Gambling is an unfortunate vice, a vice in which I unfortunately partake. Dostoevsky's「The Gambler」is, by no means, his greatest work. But it is also by no means shabby, especially given the circumstances under which it was written^[1].

Although I might not broadly recommend the story (insofar as there is better Dostoevsky to be read), it certainly manages to capture the air of what makes gambling so grossly engrossing. In my opinion, the book very honestly portrays the numb detachment from actual money that permeates the deepest depths of degeneracy, where the joy (if you can call it joy) is in the very act of staking and raking in chips. You're in it for the love of the game. To some extent, even in loss, there's a sense of satisfaction stemming from sheer scale. And the faithful embodiment of the physical response to pathological gambling in Grandmother and Alexei adds a visceral quality to an already grotesque story.

And maybe I don't give Dostoevsky credit where it's due. I did think there was excellent parallelism between Grandmother and Alexey's arcs (meteoric success, subsequent downfall) wherein Alexey's ultimate fate is revealed, not just by Astley, but by the third act of Grandmother's visit to Roulettenburg (precipitous ruin).

Of course, there is much to say about the gambling in「The Gambler」, but the thematic scope of the piece is far wider than just that. However, in this regard, it's impossible not to read the book in the shadow of Dostoevsky's more cogent works.

That said, after finishing the novel, I've been sitting on it with a sense that there is definitely more to be drawn out of its pages, that my reading has been marginal at best. So perhaps take my critique with a grain of salt.

This more or less concludes my thoughts on「The Gambler」for now, but it did also spark, within me, a newfound awareness of, as sad as it is to say, the difficulty of literacy. In the past couple weeks, this has been on my mind, in part contextualized by my reading「Beowulf」and by my listening, relistening, and further relistening of Bob Dylan's「Blood on the Tracks」. All three of these works are, in a vaguely discernible sense, extraordinary art, intricately woven with dense messaging. And although I think there is genuine good to be found in the straightforward consumption of such things for nothing beyond enjoyment, it is hard to ignore a strong sense that there is something that, in spite of my awareness of it, lies inaccessible to me.

Either way, tl;dr:「The Gambler」is solid, in particular exceptional as a portrait of the gambling itself. -​- ★★★★

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• Dostoevsky
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