Books Written By Fyodor Dostoevsky Novels & Stories

"Well, sometimes I watch T.V. I like, well, love to read. So I do that a lot when I'm alone." "Like what? Romance, crime thrillers?" I shrugged. "Sometimes. I really like the classics. Jane Austen, the Bronte sisters, George Elliot (who was a woman, by the way). I also like the Russians, like Tolstoy and Dostoevsky. 'War and Peace' is amazing." "You've read 'War and Peace'?" "Yeah, twice. It's excellent." I cocked my head. "How about you, what do you like to read?"

He flipped over the front of the book to see the title. It was Dostoyevsky’s The Idiot. “Well, that’s fitting,” B laughed and closed the book. He fell deeper into the recesses of the chair. He brought the glasses up to his face and thought, If this is what an estate man does, then let me be an estate man for just a couple of minutes while the whiskey does its work. B let Dostoyevksy’s words run through his mind like a new mantra — it’s life that matters… the process of discovering… the everlasting and perpetual process… — and slid the glasses onto his face.

Not quite registering the question, she looked at her hand, which now rested on the wooden panel. Derek reached over and took the book from her lap, examining the cover and the blurb on the back. "Fyodor Dostoyevsky, huh?" he asked, proceeding to read the page that Ashlyn had bookmarked. "'But how could you live and have no story to tell?' That was him, right?" Derek asked, and Ashlyn nodded, a ghost of a smile possessing her lips. How had he known that? The quote was not referenced in the pages that he read. It wasn't often that she met someone who knew Dostoyevsky, at least not outside of her World History class.

image he worked so hard to maintain. I closed the closet, still grinning, and wandered into his bedroom. On his nightstand I found more books, all by Fyodor Dostoevsky: Crime and Punishment, Notes from Underground, The Idiot, White Nights. I picked one up and flipped through it. The pages were worn, corners folded and some lines underlined. He wasn't just pretending to like this stuff, he really was a superfan of Russian literature. I didn't believe it when he first told me, but now I believed it without a doubt.

There were not much dust alongside the shelves which meant Anton did care about them. “You told me you are a fan of Dostoevsky and Tolstoy right? I went here the other day and found this.” He pulled out the first edition, hard cover print of Anna Karenina in three volumes, three books completed with the cards and everything. It was wrapped in a protective box to shield it. When Ana saw it, her eyes widened.

It sank even deeper but I tried not to show it. "Why are you telling me? You usually don't." He was quiet, till he breathed. "I don't know," before his footsteps got entirely erased. * * * * My fingers trailed across the spine of the books and I stopped on a white covered book. I pull it out of the shelf and hold it in both hands. "Crime and Punishment," I read aloud before gazing down at the author's name. "Fyodor Dos-tos-to-eeev-evsky?" I squint my eyes. "Fyodor Dostoevsky!"

I left Aaron for the meantime on the part where the fountain pens are to go to the novel section. Since I saw Sophie Lark's Brutal Prince on TikTok's recommendation, people who have read this say that it has a strong female lead. I enjoy books of that genre, therefore I may be interested in reading it. I looked at the shelves. I also picked up a book and read the synopsis on the back when Aaron came to me here. "You like reading books?" he asked. I turned my eyes on him, "Uh, sometimes. If I'm interested in the plot," I answered.

he ends with a huge grin. “Now shall we?” He gestures at the entrance of the mall. (Next morning) “Good morning, Jack! I went to your room and you weren’t there. I figured you’d be here since you’ve been spending time in your study these days,” Jerry states. Quiet I remain for a heartbeat. Then I begin: “I’ve come to love this book: Crime and Punishment by Fyodor Dostoevsky. It’s intriguing.” “You never read. Not once. In school and after. You found it boring. It was okay since it never came to bite you in the ass.” Jerry chuckles, then continues,

As she entered, her eyes landed on a table set with food and, next to it, a stack of books in Russian. Her breath caught. She hadn’t expected that. Dante had ordered books in her language. She approached with caution, letting her fingertips glide over the bound spines. Dostoevsky, Pushkin… and there it was—as if fate were daring her to drown in melancholy once again—Anna Karenina. Her lips curved into a wistful smile. For the fifth time, she surrendered to Anna’s tragedy, feeling with each word the familiar desperation of a woman torn between duty and desire. She read voraciously, as if the pages were the only escape left to her.

Already much more soothing than sad songs and the sound of explosions. Tall shelves lined the walls, crammed with books. Of course this man had a library that looked like it belonged in an interior magazine spread. A low chandelier hung in the middle of the room above a long solid wood table, a few chairs, one couch in the corner with a folded throw. I walked along the first shelf, letting my fingertips brush the spines. Gold lettering, embossed titles, lettering already faded. The first row was full of classics. Dostoyevsky, Tolstoy, Dumas. Of course Zane owned a collection of depressed men who liked to write about sin and consequences. Fitting.