The Grand Inquisitor

With the growing agitating report from people who said to have been much offended by my website, so I've decided today, just for today, to be nice and write only about wholesome literature.

Yeah, right, wholesome literature so that people will change their opinion that all I read is soft porn mags and twisted novels. But, since I cannot write about this topic without getting bored with my thoughts going off somewhere where there's lots of food in it and beaches and beautiful girls in bikinis, you know the usual places, that it's impossible not to lose focus, I've also decided if I can't help it to add some sex scenes in this article so as to keep this poor slinger on track. And, what the fuck! I need this day to be a wholesome day that may perhaps appease my lost dear readers.

Now, the best way to start is of course by recalling some wholesome interview I had with a Benedictine priest in the University I once attended.


“Tell me something about a good book that you read,” said priest asked me. Some title of books crossed my head. By impulse, I singled out “The Brothers Karamazov” of Dostoevsky.

I was sitting on a comfortable chair in the priest's air-conditioned room. He was looking over my portfolio. He asked, I answered. In my sweating hands was a Sinclair Lewis book that I just started reading. It was the Arrowsmith, a thin novel not like The Brothers Karamazov that had keep me company during bleak hours in the seminary. He saw the book and that's what transpired the topic he asked me about. But, instead of the book he just saw, I told him about the one he did not see but had left an indelible mark in me.

Then, I started to speak like I's a savvy literati talking with my equal. Nope. Umm, well, fuck you then.

When you read a book by Dostoevsky, some say, you will never be alone in your life. So it's true to me. Literary experts said that Dostoevsky was one of those not so boring psychologists. This he denied. Others said that he was a realist. And that he agreed.

The Brothers Karamazov is that book written by a realist author trying to portray a realist's human soul. It tells the story of, well, the Karamazov brothers and their father who each one of them live an isolated life independent from the other. Caught in a web of moral philosophy, God and the awesome Devil battle for the possession of their souls that rages from the first to the last page of the book. The father was murdered and the sons are all involved in the crime. Dmitri’s rivalry against his father because of a hot woman makes him an ideal suspect. Evidence and some witnesses implicate him. But, the crime is actually orchestrated by the clever Smerdyakov who got the inspiration to kill his father from his conversations and philosophizing with Ivan. Like Raskolnikov in the Crime and Punishment, Smerdyakov executes the murder in coldblood and with accuracy plants traceable evidence that would all lead to Dmitri. The final verdict finds Dmitri guilty while Smerdyakov commits suicide.

But forget about the murder scheme you fucking idiot. This is not your usual detective story for crissakes. Too fucking good for that. The book is a discussion of universal issues that pertains to us men since we discovered that our penis will somehow make us famous someday.

And now, I have yet to mention the awesomest character ever invented in literature by a writer: the Grand Inquisitor. We find in the book a whole chapter that gives us the discourse of the Grand Inquisitor and Jesus.

"Continue here""


nikol's picture

well

it's really better to read the book than to tell the story of it. as much as you want to shout how outstanding it is, you're heart is super excited that it eats the words appropriate to what you feels.. but sometimes, there's just no words that could fit what you feels.