On The Soul of Dostoevsky and his Works

 Dostoevsky rushes of passion to passion.

Of problem to problem, from depth to depth.

Tempered, pain and pleasure.

People in distorted, unnatural forms.

Corruption, and abyss Genius, madness and idiocy;

Thoughts clear and pure as the sun And distorted until the morbid absurdity.

This is his journey.

A large racial soul in birth or death convulsions Is like a person in a hospital bed, I suspect.

Crisis in the air.

Dostoyevsky is a few daring steps ahead of his time.

It follows him dizzy, anxious, incredulous, but follows.

He let loose, we must follow.

Here we find everything: naturalism, expressionism.

Idealism, skepticism, and what we have made.

But he can not really talk about these things,

Dostoevsky only knows the names of them.

He writes what he sees.

Burning like hell into the brain and the soul.

He writes because this is one of the few things you can write about That means anything in the 19th Century.

The Politics there were changing He writes for his love of Russia,

And his hatred burns against the stranger.

Against the West, the soul...

He must simply accept this.

He comes from nowhere and belongs nowhere.

And remains, always Russian.

His novels are terrific ballads.

What is written in the pages is ridiculous.

Petty, insignificant, sometimes meaningless.

Between the lines, everything can be found.

One has to guess with him and feel.

Flakes, stuff, and plaster, form and symbol.

Including a nation's soul, which jostles forward.

Joseph Goebbels "Michael"