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TIME: Almanac 1995
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1995-02-26
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<text id=94TT1668>
<title>
Nov. 28, 1994: Books:Parallel World
</title>
<history>
TIME--The Weekly Newsmagazine--1994
Nov. 28, 1994 Star Trek
</history>
<article>
<source>Time Magazine</source>
<hdr>
ARTS & MEDIA/BOOKS, Page 87
Parallel World
</hdr>
<body>
<p> A first-rate novelist adapts Dostoyevsky's life too freely
</p>
<p>By John Skow
</p>
<p> Here's a brilliant, brooding novel, a literary work of the first
class, built around a confounding falsification by the author
that reduces the entire book to the level of a clever and nearly
meaningless stunt. Find an explanation if you can.
</p>
<p> The situation in The Master of Petersburg (Viking; 250 pages;
$21.95) is this: J.M. Coetzee, the South African novelist, has
placed himself in the turbulent, ironic mind of Fyodor Dostoyevsky.
It is 1869; the writer is 49, self-exiled in Dresden at mid-career,
with Poor Folk and Crime and Punishment behind him and The Brothers
Karamazov far in the future. He is a passionate, tormented idealist,
still roiled by the Western liberal notions of social and political
freedom that had swept the Russian intelligentsia a generation
before. But the new, younger Russian intellectuals are not liberals;
they are nihilists and anarchists, and Dostoyevsky is repelled
and shaken. This ferment will result, two years later, in the
towering "pamphlet-novel" variously called The Devils, The Possessed
and (in a vigorous new translation by Richard Pevear and Larissa
Volokhonsky) Demons--the demons being the indigestible Western
ideas that were unsettling Russia.
</p>
<p> In Coetzee's darkly convincing narration, Dostoyevsky hears
that his 21-year-old stepson Pavel Isaev, who has fallen in
with nihilists in Petersburg, has been murdered, perhaps by
the police or by his comrades. The writer travels to Petersburg,
finds the rooming house where Pavel had lived and--guilt-haunted
because he did not get along well with this difficult son of
his dead first wife--moodily retraces the young man's last
months. He tries to retrieve Pavel's papers from the police
and is subjected to repeated, insinuating interrogations. He
encounters a deadly, contemptuous young nihilist named Nechaev,
who seems to live from child prostitution and who may have been
Pavel's killer. Later, back in Pavel's rooming house, where
he is staying, sleeping in Pavel's bed, wearing his stepson's
unwashed clothes, Dostoyevsky begins to sketch the character
who will be Nikolai Stavrogin, the world-hating, self-loathing
young aristocrat who drives the action in Demons.
</p>
<p> So Coetzee sums things up. But there are some facts the typical
reader may not know that he ought to: in real life Dostoyevsky
did not travel to Petersburg in 1869; he remained in Dresden.
His stepson Pavel was not murdered by nihilists or anyone else.
A pest and a spendthrift, he tormented the author all his life,
and a standard scene from biographies has Pavel being forcibly
kept from Dostoyevsky's deathbed. Nechaev did exist, and Dostoyevsky
did transform him into a character in Demons, but the student
his gang murdered in a celebrated crime was one Ivan Ivanov.
Coetzee could hardly help knowing this, but not a word of preface
or footnote explains that historical truth has been meddled
with.
</p>
<p> Was this phony central episode a justifiable aesthetic choice
by Coetzee? Maybe; Dostoyevsky's wallowing guiltily in his murdered
stepson's bed and then staggering off to write Demons is plausible,
though facile. Does it cheat the reader? Only in part, by creating
a distorted picture of one episode in the writer's life. But
the matter leaves a bad taste. It's true that telling invented
stories is what novelists do; but what of novels that are part
history, that take their weight from the known stature of real
people? Isn't the point to use fictional techniques to get the
history right? If the novelist is fatally beguiled by some alternate
reality, shouldn't he say so: "This is Dostoyevsky, but from
a parallel universe in which Pavel got zapped by the bad guys"?
As things are, Coetzee has demeaned his own novel, which (a
Dostoyevskian ironist might observe) is a perversity worthy
of Stavrogin.
</p>
</body>
</article>
</text>