Chapter 3 author's words

When I began to narrate the life of my hero, Alexei Fyodorovich Karamazov, I was a little bewildered.That is to say, although I call Alexey Fedorovich my hero, I know that he is not a big man at all, so I expect readers to ask questions: Your Aleksey What is it about Sergey Fedorovich that you have chosen as your hero?What's so great about him?Who is he famous for, and for what?Why should I, as a reader, take the time to research his life story? The last question is the most important, and I can only answer it in this way: "Perhaps you will find the answer yourself in the novel." What is so special about Fedorovich, and what to do about it?I say this because I sadly foresaw this in advance.To me, he's a standout, but I'm very worried about being able to prove it to my readers.The reason: he may be an activist, but he is still an unformed, unarticulated activist.But then again, in times like ours, it may not make sense to demand a clear face.But there is perhaps no doubt about one thing: he was a strange man, a monster even.Yet strangeness and eccentricity, though striking, can be harmful, especially when we all try to fit the individual into the whole, to find even some common ground out of the general chaos.For the most part, monsters tend to be an individual and idiosyncratic phenomenon.Is it this way?

If you disagree with this last statement and reply "not so" or "not always", then perhaps I muster up the courage to affirm the significance of my hero Alexei Fyodorovich.For the monster is not only "not always" an individual and particular phenomenon, on the contrary, the monster sometimes embodies the core part of the whole, and the rest of his contemporaries temporarily leave him one by one for unknown reasons, as if caught by a gust of wind. as if swept away... I would not have had to make such an extremely tedious and vague explanation, I could have cut to the chase and got right to the point.Anyway, if you like it, you will always read it.Unfortunately, I have only one biography and two novels.The second novel is the focus, mainly writing about my protagonist's activities in the present time.The plot of the first novel, which took place thirteen years ago, hardly became a novel, but merely a moment in my protagonist's teenage years.I couldn't get around the first novel, otherwise much of the second novel would be incomprehensible.But in this way, I am even more embarrassed: if even I, the biographer, think that it is superfluous to write a novel for such a trivial and unpredictable protagonist, why should I dedicate two novels?And how do I explain this smug attitude?

I don't know how to solve these problems, so I just avoid them without any explanation.Needless to say, the discerning reader would have guessed that I had this intention from the start, and blamed me for wasting ink and precious time.To this I can give a clear answer: I wasted ink and precious time, firstly out of politeness, and secondly because I wanted to be a little cunning, because I can excuse myself by saying: Anyway, I already have something to say.However, I'm even happy that my novel splits into two stories naturally while maintaining the "whole coherence".After reading the first story, the reader can decide for himself whether the second story is worth reading.Of course, no one is obliged to read it. Even if you only turn a page or two of the first story, you can put it aside and never open it again.However, you must know that there are also some polite readers who must read it from beginning to end in order to make an impartial evaluation. For example, Russian critics are such modest gentlemen.It is in the presence of these people that I am always at ease: for all their conscientiousness and meticulousness, I give them a legitimate reason not to read any more after the first paragraph of a novel.Well, that's it for the prologue.I fully agree that it is superfluous, but since it is written, let it remain at the beginning of the book.

Now back to business. To Anna Grigorievna Dostoevskaya. I tell you the truth, if a grain of wheat does not fall into the ground and die, it is still a single grain; but if it falls into the ground and dies, it will bear many grains. ("Bible·New Testament·Gospel of John", Chapter 12, Verse 24)