I read, in the spring, Dostoevsky's「The Brothers Karamazov」and cannot recommend a book more. I am by no means well read and certainly don't consider myself a literary critic, but I'm also obviously not the only person to sing its praise. It is not, I believe, an uncommon feeling that reading correctly is some arcane ability without which "serious" books cannot be accessed. Perhaps there is a hint of truth in this, but I can say with confidence that it is impossible to come away from reading this book, your life unenriched.

The world is a cruel, confounding place; our lot, cosmic misery. Real suffering does lie at the heart of the human condition, unable to be candidly shrugged off. And the sincerity with which Dostoevsky understands this shows in the reality embodied by every character. All their existential hope and despair sits in an unresolved knot within each of us, and there is an odd comfort that comes with the book's rare clarity of articulation.

I can say little about the book that it itself won't more profoundly convey. Do give it a read.

Enough of that though, reviewing books is not my forte. But I mention it because in reading it, I found a desire to make this website. I found a desire to live, to be heard, to share in joy and pain. And is a personal blog the best way to do that? Probably not, but it contains, within it, a certain honesty I think. After all, there is an aspect of trueness to self that goes to die on centralized content platforms, a concession I refuse to make (may the small web live). The only readers that the words here may ever reach are bots, but be this an exercise in futility or not, it is a boulder I shall nonetheless roll.

• books
• ethos
• tbh the brothers k is not particularly fundamental to this blog's spirit but i liked the book and also wanted to rant so sue me for the non sequitur