Novel By Fyodor Dostoyevsky Novels & Stories

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!"

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.

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.

My mouth opened countless times, closing and opening, no, I couldn't accept that, so I was going to leave it explicitly. Oh yes, of course Christmas, I sold myself to Santa Claus, which was more than a doll I got, when I sold myself, Even though right now, all I wanted was a taste other than the bruises on my body that Nikolai was real. In addition to a good snow day on a cosy morning, with the strategy of having a good Christmas, sleeping all day. And what more than that necklace to prove it? A man who seemed to have a lot of money, like a king, but who was Nikolai Dostoyevsky, or Nikolai D. ?

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.

The snow still fell outside the stone walls of the estate. It blanketed the estate in white silence, turning its violence white and its shadows soft. But inside the Dostoevsky household, nothing was quiet. The attempt on Andrei’s life had ignited a fire in the house—one that would burn slow, subtle, and deep.

Just meals arriving at regular intervals, books appearing mysteriously on the table they had brought in for me and Nikolai walking in and out whenever he pleased like this was all perfectly normal. Psychopath. I turned a page in the novel resting on my lap, trying to focus on the words despite the restless energy crawling beneath my skin. Escape was all I thought about lately. But escaping from a heavily guarded Russian mafia mansion turned out to be significantly harder than I imagined. Who would have guessed? I sighed and stretched slightly on the sofa, adjusting another oversized black shirt I had stolen from Nikolai’s wardrobe days ago. Not stolen…Borrowed indefinitely. The door suddenly

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.

Chapter 25 Julianna’s Pov:- Who is he? I stared at him with curious eyes while they both were climbing the stairs; this Lorenzo guy is creepy. He gives a serious dominant vibe and looks like a dangerous man. The kind of man people stay away from or don’t mess with. Who is he though? Are Nikolai friends with these kinds of scary people? Of course, he is a Russian mafia don, what do you expect? My subconscious replied. Yeah… “Julia?” Penelope's voice reached my ears,

The only connection that I had with life and my existence on earth was pain. I felt numb without the pain, felt nothingness, at least the pain made me feel like something, it made me feel a little, like other humans. Without the pain, I was totally detached from reality, totally removed from the realm where normal people lived. He took a copy of the book he had been reading and turned the back page to write something. It was a copy of Anna Karenina by Leo Tolstoy. A modernist novel that we were currently reading. His copy wasn’t brand new, it had dog pages, had been read over and over again. With some lines underlined.