Last Friday I finally finished The Brothers Karamazov. (I know I’m still on about this. I promise this is the last post.) Anyway, it was…dense…heavy…long. It is not a book I would really recommend. There are many other classics I would recommend instead. But on Friday night when I was standing in my kitchen updating my Goodreads account, I realized with a thunder bolt like flash that I had to give this monstrous tome four stars.
How is it that you give a book four stars, but not recommend it? And use less than flattering adjectives to describe it?
There are books. And then there is literature. This is literature. And literature at probably its finest. It is extraordinarily well written. It has a remarkable number of moving pieces that come to relevance in the end. It presents profound philosophical views of religion and morality. It employs psychology and examines intent versus public lip service.
It is one of those strange reads that I won’t be re-visiting. I can even quite decide if I liked it or not, but I understand the respect that it gets and deserves. It is something that I’m glad I read, and yet I’m also very glad it’s done.
It is a bizarre quandary. A book I didn’t exactly like, but I admire for what it is. I guess it’s like the Mona Lisa. I don’t particular care for the painting, but I admire and respect it for what it is and what is stands for in the artistic world. Perhaps that’s the best description that I can give that others may understand. This truly is a masterpiece, but not necessarily one I would want to hang on my living room wall.
Does this make any sense?