French Lit > Russian Lit

 

There, I said it.

 

In my humble, genuine, gentle, and amateur-in-the-original-sense-of-the-word way (as in “a lover of the thing for the sake of the thing itself,” in this case, “literature”), I do believe the French lit I’ve read is better than the Russian lit I’ve read.

 

Let me preface to say this is a low-volume sample. In one corner, we have

 

Les Misérables, by Victor Hugo

The Count of Monte Cristo, by Alexandre Dumas

The Hunchback of Notre Dame, also by Victor Hugo

 

representing the French contribution to Hopper’s literary experience.

 

In the opposite corner, representing that Great Bear of Literature, Mother Russia, we have

 

War and Peace, by Leo Tolstoy

Crime and Punishment, by Fyodor Dostoevsky

The Brothers Karamazov, also by Fyodor Dostoevsky

 

though in all honesty I only conquered a third of the Karamazov book (of which I will finish one day).

 

So my experience with the French was “better” than with the Russian.

 

French Literature > Russian Literature

 

Hopper, define “better”. Okay. For me, I enjoyed more the reading of the one set of novels opposed to the other. All are deeply philosophical works, of a kind that probably hasn’t been written in English in at least a half a century, if not longer. All feature large casts of characters, and all of those characters spring to life. All kept me guessing, at one point or another or several. All in all, all were worthy reads, and I am grateful for reading them all and probably, in some small way, am a better man for doing so.

 

But, French > Russian.

 

Perhaps it has something to do with translation. I recall reading two books by the Frenchman Jules Verne twenty-plus years ago: From the Earth to the Moon and Journey to the Center of the Earth. The first was whimsical, LOL-ish, and very joyous to read. The second was the exact opposite: it was only through grim gritty and teeth-grinding determination I finished it.

 

In the case of the six abovementioned classics, however, I discerned no translator creep – er, translation creep. Not creep as in “creepy,” but creep as in a translator inserting his own editorializing instead of staying faithful to the original source material. Probably has something to do with each work’s translation completed in 1992 or earlier, as I do not trust much literature after 2000 or anything after 2015.

 

To ascertain why, I came up with a couple of images.

 

First, I felt the French works more a “right brain” piece of writing and the Russian a “left brain” exercise. That is, the French seemed more artistic, visual, holistic, free-form, to use some hippyisms. The Russian works I found more analytical, more “by the numbers,” logical. This is just a feeling, just a sense of mine.

 

Second, this led me to think that perhaps one can view the French as books written from start to finish, whereas the Russian seemed written end to beginning. What do I mean? Well, the French works seemed to meander along to their conclusions, winding this way and that, seeming to derail but never doing so, inexorably plunging towards their natural climaxes, almost as if discovering their endings. I had the sense that the Russian novels knew exactly what the final page would read, and everything was meticulously outlined and constructed to form logical patterns to fit in to what the authors wanted to say of history or society or the human soul. (This latter way is the way I wrote my two “novels,” or rather, “manuscripts.”)

 

This is not to disparage Dostoevsky or Tolstoy. All three novels were incredible journeys, me some third wheel breaking the fourth wall vicariously and voyeuristically and participating in transcendent and or historic events. I enjoyed them all.

 

But I enjoyed the French style better. Which leads to my third simple point: You bring yourself at your stage of your life to the book you are reading. I think at my age and station in life what I am craving is a little adventure, a little bit of participation in the great threads of history, in that French meandering, winding way. Perhaps I spent too long in too logical a frame of mind, and the right hemisphere is demanding a say in steering the bus (to confuse a couple of brain/personality images).

 

Whatever the true case may be, and to convince you I am really nitpicking here, were I given godlike powers and had to judge these French and Russian writers standing before me novels-in-hand, I’d grade Hugo and Dumas easy 98’s.

 

And I’d give Tolstoy and Dostoevsky solid 95’s.