻的思想，尖銳的目光，一眼看穿了他姐姐未婚夫的虛偽人品。也正是他的雙重人格讓他在殺人後如熱鍋上的螞蟻，坐立不安，飽受內心煎熬不能自拔，精神近乎崩潰邊緣。

小說運用大量的心理描寫，人物內心獨白，把一個殺人犯的心理描述得淋漓盡致，人物形象也因此栩栩如生。 我想，這或許是作品最成功的地方。

一部偉大的作品一定是源於生活的。作者自己就曾負債累累，又是個好賭之徒，有時靠寫小說匆匆完稿清償賭債。 他後來又因為卷入政治風波，蹲過監獄，在被送上斷頭台處決的一刹那被沙皇赦免，最後流放到西伯利亞四年。他的這些親身經曆無疑給創作帶來了極大的靈感，獨特的視覺。他對社會底層人民的了解，賦予了小說極強的真實性。另外，作者的個人經曆又讓他成為了一名虔誠的基督徒，他的宗教信仰也在他的小說中得到充分體現。

小說似乎在揭示這樣一個道理，貧窮是罪惡的根源。為了擺脫窮困，人可以去賣身，可以去騙、去偷、去搶、去殺人，良知喪盡，犯下種種罪行。人或許可以逃脫法律的製裁，卻終究難逃良心的譴責，老天的懲罰。

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Extracts:

There are chance meetings with strangers that interest us from the first moment, before a word is spoken.

Sonia took it, flushed crimson, jumped up, muttered something and began taking leave. Pyotr Petrovitch accompanied her ceremoniously to the door.

insufferable fit of coughing that lasted five minutes. Drops of perspiration stood out

he drank with fellows who were not worth the sole of his shoe.

All the clamour gradually died away at his entrance. Not only was this “serious business man” strikingly incongruous with the rest of the party, but it was evident, too, that he had come

Defend her now, at least!” The wail of the poor, consumptive, helpless woman seemed to produce a great effect on her audience. The agonised, wasted, consumptive face, the parched blood-stained lips, the hoarse voice, the tears unrestrained as a child’s, the trustful, childish and yet despairing prayer for help were so piteous that every one seemed to feel for her. Pyotr Petrovitch at any rate was at once moved to compassion.

Their eyes met, and the fire in Raskolnikov’s seemed ready to reduce him to ashes.

Again a wave of the same feeling surged into his heart, and again for an instant softened it.

 “I’ve only killed a louse, Sonia, a useless, loathsome, harmful creature.”

His eyes shone with feverish brilliance. He was almost delirious; an uneasy smile strayed on his lips. His terrible exhaustion could be seen through

a new and sudden train of thought had struck and as it were roused him

that low ceilings and tiny rooms cramp the soul and the mind? Ah, how I hated that garret! And yet I wouldn’t go out of it!

I simply did it; I did the murder for myself, for myself alone, and whether I became a benefactor to others, or spent my life like a spider catching men in my web and sucking the life out of men, I couldn’t have cared at that moment.… And it was not the money I wanted, Sonia, when I did it. It was not so much the money I wanted, but something else.… I know it all now.… Understand me! Perhaps I should never have committed a murder again. I wanted to find out something else; it was something else led me on. I wanted to find out then and quickly whether I was a louse like everybody else or a man. Whether I can step over barriers or not, whether I dare stoop to pick up or not, whether I am a trembling creature or whether I have the right …”

I want to prove one thing only, that the devil led me on then and he has shown me since that I had

They sat side by side, both mournful and dejected, as though they had been cast up by the tempest alone on some deserted shore. He looked at Sonia and felt how great was her love for him, and strange to say he felt it suddenly burdensome and painful to be so loved. Yes, it was a strange and awful sensation! On his way to see Sonia he had felt that all his hopes rested on her; he expected to be rid of at least part of his suffering, and now, when all her heart turned towards him, he suddenly felt that he was immeasurably unhappier than before.

heartrending

it was as though a fog had fallen upon him and wrapped him in a dreary solitude from which there was no escape. Recalling that period long after, he believed that his mind had been clouded at times, and that it had continued so, with intervals, till the final catastrophe.

make head or tail of it;

It had been too stifling, too cramping, the burden had been too agonising.

The last moment had come, the last drops had to be drained! So a man will sometimes go through half an hour of mortal terror with a brigand, yet when the knife is at his throat at last, he feels no fear.

From a hundred rabbits you can’t make a horse, a hundred suspicions don’t make a proof, as the English proverb says, but that’s only from the rational point of view—you can’t help being partial, 

It was conceived on sleepless nights, with a throbbing heart, in ecstasy and suppressed enthusiasm.

Men will catch at straws! 

There was another thought which had been continually hovering of late about Raskolnikov’s mind, and causing him great uneasiness.

Nothing in the world is harder than speaking the truth and nothing easier than flattery. If there’s the hundredth part of a false note in speaking the truth, it leads to a discord, and that leads to trouble. But if all, to the last note, is false in flattery, it is just as agreeable, and is heard not without satisfaction. It may be a coarse satisfaction, but still a satisfaction. And however coarse the flattery, at least half will be sure to seem true.

There’s always a little corner which remains a secret to the world and is only known to those two.

Add to that, nervous irritability from hunger, from lodging in a hole, from rags, from a vivid sense of the charm of his social position and his sister’s and mother’s position too. Above all, vanity, pride and vanity, though goodness knows he may have good qualities too.… I am not blaming him, please don’t think it; besides, it’s not my business. A special little theory came in too—a theory of a sort—dividing mankind, you see, into material and superior persons, that is persons to whom the law does not apply owing to their superiority, who make laws for the rest of mankind, the material, that is. It’s all right as a theory, une théorie comme une autre. Napoleon attracted him tremendously, that is, what affected him was that a great many men of genius

It was a dark and stifling evening. Threatening storm-clouds came over the sky about ten o’clock. There was a clap of thunder, and the rain came down like a waterfall. The water fell not in drops, but beat on the earth in streams. There flashes of lightning every minute and each flash lasted while one could count five.

It appeared afterwards that on the same evening, at twenty past eleven, he made another very eccentric and unexpected visit. The rain still persisted. Drenched to the skin, he walked into the little flat where the parents of his betrothed lived, in Third Street in Vassilyevsky Island. He knocked some time before he was admitted, and his visit at first caused great perturbation; but Svidrigaïlov could be very fascinating when he liked, so that the first, and indeed very intelligent surmise of the sensible parents that Svidrigaïlov had probably had so much to drink that he did not know what he was doing vanished immediately.

The rain had ceased and there was a roaring wind.

one image rose after another, incoherent scraps of thought without beginning or end passed through his mind. He sank into drowsiness. Perhaps the cold, or the dampness, or the dark, or the wind that howled under the window

He kept dwelling on images of flowers, he fancied a charming flower garden, a bright, warm, almost hot day, a holiday—Trinity day. A fine, sumptuous country cottage in the English taste overgrown with fragrant flowers, with flower beds going round the house; the porch, wreathed in climbers, was surrounded with beds of roses. A light, cool staircase, carpeted with rich rugs, was decorated with rare plants in china pots. He noticed particularly in the windows nosegays of tender, white, heavily fragrant narcissus bending over their bright, green, thick long stalks. He was reluctant to move away from them, but he went up the stairs

her little face all aglow

A thick milky mist hung over the town.

Her eyes fixed upon him, betrayed horror and infinite grief. And from those eyes alone he saw at once that she knew.

There was a gleam of fire in his lustreless eyes;

By that stupidity I only wanted to put myself into an independent position, to take the first step, to obtain means, and then everything would have been smoothed over by benefits immeasurable in comparison.… But I … I couldn’t carry out even the first step, because I am contemptible, that’s what’s the matter! And yet I won’t look at it as you do. If I had succeeded I should have been crowned with glory, but now I’m trapped.”

a cold shiver ran over her, but in a moment she guessed that the tone and the words were a mask. He spoke to her looking away, as though to avoid meeting her eyes.

pestering me with their stupid questions, which

his ideas seemed to gallop after one another,

that he had left her in the middle of the room in her green shawl, not daring to stir after he had shouted at her, and he stopped short for a moment. At the same instant, another thought dawned upon him, as though it had been lying in wait to strike him then.

It came over him like a fit; it was like a single spark kindled in his soul and spreading fire through him. Everything in him softened at once and the tears started into his eyes. He fell to the earth on the spot.…

Sonia was with him for ever and would follow him to the ends of the earth, wherever fate might take him. It wrung his heart … but he was just reaching the fatal place.

he answered very clearly with the coarsest frankness that the cause was his miserable position, his poverty and helplessness, and his desire to provide for his first steps in life by the help of the three thousand roubles he had reckoned on finding. He had been led to the murder through his shallow and cowardly nature, exasperated moreover by privation and failure. To the question what led him to confess, he answered that it was his heartfelt repentance. All this was almost coarse.…

After a fatiguing day spent in continual fancies, in joyful day dreams and tears, Pulcheria Alexandrovna was taken ill in the night and by morning she was feverish and delirious. It was brain fever.

Razumihins and received an answer with unfailing regularity

his pride had been stung to the quick. It was wounded pride that made him ill. Oh, how

And what comfort was it to him that at the end of eight years he would only be thirty-two and able to begin a new life! What had he to live for? What had he to look forward to? Why should he strive? To live in order to exist? Why, he had been ready a thousand times before to give up existence for the sake of an idea, for a hope, even for a fancy. Mere existence had always been too little for him; he had always wanted more. Perhaps it was just because of the strength of his desires that he had thought himself a man to whom more was permissible than to others.

He suffered too from the question: why had he not killed himself? Why had he stood looking at the river and preferred to confess? Was the desire to live so strong and was it so hard to overcome it? Had not Svidrigaïlov overcome it, although he was afraid of death?

He preferred to attribute it to the dead weight of instinct which he could not step over, again through weakness and meanness. He looked at his fellow prisoners and was amazed to see how they all loved life and prized it. It seemed to him that they loved and valued life more in prison than in freedom. What terrible agonies and privations some of them, the tramps for instance, had endured! Could they care so much for a ray of sunshine, for the primeval forest, the cold spring hidden away in some unseen spot which the tramp had marked three years before, and longed to see again, as he might to see his sweetheart, dreaming of the green grass round it and the bird singing in the bush? As he went on he saw still more inexplicable examples.

From the high bank a broad landscape opened before him, the sound of singing floated faintly audible from the other bank. In the vast steppe, bathed in sunshine, he could just see, like black specks, the nomads’ tents. There there was freedom, there other men were living, utterly unlike those here; there time itself seemed to stand still, as though the age of Abraham and his flocks had not passed.

They were both pale and thin; but those sick pale faces were bright with the dawn of a new future, of a full resurrection into a new life. They were renewed by love; the heart of each held infinite sources of life for the heart of the other.