On November 11 (new style) 1821. in Moscow, in the numerous noble Lithuanian family, the outstanding master of the word was born Fyodor Mikhailovich Dostoevsky. His life is full of personal tragedy and rapture, love and poverty, gambling passion and affection. He was in front of the scaffold, experiencing his last moments in the full palette of horror and inhuman calm, until he realized that his death had been postponed. He lived in a penal colony in Siberia. He saw the death of his first child. Everything that Dostoevsky experienced turned into an explosion of feelings and thoughts, which he poured into his work, accompanied by epileptic seizures and lung diseases. At the age of 59, the writer died, but for more than 140 years his books have been read and rediscovered because they are books about the deep experiences of the soul.
Fyodor Mikhailovich Dostoevsky is the author of some of the best novels not only in Russian, but also in world literature – “Poor People”, “Notes from the House of the Dead”, “The Humiliated and the Insulted”, “Crime and Punishment“, “Idiot” , “The Brothers Karamazov” and others.
Dostoevsky’s works are able to completely obsess the reader and make him live in the author’s world, cry, rejoice, reflect and suffer in it. His word is enchanting. Many groups of writers and readers have been created around the world, studying and interpreting the work of the Russian writer.
Dostoevsky began writing in the mid-1840s, but his most famous works were written in the last years of his life. The author has been declared one of the most significant psychologists in the history of world literature.
He wrote a total of 11 novels, 3 novellas, 17 short stories and 3 essays.
He says about himself: “What terrible pains this thirst to believe has cost me and costs me now, which strengthens in my soul the more the more I find in myself contrary arguments. Yet sometimes God brings me moments in which I am perfectly at ease; in these moments I love and I see that I am loved too – it is precisely in such moments that I have built such a symbol of faith for myself, in which everything is clear and holy for me. The symbol is very simple and is this: to believe that there is nothing more beautiful, deeper, more sympathetic, more reasonable, more manly and more perfect than Christ. And not only isn’t there, I tell myself with jealous love, but there can’t be. Moreover, if someone were to prove to me that Christ was outside the truth, and the truth really turned out to be outside Christ, I would still rather remain with Christ than with the truth.“
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