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H229 Narrative Fiction 1
Lecture 11 1995
Here's your quiz question for today, set by our visiting quizmaster Sigmund Freud: 'What do the Œdipus Rex of Sophocles, Shakespeare's Hamlet and Dostoevsky's The Brothers Karamazov all have in common?' Answer at the end of the lecture.
In these last two of the substantive lecture I shall give on novels—the very last lecture will be a conclusion to the course—I shall allow myself to interpret rather than to theorise.
Some of you will know of a famous essay by Susan Sontag called 'Against interpretation,' which was published in a book of the same name. [1] In that impassioned piece (which we'll look at again in Narrative Fiction 2), Sontag argues strongly, as you will have already guessed, against interpretation, suggesting in her famous last words that 'In place of a hermeneutics we need an erotics of art.' [2] And, as you've also already gathered, it's a very quotable piece, containing powerful statements like: '… interpretation is the revenge of the intellect upon art' and 'The world, our world, is depleted, impoverished enough. Away with all duplicates of it, until we again experience more immediately what we have.' [3]
What she's arguing is that interpretation replaces direct experience, including the direct experience of texts. What we do when we interpret is put another text in the place of the one we are 'reading.' [4] 'To interpret [writes Sontag] is to impoverish, to deplete the world—in order to set up a shadow world of "meanings." It is to turn the world into this world.' [5] So that's the negative side of this particular ledger.
You might, but probably don't, remember from my very first lecture that I said something there too about the distinction between poetics and interpretation, and I quoted the great interpreter himself, Jonathan Culler, coming down firmly on the side of poetics. Well, I've tried to give you eight lectures mostly on poetics, even though I said in that first lecture that we would be doing both (poetics and interpretation). But even Culler himself writes, in the paragraph I quoted, that 'the interpretation of works may be fascinating and personally fulfilling.' [5] And even Sontag writes that 'In some cultural contexts, interpretation is a liberating act. It is a means of revising, of transvaluing, of escaping the dead past.' [6] And so what I'll be doing in this lecture is discussing The Brothers Karamazov in a way that is liberating for me and 'a means of revising, of transvaluing, of escaping the dead past' of Dostoevsky. However, I won't be coming very far forward in the history of interpretation, only just making it into the present century, to arrive at Freud. Not the Freud, though, that you think of when I say the word 'Freud,' not the one with the cigar and the cocaine and the dirty mind. No, this will be Freud the anthropologist, the imaginative delver into man's dim prehistoric past. To bring Dostoevsky up to date we'll be plunging back into the Stone Age.
I asked Professor O'Toole to give this lecture, because he's not only a Slavist, that is, an expert in some aspects of Slav language and literature—in this case, Russian; but he's also an expert in Russian Formalism. Had he had time to prepare this lecture—which unfortunately he did not—I believe he would have taken a Bakhtinian line on the novel—which I suppose I should have done too, given the way I set Bakhtin up in the first lecture in the unit. I should refer not only to The Dialogic Imagination but also to Bakhtin's book specifically on Dostoevsky. The work I mean was originally published as Problems of Dostoevsky's Creative Art, in Leningrad, in 1929. [7] It was seen as politically incorrect by Stalinists and suppressed. A later version was revised and extended and called Problems of Dostoevsky's Poetics, when published in Moscow in 1963. [8] There are two translations. It was revised partly for political reasons, but also, we are told, because 'In [the] years [between 1929 and 1963] Bakhtin came to regard the Dostoevskian novel not so much as an absolutely unprecedented event in the history of the genre, but rather as the purest expression of what always had been implicit in it.' [9]
Bakhtin distinguishes between the 'homophonic' or 'monological' European novel, and Dostoevsky's 'polyphonic' novel, in which there is a 'plurality of independent and unmerged voices and consciousnesses.' 'In contrast to Tolstoy's finalizing (monologic) word [for example], Dostoevsky is praised for creating a new authorial relationship to characters which respects the open-endedness of subjective consciousnesses.' Past critics, as Bakhtin saw it, either: reduced novel to a monological whole—attempting to set out what Dostoevsky was 'trying to say'; or else they studied the materialized psyches of heroes: dealing with each character in the same way that you would attempt deal with a real, historical person, with a complete mind and 'soul' which you attempt to subject to analysis. What Bakhtin thought was needed, instead, was a way of studying the artistic architectonics or poetics of Dostoevsky's novels, and he approached this task with a theory about what he called 'polyphony,' taking the term, I assume, from the kind of music associated for example with Johann Sebastian Bach, where several voices sing separate lines of music which, although distinct, also make up a whole musical chord at any significant moment. He also used the notion of 'heteroglossia,' which, as you know, means something very similar: 'different voices,' or 'other voices,' or 'many voices.' These 'different voices' he saw as being engaged in dialogue, another key term in Bakhtin, and which was used by the editor to create the title of the book called The Dialogic Imagination.
Here is Julia Kristeva writing about the notion of 'dialogue,' on the subject of what in Bakhtin is called 'dialogism,' (which, as I say, is another way of referring to his concepts of 'heteroglossia' and the 'polyphonic'). She writes this.
What allows a dynamic dimension to structuralism is his conception of the "literary word" as an intersection of textual surfaces rather than a point (a fixed meaning), as a dialogue among several writings: that of the writer, the addressee (or the character) and the contemporary or earlier cultural context. 14
So the dialogue that's being referred to here is not just the dialogue between characters in the novel, as it normally means in the context of the theatre or of film: it also refers to dialogues between writers, readers, characters, and the past and present cultural contexts in which the work comes to exist. I think you will have noticed in this version of 'dialogism' a close relationship with the concept of 'intertextuality,' which, as you know, was invented by Kristeva but based on the ideas of Mikhail Bakhtin. I'll repeat part of the quotation.
… the "literary word" [is] an intersection of textual surfaces … a dialogue among several writings: that of the writer, the addressee (or the character) and the contemporary or earlier cultural context. 14
Well, that's something of what I should have said, but what I'm not going to say. Because I have chosen, as I said, to give an interpretation, and to concentrate on what I see as the central element in the structure of the plot: the relationship of sons to fathers, and '… the pattern of son-evolving-into-father that is present in The Brothers Karamazov.' I am indebted throughout to Michael Holquist and his book on Dostoevsky and the Novel, for doing in detail the analysis I shall also set out for you, an analysis which could be called 'Freudian,' if that would not, as I've already suggested, give a false impression, relying as it does on one of Freud's more colourful theories.
About his book as a whole, Holquist has this to say, in his Preface. I hope you won't mind me quoting him at length at this point, as he is talking about the novel generally, and he is a very good writer indeed, and what he has to say here is very pertinent to Narrative Fiction 1 as a whole, as well as to Dostoevsky and to his last, great novel. He writes this.
The interpretations that follow are grounded in a dilemma shared by a genre, a nation, and a man. Each of these three categories has its own line of development. This book looks at what happened when the three strands became intermixed. The novel, Russia, and Dostoevsky may each be seen as characterized by particularly urgent problems of self-identification, may be said to have a biography. At the center of each such biography stands the question, 'who am I?' Each in its own way strives to answer the question of what it is by finding a story that will somehow explain how it came to be. Thus, while the task is necessarily different in its implications for each, the novel as a genre, Russian historiography, and the man Dostoevsky all appeal to narrative as the royal road to knowledge of what they are. Something like this assumption that idiosyncrasy is at the heart of what might be called novel-ness is what Viktor Shklovsky had in mind when he said of that most peculiar of books, "Tristram Shandy is the most typical novel in world literature." The paradox consists in the uniqueness of its members defining the class to which they belong. The novel is not only about problematical identity; its characteristic theme of selfhood and the ways in which it pursues the topic in narrative put its own formal identity into constant question. 15
I find it a very engaging idea that not only does our novelist of course have his biography, but so does Dostoevsky's subject, his beloved mother country, Russia, and so also does the novel as such: each has a life-history, and each of these histories is an attempt to answer the question, who (or what) am I? So then, when we come to the particular novel, it will be no surprise to find that the same question is being asked, and also in the context of the particular characters who appear there. Each of the Karamazov brothers—and their father as well—are engaged in the same question in respect of himself: who am I? And also: who am I, as a son, and as a father? 'I am assuming [writes Holquist] that the central concern of all Dostoevsky's work is a series of questions about identity; not only "who am I?" but "how can I be?" or "if I am that, who, then, are others?" It is further assumed [he adds] that such questions are grounded in time.'
Holquist begins his chapter on The Brothers Karamazov by discussing Lukács, The Theory of the Novel (1920) and Girard, Deceit, Desire and the Novel (1961), both texts of great interest to us in this course. As you know, you have a chapter from Lukács's book, in your Reader, and both it and Girard's are starred in the secondary texts list as 'more highly recommended,' so it's nice that Holquist takes both of them up as his starting-point for his discussion of the novel. And so do I. Actually, I mentioned them both in my second lecture in this unit, when I was making two points about the picaresque, firstly that it introduced 'the assumption that biography, the story of an idiosyncratic person, is the determining model of the novel's narrative structure,' and, secondly, that the road is a basic structuring device of narratives of many kinds. It's the first of these theories that I want to take up again now: the hypothesis of the centrality of biography to narrative fiction.
Although Lukács and Girard share the assumption of this centrality of biography, they have, Holquist points out, completely different ideas about 'the meaning novelistic biographies articulate.' Girard's view is a essentially Christian one, which sees all narratives as ending up with the same kind of conclusion, in which the hero gives up the quest for an individual meaning, renouncing his desire for an autonomous self, and being taken up into a 'reconciliation between … men and the sacred.' For Girard, 'There are a hundred heroes and yet there is a single hero whose adventure spreads over the whole of novelistic literature.' Whereas for the Hegelian Lukács, the hero aspires to this kind of transcendence, but is doomed never to reach it. He can only ever attain the kind of meaning that a person can construct. He 'is condemned to be only what at the end of his life he, or others, can interpret the course of his actions to have made him.' 'Lukács seems to be saying that both the inner meaning and outer shape of the novel are best understood as replicating a life that aspires to the fixed, whole, organic identity of the sort conversion experiences seem to grant, but that is condemned to the flux of mind and events that make an essential self unobtainable. There is no transcendent end to autonomous identity.'
Holquist tell us that '[f]or both Lukács and Girard, Dostoevsky has a uniquely important role in the history of the novel. Lukács concludes his little book … by confessing that with Dostoevsky begins a new story in the history of his topic: Dostoevsky "and the form he created lie outside the scope of this book. … Only formal analysis of his works can show … whether he is merely a beginning or already a completion" of the novel (152-3). Girard too concludes his book on the novel with Dostoevsky, whose works, even better than those of Stendhal or Proust, demonstrate that "Every novelistic conclusion is a Past Recaptured" (297). For Girard Dostoevsky is the novelist; Lukács says 'Dostoevsky did not write novels' (152). Holquist concludes provocatively that 'Lukács is right about all of Dostoevsky's novels except the last. Girard is wrong about all of Dostoevsky's novels except the last one.' The last one is, of course, The Brothers Karamazov. Lukács is wrong about this last novel because it—unlike all of Dostoevsky's other novels—does not 'essentially narrate[ ] a search for autonomous self that ends in failure.' Girard is wrong about all the others because only the hero of the last novel achieves the kind of transcendence that he desires. (Incidentally, I'm surprised to find myself talking about the same thematics that Jenny de Reuck referred to at the end of her lecture on Middlemarch last week. She saw that other book as also being concerned with the transcendence of the self.) Well, then: in Holquist's own summary:
Lukács cannot accommodate it [that is, this novel] because Alyosha, at the end, seems to have found a self not condemned to decline into the mere transience that characterizes the fallen world of the novel. Girard seeks to take Alyosha's epiphany into account, but because he ascribes it to a transcendence unknown to the Romanwelt [that is, the 'world of the novel'], he, too, misreads The Brothers Karamazov.
Holquist's way out of the impasse caused by the dependence on the confession/biography hypothesis is to abandon this 'biographical master plot that preexists any specific novel' by turning to a different model. As I've suggested, he finds it in Freud.
Two years before he was to die, Dostoevsky was beginning to work on The Brothers in early 1878, when in May his son died; his youngest and favourite son, Alyosha. He died of epilepsy, a sickness which Dostoevsky's wife wrote 'had been inherited from him … in order to comfort [him, she] begged [his friend Solovyov] to go with him to Optina Pustyn,' a great monastery to which many pilgrims came from all over Russia. This Solovyov was a man young enough to be Dostoevsky's son. The intensity of these events on Dostoevsky's meditations on father-son relationships are important elements in the background to the composition of The Brothers Karamazov, which contains, among other things, a youngest and favourite son called Alyosha, a son who is epileptic, and a great monastery to which many pilgrims came from all over Russia. And whereas there was no way out of the fundamental antitheses of the earlier novels: 'A man cannot become a God, absolute ego cannot become another—but [in this novel] a son may become a father, which is the progression of The Brothers Karamazov.' '[N]ovels tell identity crises.' And 'The Brothers Karamazov is about growing up …', which Holquist agrees is an 'unremarkable admission.'
[He writes that] The Brothers Karamazov is about four young men, each of whom, before he is confronted by problems of metaphysics or theology, and the distances they imply, must first overcome the dilemma of his status as son, must cross the mine field between that condition and its opposite state, fatherhood. The end of biography in this last novel is not a transcendent ego or God, but fatherhood.
Holquist speculates that it is the St Augustine of the Confessions who stands behind Girard's biographical myth, whereas behind that of Lukács is Hegel, the biographer of Geist.
It should come as no surprise [then, writes Holquist] that the figure who might be invoked as source for an alternative biographical structure more appropriate to a novel so singlemindedly about sons taking (or failing to take) the place of the father is Freud. [And he has] in mind particularly his "just so story" as he [that is, Freud] came to call it, "the scientific myth of the father of the primal horde."
This is a story that Freud first tells in Totem and Taboo, first published in 1912-1913. He sums it up in 1921 like this.
In 1912 I took up a conjecture of Darwin's to the effect that the primitive form of human society was that of a horde ruled over despotically by a powerful male. I attempted to show that the fortunes of this horde have left indestructible traces upon the history of human descent; and, especially, that the development of totemism, which comprises in itself the beginnings of religion, morality, and social organization, is connected with the killing of the chief by violence and the transformation of the paternal horde into a community of brothers. To be sure, this is only a hypothesis, like so many others with which archaeologists endeavour to lighten the darkness of prehistoric times—a 'Just-So Story,' as it was amusingly called by a not unkind English critic; but I think it is creditable to such a hypothesis if it proves able to bring coherence and understanding to more and more new regions.
This is the story - in Holquist's summary account.
At the beginning of time there was a primal horde, composed of a despotic father who held absolute sway over his sons and the females of the tribe. One day (eines Tages, a German fairytale formula [the English equivalent being, of course, 'once upon a time']) the sons, angered by their father's control of the women, rose up, killed the father and ate him. But [quoting Freud now] "the tumultuous mob of brothers were filled with the same contradictory feelings which we can see in … our children … and … our neurotic patients. They hated their father, who presented such a formidable obstacle to their craving for power and their sexual desires; but they loved and admired him, too. After they had got rid of him, had satisfied their hatred and had put into effect their wish to identify with him, the affection which had all this time been pushed under was bound to make itself felt. A sense of guilt made its appearance, which in this instance coincided with the remorse of the whole group." In order to propitiate the dead father, who "became stronger than the living one had [178] been … they revoked this deed by forbidding the killing of the totem, the substitute for their father; and they renounced its fruits by resigning their claim to the women who had now been set free. They thus created out of their filial sense of guilt the two fundamental taboos of totemism [that is, the taboos against murder and incest] which … correspond[ed] to the two repressed wishes of the Œdipus complex."
I think I should stress you that Freud admits that this is 'only a hypothesis,' only 'a "Just-So Story,"' and he makes this point in his usual rhetorically effective style in a note towards the end of the book.
Since I am used to being misunderstood [he writes], I think it worth while to insist explicitly that the derivations which I have proposed in these pages do not in the least overlook the complexity of the phenomena under review. All that they claim is to have added a new factor to the sources, known or still unknown, of religion, morality and society—a factor based on a consideration of the implications of psycho-analysis. I must leave to others the task of synthesizing the explanation into a unity. It does, however, follow from the nature of the new contribution that it could not play any other than a central part in such a synthesis, even though powerful emotional resistances might have to be overcome before its great importance was recognized.
The subject matter is complex, Freud has only added one more little factor—and yet it is one that is absolutely central, and if you can't see that (yet), then it's your problem, not Freud's: it's your 'emotional resistances [that] have to be overcome before its great importance [is[ recognized.' This is the brilliant technique that sold psychoanalysis to the world, and won for Freud the Goethe Prize, not for scientific discovery, but for Literature! But I digress …
This story … of son-evolving-into-father that is The Brothers Karamazov … has two parts, each of which is characterized by different meanings for son and father. In the first, the sons are helpless, the father all powerful; in the second, the sons become fathers, but not of the sort against whom they were forced to rebel. The new father tries to be different from the old parent, to be better in the sense that he permits more freedom to his own sons, thus eradicating some of the worst effects of the either/or condition of the son/father dichotomy that obtained in the primal condition. A complete biographical model may be adduced from the legend [that is, the legend of Totem and Taboo] by focusing on the progression of a son who has gone through both stages, one who kills the father and then eradicates the need for his own murder by liberating the children he sires from the oppression he himself knew as a boy.
First we have to accept a parallel between the legendary primal horde and the sensualist Karamazov-ism of the early books. The third book is called 'The Sensualists,' and so is its ninth chapter, the one in which Dmitry knocks Grigory over and attacks his father, kicking him in the face, although Ivan and Alyosha part friends. Towards the end of the previous book, Mikhail Rakitin tells Alyosha:
Your house stinks of crime … in your family sensuality has reached a point where it becomes a devouring fever. So these three sensualists are now constantly watching each other—with a knife stuck in the leg of their boots …
And 'Over the Brandy' the tribal despot has this to say.
"So far as I'm concerned," he went on, becoming animated all at once, as though growing sober for a minute as soon as he got on to his favourite topic, "so far as I'm concerned—oh, you children, you dear children, my little sucking pigs—so far as I'm concerned there hasn't been an ugly woman in the whole of my life—that's been my rule! Can you understand that? … For me ugly women do not exist … What's so wonderful is that so long as there are peasants and gentlemen in the world—and there always will be—there will also be such lovely little scullery maids and their masters—and that's all one needs for one's happiness!"
You'll remember that the four sons have three different mothers, which Fyodor Pavlovich has got by connivance or force and then abandoned for other women. Adelaida Miusova, Dmitry's mother, elopes with him, but he takes her dowry and she runs off with another man to die in an attic in St Petersburg, 'leaving the three-year-old Mitya to be taken care of by her husband. Karamazov at once turned his household into a regular harem …' His second wife, Sophia Ivanovna, mother of Ivan and Alexei is also persuaded to elope with him: 'her air of innocence made a deep impression on the voluptuary … "those sweet, innocent eyes cut my heart like a knife at the time," he used to say, sniggering loathesomely …'—although the narrator also tells us that 'this woman alone aroused no sexual desire in him whatever.' After her death, almost exactly the same thing happened to the two boys as to their eldest brother Mitya: they were completely forgotten and abandoned by their father …' The fourth son, 'Stinky,' is probably the result of Fyodor Pavlovich's rape of his 'Stinking' mother Lizaveta, and he is condemned by the patriarch and the author to bastardy, to servant status, and to epilepsy.
The sons are thus resentful with regard to the father but not only on behalf of their ill-treated mothers, but also because of they insults they have to suffer in their own right. In the limited time available I can only ask you to recall some of this ill-treatment, the worst of which you might remember is the father's recounting to Alyosha how he took his mother's favourite icon from her and spat on it, and the gentlest son hears the story 'flushed, his eyes glowed, his lips quivered …' just as Sophia Ivanovna had done when Fyodor Pavlovich thought she was about to kill him—as he has just told Alyosha. Dmitry's situation, however, is the closest to Freud's classical Œdipal triangle, in that both father and son are competing for the same woman: Grushenka. Potential incest is suggested in the sense that it is Grushenka whom the father wishes to take for his next wife, but she is desired by at least one of the sons also. The old man has the power, though—as he says himself: '"She won't, she won't, she won't, she won't marry him for anything in the world!" the old man cried, starting with joy …'
Compare this situation with that imagined by Freud. The patriarch has
prevented his sons from satisfying their directly sexual impulsions; he forced them into abstinence and consequently into the emotional ties with him and with one another which could arise out of those of their impulsions that were inhibited in their sexual aim. He forced them, so to speak, into group psychology. His sexual jealousy and intolerance became in the last resort the causes of group psychology.
Each of the brothers, however, will also act as an individual, finding his own way out of the dilemma, thus as it were unwittingly interpreting the Freudian master biography in his own way. Smerdyakov is the least evolved. He is spoken of in the novel a 'eunuch' and as a 'castrate'; that is to say, he cannot be a father at all. Ivan is not much better. His three 'children' (who are 'children' only in a symbolic sense)—his three 'children' do not give him father status: Smerdyakov 'the eunuch parricide, he rejects; the Grand Inquisitor, he invents; and the devil, he dreams.' Dmitry has a more compassionate attitude to children, which Holquist suggests is shown in his use of the word ditë, which Magarshak renders as 'babby.' But he does not achieve parenthood. Alyosha, however, 'has become a father'— in two ways, I suggest. Firstly, obviously in the way he relates to 'the boys' of Book 10, especially Kolya Krasotkin, Smurov, and of course Ilyusha Snegiryov, but secondly, and less obviously, in the way he in the end relates to Mitya. Significantly, the last pages of the novel are concerned with Alexei Karamazov and his adopted family, the boys whom he calls 'my dear children.' 'You're all dear to me from now on … [he tells them]. I will find a place for you all in my heart and I beg you to find a place for me in your hearts also!' When the novel concludes with the name 'Karamazov,' it is no longer the name of Fyodor Pavlovich, but that of the son who has replaced him, and become a father.
You'll be pleased to know that when Freud came himself to write about Dostoevsky, as he did in 1928 in a paper called 'Dostoevsky and parricide,' that he agreed with this interpretation. He writes there that 'Parricide, according to a well-known view, is the principal and primal crime of humanity as well as of the individual, and he in fact refers his reader to Totem and Taboo—the very book to which I've been referring you. Freud reads The Brothers Karamazov much as he would a dream recounted to him by Dostoevsky lying on the famous couch: he uses it as a text for interpretation, to lead to an analysis. And he concludes briskly that 'the formula for Dostoevsky is as follows: a person with a specially strong innate bisexual disposition, who can defend himself with special intensity against dependence on a specially severe father.' And he goes on to say that 'His early symptoms of death-like attacks can thus be understood as a father identification on the part of his ego, which is permitted by his super-ego as a punishment: "You wanted to kill your father in order to be your father yourself. Now you are your father, but a dead father"—the regular mechanism of hysterical symptoms. And further: "Now your father is killing you."'
So now we come at last to the answer to the quiz question. Here's Sigmund Freud.
It can scarcely be owing to chance that three of the masterpieces of literary of all time—the Œdipus Rex of Sophocles, Shakespeare's Hamlet and Dostoevsky's The Brothers Karamazov—should all deal with the same subject, parricide. In all three, moreover, the motive for the deed, sexual rivalry for a woman, is laid bare.
The Greek drama [writes Freud], while retaining the crime, introduces the indispensable toning-down in a masterly fashion by projecting the hero's unconscious motive into reality in the form of a compulsion by a destiny which is alien to him. … In the English play the presentation is more indirect; the hero does not commit the crime himself; it is carried out by someone else, for whom it is not parricide.
Of course in the novel the presentation [and Freud is referring to what the patient 'presented' with] is even more complicated. But it doesn't matter:
It is a matter of indifference who actually committed the crime; psychology is only concerned to know who desired it emotionally and who welcomed it when it was done. And for that reason all of the brothers, except the contrasted figure of Alyosha, are equally guilty—the impulsive sensualist, the sceptical cynic and the epileptic criminal .
I'll finish there—almost. I'll conclude with a last quotation from Freud, with the end of the story as he sees it. The point for Freud, the end of the story, history, case history, as Steven Marcus sums it up, is this:
At the end—at the successful end—one has come into possession of his own story. It is a final act of self-appropriation, the appropriation by oneself of one's own history."
Well, Dostoevsky wasn't around to come into possession of his own story, so Freud had to come into possession of it for him, in a way of which I guess Susan Sontag would thoroughly disapprove. Here's Freud's final analysis.
[Dostoevsky] dealt first with the common criminal (whose motives are egotistical) and the political and religious criminal; and not until the end of his life did he come back to the primal criminal, the parricide, and use him, in a work of art, for making his confession.
1 Sontag, Susan 1982, from 'Against interpretation,' from A Susan Sontag Reader, Penguin: 95-104. (Originally from Against Interpretation, Farrar, Straus & Giroux, New York).
2 Sontag 1982: 55.
3 Sontag 1982: 51.
4 Sontag 1982: 51.
5 Culler, Jonathan 1977, Foreword to Tzvetan Todorov 1977 [Fr. 1971], The Poetics of Prose, Blackwell, Oxford: 8.
6 Sontag 1982: 51.
7 Bakhtin, Mikhail M. 1981, The Dialogic Imagination: Four Essays, ed. Michael Holquist, trs. Caryl Emerson & Michael Holquist, University of Texas Press, Austin.
8 Bakhtin, Mikhail M. 1963, Problems of Dostoevsky's Poetics, Sovetskij Pisatel', Moscow; originally published as Problems of Dostoevsky's Creative Art, Leningrad, 1929.
9 Bakhtin, Mikhail M. 1973, Problems of Dostoevsky's Poetics, tr. R. W. Rotsel, Ardis, Ann Arbor; Bakhtin, Mikhail M. 1984, Problems of Dostoevsky's Poetics, tr. Caryl Emerson, University of Minnesota Press, Minneapolis.
10 Michael Holquist, 'Introduction,' to Mikhail Bakhtin, The Dialogic Imagination, ed. Michael Holquist, trs. Caryl Emerson & Michael Holquist, University of Texas Press, Austin, 1981: xxxi.
11 Bakhtin 1973: 4.
12 Pam Morris, Introduction to Mikhail M. Bakhtin 1994, The Bakhtin Reader: Selected Writings of Bakhtin, Medvedev and Voloshinov, ed. Pam Morris, Edward Arnold, London: 7. Morris' s footnote at this point is to Bakhtin, Problems, (1984): 69-75.
13 Bakhtin 1973: 6.
14 Kristeva, Julia 1986, 'Word, dialogue, and novel,' The Kristeva Reader, ed. and Introduction Toril Moi, Basil Blackwell, Oxford: 36.
15 Holquist, Michael 1977, Dostoevsky and the Novel, Northwestern University Press, Evanston, Illinois: xi.
16 Though I'd like to think that I could have thought through all this myself, having read all the primary texts—let's say I just needed the imprimatur of Professor Holquist to reassure me.
17 Shklovsky, Viktor 1929, O teorii prozy, Federacija, Moskva: 204; as cited by Holquist.
18 Holquist 1977: ix-x.
Holquist 1977: 36.
Holquist 1977: 166.
Holquist 1977: 166.
22 Girard, René 1965, Deceit, Desire and the Novel, trs. Yvonne Freccero, Johns Hopkins UP, Baltimore: 308, as cited in Holquist 1977: 168.
23 Girard 1965: 253, as cited in Holquist 1977: 168.
Holquist 1977: 166-7.
Holquist 1977: 168.
Holquist 1977: 170-1.
Holquist 1977: 170.
Holquist 1977: 172.
Holquist 1977: 171.
30 Anna Grigorievna's letter is quoted in Konstantin Mochulsky 1967, Dostoevsky: His Life and Work, tr. Michael A. Minihan, Princeton University Press: 574; Holquist 1977: 13.
Holquist 1977: 175.
Holquist 1977: 176.
33 Holquist's reference here is to the Bantam edition of Freud, Sigmund [1921c], Group Psychology and the Analysis of the Ego, 1960: 86. [SE 18: 122]
34 Group Psychology, Bantam: 69. [SE 18: 135; the Bantam reference should perhaps be '96'] Holquist 1977: 176-7.
Freud, Sigmund 1912-13, Totem and Taboo, SE 13: 1-161.
Freud, Sigmund 1921c, Group Psychology and the Analysis of the Ego, SE 18: 65‑143; this quotation: 122.
[Holquist's footnote.] The impulse to add "all up" has been stifled in my account, but would not let itself off without at least getting into a footnote.
1912-13, SE 13: 143. Holquist 1977: 177-8.
[Freud's footnote.] 1912-13, SE 13: 157n.
Holquist 1977: xi, 178.
Dostoevsky, Fyodor 1982 [1880], The Brothers Karamazov, trs. David Magarshak [1958], Penguin, London: 88, 89.
Dostoevsky 1982 [1880]: 159.
Dostoevsky 1982 [1880]: 5.
Dostoevsky 1982 [1880]: 11.
Dostoevsky 1982 [1880]: 4.
Dostoevsky 1982 [1880]: 11.
Dostoevsky 1982 [1880]: 160.
Dostoevsky 1982 [1880]: 165.
Freud 1921c: SE 18: 123-124.
Holquist 1977: 182.
Holquist 1977: 187-188. The word 'babby' is first introduced (in the narrator's account of the dream) by a peasant: 595; and Grushenka asks Alyosha to interpret the dream on 667. Mitya discusses his dream of the 'babby' with Alyosha on 694.
Holquist 1977: 188.
Holquist 1977: 188.
Dostoevsky 1982 [1880]: 912.
Freud, Sigmund 1928b [1927], 'Dostoevsky and parricide,' SE 21: 173-94. Penguin Freud Library 14: 437-60; subsequent page numbers are to the Penguin edition.
Freud 1928b: 448.
Freud 1928b: 450.
Freud 1928b: 450.
Freud 1928b: 453.
Freud 1928b: 453.
Freud 1928b: 454.
Freud 1928b: 455.
Marcus Steven [nd], 'Freud and Dora: story, history, case history,' Partisan Review, 41, 1: 12-23; 89-108; this quotation: 92.
Freud 1928b: 456.
Garry Gillard | New: 16 January, 2018 | Now: 20 December, 2018