Poor Folk and Other Stories (Penguin Classics)

I am in process of reading this book; find it fascinating; & will pursue additional research into how, why, & to whom Dostoyevsky was writing this book in the style of letters.It arrived in mint condition also. Thanks to Amazon!

I enjoyed this about as much as this writer's other books. He is very good at painting characters and was not unlike Dickens in that way. "Poor Folk" is the one that first put him on the map as a writer to expect great things from. I found "Poor Folk" a strange and sad work as far as love stories goes but it held my interest and left me moved nonetheless. Perhaps its presentation (a series of letters exchanged between a younger woman and older man) was novel in its day and thus contributed to the book's success but it's nothing new in our times. The other stories, mostly character studies rather than plot-driven, were equally odd. The protagonists are impassioned and eccentric characters who are struggling with under-employment and poverty. Everyone is either borrowing money from others, getting stiffed by others, frequently infirm, or just trying to keep a roof over his head and a decent winter coat. Most of the characters are hustling to survive and the "system" is often to blame so I guess it's not that different from today. I enjoy this author's books but I struggle a bit with the Russian names which tend to sound similar. Don't let that discourage you from reading this book, it is always clear who is being to referred to even if the townspeople call a character by his formal name or something else. This is the only quirk that bugged me but it's apparently cultural so I rolled with it. This book shows the first signs of what would become a famous writer of classics. Whatever IT is, Fyodor had it even as a younger man destined to write classics.

I had to give it five stars because I loved reading this book and that is despite my opinion that this is the WORST TRANSLATION of any book written by Dostoevsky which I have ever read! But how on earth could I give it less than five stars, when I loved it! It is the selection of material in the book which makes it extraordinary. I am sure that Constance Garnett's translations are far superior than those of David McDuff. But I would have to purchase three different books to get "Poor Folk", "The Landlady" and "Mr. Polcarchin". I loved "Poor Folk" and I loved "Tha Landlady". These are both listed as "novels" in Dostoevsky's bibliography in Wikipedia. Neither one of these should be missed by a Dostoevsky fan, or a fan of short novels and I include myself in both of those categories. Of course, if financial considerations are a moot point, and if you can find both works translated by Constance Garnett or David Magarack, or any other good translator, then go buy them. But here they are together in this small volume and nowhere else, along with an excellent story in "Mr. Polcarchin". The last story in the book was lousy so I'm ignoring it. I could, and might, re-read the two short novels in this book. The translation is not as bad as say, reading Hemingway.

Dostoyevsky painted a bleak picture of life in St Petersburg in the 19th century. Poverty and illness plagued the society. Society wasn't kind and judged a person in rags harshly (Somethings never change, observing the world in the 21st century). Amongst the poor there are angels like Makar and Varvara, Despite abject poverty, they were willing to give up the little they had remaining to someone who were in greater dire need than them. Makar gave to his starving neighbors while Varvara gave all her money to her boyfriend's doting but penurious father so that he could buy a birthday present for his son. Such gems make the novel very heartwarming. The scene of the poor wailing father running after his son lying in the coffin while it was being carted away is truly unforgettable. Dostoyevsky make frequent references to God reflecting a more God fearing society in the 19th century.

Could the ending of this story have been any sadder?But, really, could it have ended in any other way?*sigh*First things first though… This is the first book I've read primarily using the Kindle app for my Windows Phone (Lumia Icon), and it was not a fun experience. It lost my place no less than twice and trying to sync bookmarks between this and the Windows 8 app or in-browser reader was nearly futile. Most frustrating, however, was the complete absence of the highlight function. This was poorly implemented on the reader for Surface, but at least it was there… Come on, Amazon…Secondly, I was unable to find a reasonably priced hardcover copy of the Everyman’s Library translation of this, which is why I ended up downloading the freely available digital edition. I adore the fact that people are out there working to put these public domain works into the hands of anyone who wants them, but I sorely missed the ever-present footnotes in the Everyman’s editions and was equally disappointed by the lack of translator’s introduction. There were a fair number of typos throughout the text as well (primarily missing spaces) but nothing too egregious… I’m really happy to have found a cheap (free!) and readily available copy of this, but I am hard pressed to say that the method with which I consumed it did not have an effect on my impression of the story itself.That said…What an amazing foray into the literary world for a young Dostoevsky! I have not (yet) read the works that first inspired him to write, so although I lack context, the choice to write ones first novel as an epistolary seems very bold indeed. Outside of The Screwtape Letters, Dracula, and a passing familiarity with Abelard and Heloise I believe this is the only other book I’ve read that showcases the style. It took a moment to adjust, but I quickly lost myself in the fantasy the two erstwhile lovers were creating between their pages and across the courtyard. As impressed as I am by his choice of style it is, of course, his ability to utilize the style rather than simply rely upon it that amazes me most of all. It does not come across as a gimmick as he certainly creates the impression of two truly unique and separate voices sharing a specific time and place with each other. It showcases not only his command of language but also his deep understanding of what it means to desire, to feel lost, and to search for a happiness that is forever just out of reach. As unhappy as I am with the conclusion and with Varvara’s (my translation: “Barbara”) ultimate decision (betrayal?), Dostoevsky managed to create an empathy for both characters by extending his understanding to both genders with an equality and perception that should have been well beyond the reach of a struggling young man in his early twenties. An understanding for which I am certainly still searching today!As for the story itself, I feel like there are fifteen different ways for me to go when trying to figure out what it meant. Or, rather, what it meant to me. (Why do people share art (i.e. books) with each other if not to feel closer to the person with whom it is shared? Why do you fall out of love with that thing once the person is gone? Why do you retreat to it once you've *accepted* that person is gone? Why do you give something to someone other than to feel like part of a life in which you are otherwise not needed? Why do you find solace in the idea that someone holds something you gifted them unless it is just as a substitution for that person not holding YOU instead?) But when I really stop trying to be smart and clever (activities for which I lack the proper equipment anyway) it turns out that what I really felt is that I was reading what should have been a private journal. It was a journal not filled with letters between two people but rather that of an old man fearful of fate and time and a slave to the belief that his heart was worthless. A man who believed he knew his destiny but instead of fighting it took every step he could toward it while bemoaning his own dark fortune. A man I detest because it is a man I fear becoming. Looking back I feel like Dostoevsky really put himself in Makar’s place… feeling a love that he believed he could (should?) never have, trying to exist as close to the flame as possible while neither quenching nor being burned by it, and (this is the brilliant part) writing back to himself the responses he believed he would have received. The brilliance (and pity) is not that Varvara responds in love but that she responds in kind – she responds with bleak reality, not with fantasy. It felt as though he was hiding, killing, and burying everything he wished for in an attempt to see (create?) reality as he was capable of understanding it, and so these imagined responses were equally distraught, equally enslaved, and equally non-committal. And, in the end, equally pointless.His personal frustration and acceptance of his unrequired and unrequited love is made painfully evident in nothing more basic than the math of dated letters. Why date them if it was irrelevant? The correspondence (real or imagined) lasts nearly 6 months during which time Makar sends 30 letters to Varvara’s 23. More telling, I think, is the time spent wasting away between each… Whereas Makar writes twice in a row 8 times Varvara does this only once. Whereas the average time between responses for Makar is just over two days the average response time for Varvara is nearly four and a half. (If I did my math correctly… counting V’s one undated letter as half the time between other responses, and leaving out M’s very last undated letter as it is negligible.) Despite that, I never felt like this was just a story of a spurned lover. I felt as though Dostoevsky structured this tail with two prongs: one specifically as a lesson in how to avoid a love that doesn’t matter or can’t be real, and the other as a warning to not succumb to fear or your own perceived inadequacies if there is something you truly feel. I’m not lying to myself… I've been on both sides of this equation... this modern day analogue of letters, mix tapes, Facebook messages, and Snap Chats; perhaps at some point you just have to do the math… or perhaps you need to put yourself on the other side and see just how your presentation of self is being perceived. Fix it by being truly honest and truly you or move on.One problem with approaching this story primarily from Makar’s point of view is the evenhanded presentation of both sides of the affair which made it so difficult to become particularly emotionally involved with or supportive of one player over the other. Although the numbers clearly say *something* about Makar’s full entanglement with Varvara, the strange way in which he approached their relationship also made it, while easy to empathize, very difficult to sympathize with him. I completely understand her confusion when Makar can go from saying, “It is purely a parental feeling that I have for you” to affirming that he is “perfectly right in… the fact that I love you, and to the fact that it is unwise of me to love you” to finally bemoaning the fact that he had treated her “merely as a forward child” and that he would throw himself “under the wheels of a passing vehicle rather than that [she] should go.” Yet he STILL never says unequivocally, “I love you” but instead opines that, “it must be that – that you LOVE me!” It confused me too, and quite obviously Makar was confused as well. In his heart he knew what he wanted, but in his head he knew (that is, “believed he knew”) what he couldn’t have. This, however, makes one of his final statements even more incomprehensible when he finally make a play for his own heart and notes to Varvara that he is “persuaded that it is your head rather than you heart that is speaking. I am certain that your heart thinks very differently.” How heartbreaking that he does not… would not… could not… take his own advice!Now I've gone and ruined the whole thing by jumping right to the end when the entire in between was a complete comedy of errors. It was such a painfully familiar journey upon which Dostoevsky led (then again, doesn't he always do that??). I saw my own immature plans comes to life when Varvara, during her brief infatuation with Pokrovski, yearns to “learn whatsoever HE knew,” and so, “made a rush towards the bookcase nearest [her], and, without stopping further to consider matters, seized hold of the first dusty tome upon which [her] hands chanced to alight.” I’ve tried to be less haphazard about it, but the notion is the same, if reversed, that I mentioned above. Everyone is just a sum of their experiences, so it stands to reason that we would want to share those experiences (past, present, and future) with someone with whom we want to share life. To grow closer, yes, but also to grow more alike. I ostensibly am writing all this stuff for my own edification… but, really, if I think about it, am I not doing the exact same thing even now? Trying to share something of me with whomever will take it? While Varvara and Makar do this for the majority of the story with each other, it is only with Pokrovski that either of them realize and verbalize what these actions really mean. Once again, it is right in front of their faces, but no one seems to know… and certainly no one acts upon what is so obvious to anyone looking in from the outside. Makar even plays the part of the martyr, listening to the woman he loves worrying over another man… (Two men!) Playing a part that’s killing him that, maybe, he never would have had to play if only he’d not convinced himself that was his lot in life.It feels like I’m bouncing from corner to corner here saying nothing at all, and, in a way, that’s how I felt throughout the course of this story. I may have missed a major theme, but, as always, I read what I want to read more than what the author intends for me to read. The “poorness” of the “folk” was never a major theme for me. Makar losing his button and watching it roll across the floor reminded me less of his financial insecurity than it did of Mr. Goliadkin Sr.’s social ineptitude. The poverty was just a setting; it was the poorness of soul and of heart that really resonated with me. Resonated with and depressed me and made me wonder why it is that I find putting myself into the depths of other’s depravity so comforting. I think that I choose not to read about the fantastically impossible. I choose to read about what I know has every pathetic chance in the world of coming to pass. I read about them and let myself escape into that fiction, so that I can exclaim, “At least it’s not me!” Exclaim, and then learn. Learn, and then do. Do everything I can to never have to look back with newly opened eyes and lamentations softly whispering, “Now that is what I've become.”If your final letter goes unanswered, write your own response.

This man really has a way with words. His story telling is close to everyday life. I love the way he tells us about Russia in his time and of his experience growing up. He is one of the great author’s to come from Russia. I have read all his books and am now re reading them. I feel when I read his stories I am living right along side the character’s. I would absolutely recommend this read and all he has to offer in his writing.

I liked all. A favourite author. I never had the occasion to get tot know his early works. Late translations.

Ein echt tolles Buch

here in this book the printed sentences look they are meant for the readers of some kind of mini world....too smaal print..

Dostoevsky is the best Russian philosopher