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One word of assent, one name provided, one signature appended, and it was done: in its si

One word of assent, one name provided, one signature appended, and it was done: in its simplicity was its glory.

But the road to get to that point of "simplicity" passes through a labyrinthine "haberdashery of hierarchy" called as the Conclave, which comprises about 120 Cardinals, who will elect their Pope, in what is the oldest of all elections within the annals of psephology, "surrounded by a rising flood of discord."

I have not watched the movie adaptation of this novel yet, despite having been a strong contender for the Oscars (under various categories) after a good run at the Golden-Globes as well. Despite the sensational climactic portions of the novel, Robert Harris does not come out as a provocateur. It is interesting to note that he did not have any plans to venture into this novel until well after he got to watch the two conclaves of the modern times in 2005 and 2013. That he took this very experience to pen a mysterious-thriller, behind what is supposedly a mystifying and stupefying electoral process steeped in mystery, secrecy, spiritual creed and human greed, is what may be behind the raving reviews behind its movie adaptation in 2024/2025.

Robert Harris had in one interview stated that he was inspired by CP Snow's The Masters to write this novel, after he got piqued by what he saw during the recent 2 conclaves. What is fascinating is that the author is neither a Catholic nor a follower of any organized faith, and yet was able to establish his gravitas on the subject-matter, with a meticulous punctilio encompassing the rubrics, the liturgical prayers, the regalia of the vestments, factionalism within the contemporary Catholic church, its leadership, on the usage of Latin versus vernacular, geopolitical tilt between the developing and developed nations, social upheaval etc.

It was a riveting, engaging, suspense-thriller. There is witty-humor (nerdy, I would add)��,

"To a layman, the euphemisms of terror were as universal and baffling as the Tridentine Mass."

thought-provoking mots��

"Out of the abundance of the heart, his mouth speaks �� regardless of whether that heart's abundance be good or bad, wise or foolish."

philosophical references, as in Immanuel Kant's in this case��.

"Out of the crooked timber of humanity, no straight thing was ever made."

or even an intense, deep, personal and spiritual thought as this:

"No one who follows their conscience ever does wrong, Your Eminence. The consequences may not turn out as we intend, it may prove in time we made a mistake. But that is not the same as being wrong. The only guide to a person's actions can ever be their conscience, for it is in our conscience that we must clearly hear the voice of God."

"அறிவ�� நூல்களில�� நம�� மனதை ஒருமைப்படுத்துவத��, அறிவ�� நூல்களின�� விஷயங்களைக�� கற்பது, வெறும் நம்ம�� அறிவுலகத்தின�� மேதை என்ற�� அடையாளப்படுத்துவதற்க�� அல்ல...இன்னாத உலகத்த�� இனியதா�� ஆக்குவதற்க��....துன்பம�� நிறைந்�� சமூகத்தில் இன்பத்தை உருவாக்குவதற்க��... அந்த நிலைப்பாட்டை உருவாக்குவது தான் (திருவள்ளுவர்) 'கற்க' என்ற�� ஆணையிட்ட வழியில�� கற்றதன�� வழியில�� சிந்தித்து செயல்படுவத��."

Besides the milieu of the two companions corresponding, the third faceless protagonist is loneliness itself. So, how lonely was it? Devushkin says, "sometimes there'd be a fly in my room and you could hear it flying." In an entry elsewhere in her diary, Varavara notes, "one day followed another, and each day resembled the one before."

Enough said!

The reader is forced to fathom the nadir of poverty, the algia of possible loss of dignity, hope, and love, by merely being a helpless spectator to these to and fro letters between Devushkin and Varenka. While the letters themselves hold the cues to the material poverty, which was the Fate of the underclass, the ingenuity of Dostoevsky lies in the unspoken words that are imbued and immanent within those correspondences that make it readily apparent about the moral and spiritual impoverishment.

That final line in the previous para, is probably the largest takeaway for me from this novella.

Because, poverty is writ large, throughout the correspondences. While certainly not jeremiads, they do point towards the abject poverty with its obstinate presence on both sides of the protagonists. Yet, there seems to be a moral and spiritual strength that towers-up and transcends their quotidian Fate, which keeps them going. They are able to discuss Literature, exchange books, discuss Pushkin's, Nikolai Gogol's works, etc. just to name a few. They are able to strengthen each other with words of constant encouragement, friendly admonishment, and endearing solace, regardless of those moments when the ground under their feet is about to give up. At one point, Devushkin even says, reminiscing some bad memories:

"it's hard, but it's as if the memories were pleasant. Even what was bad, what I even got upset about at times, in my memories even that is somehow cleansed of the bad part and comes before my imagination in an attractive form."

No wonder, nostalgia seems to always be attractive. Elsewhere, in an entirely different context, Varavara's diary entry seems to agree with that characterization:

"Memories, whether joyful or bitter, are always a torment �� for me, at least �� but even that torment is a delight."

Yet, towards the very end of the novella, (view spoiler)[ when their pecuniary needs are somewhat improved (comparatively speaking), they are dissipated morally and spiritually, for which there is no unguent, no relief, no saving grace as this spiritual poverty engulfs them over completely, helplessly, invincibly and inexorably. (hide spoiler)]

Is this probably the poverty that Dostoevsky was attempting to posit to in Poor Folk? I mean, was he pointing to the ethereal, while commenting on the terrestrial?

I believe so.

Out of the few scenes, the ones that remain etched in my consciousness are the ones involving (view spoiler)[ His Excellency handing out Devushkin a ��100 note and the sheer ecstatic joy he experiences in its aftermath, as well as the incessant storge and outpouring of a father's grief when the Old Pokrovsky runs behind the coffin as the books stuffed inside, fall out of his pockets as though they were the floral tributes to his slain young son. (hide spoiler)] Pretty powerful scenes!

Reading this early work, when Dostoevsky was 23 years old, one can relate to all the plaudits that came in his direction as Nikolai Nekrosov finished reading the manuscript overnight exclaiming, "We have a new Gogol!" which was only affirmed by Vissarion Belinsky's "The novel reveals such profundities of characters and of life in Russia as no one had ever dreamt of before."

Putting down this novel, after 180 years of its writing, I observe a world very much devoid of letters, in its communications between each other. A world seized strongly by brain rot with its own set of careless memes, sub par emojis, and shibboleth sounding abbreviations and acronyms masquerading as the lingua franca for communicating soulfully!

Which only wants me to pick-up a bull-horn and holler Devushkin's words from one of his letters:

"Of course letters are a good thing; everything's less dull."