Today I sat myself down and forced out the last fifty pages of F. Dostoyevsky's 'Notes from Underground. I started the book before the end of last year, and I thought I'd have it done in about a week. That didn't happen, and my slowness made me feel pretty anxious. The whole book made me feel anxious.
Yesterday I went through with my plans to merge the beautiful pear I bought with snow fungus, lotus seeds, sugar and jujubes to make a soup. The process of cooking was therapeutic; the ingredients were all beautiful, both in sight and texture. The fungus was surprisingly soft, yet in the final soup it was still firm and almost crisp. Shearing the pear of its golden skin felt like uncovering a treasure. This pale white flesh underneath sensitive russet. I'm going to cook with pears more.
Dostoyevsky's novel, novella-type thing was his first published work to recieve acclaim. It starts as a dark satire on romantic thought struggling with modernity and rationalism. Our narrator contradicts and insults himself over and over, he tries to command the respect and attention of the reader by directly refering to them - 'Gentlemen, you'll understand when I tell you...' - and he can never make up his mind on whether he's the greatest thinker ever lived, or a horrible cur, scoundrel and rat cursed with the virtue of rational and irrational thought. I can relate to a lot of the knots he ties himself in, but still happy I can laugh at them.
I'll probably make a stir-fry with pear. That's a more reasonably odd thing to cook than a sweet mushroom soup. I can't believe I ever thought it would be sensible to serve a *remedial soup* to guests. The idea that I'd even have guests starts to feel shaky after failing to make something nice. I can't think to much on that, I'm a good cook - pork, pear, spring onion greens in a sour-sweet sauce. Vegetables and rice in abundance.
After our protagonist has decried that the entire project of modernity is a farce, nay, an *insult* to his desires and wishes, he starts retelling historic events from his life. Calling what he decides to share with us 'depressing' would be an understatement. He plots for months to mildly upset a man who, when the narrator antagonised him, intending to get into a fight, merely pushed him aside with little regard. He borrows money from his superior, never intending to return it, in order to get a new coat so he'd look nice when his plan's enacted. When he next sees his quarry, instead of stepping aside so he can pass in the square, he barrels straight through, knocking him on the shoulder. This causes him so much elation that he declares himself a hero among heroes, and all must bow before his honour.
For a while, and still now, I feel like there's little place for me in the world, and what place there was shrinks every year. When making a thickened sauce, the favoured method is reduction. Cook it down, evaporating any water, until you're left with an oily flavour-emulsion. In red-braising you simmer down maybe a liter of water into nothing but a coat for the tender and seasoned meat. You can also add cornstarch, if more volume or thickness is needed.
When his plans have finished, he recalls his old friends from school, both despising them greatly for being beneath him, and wondering how they've been in their years. Rather than invite himself calmly, apologetically back into their lives, he despises them and their existing friendship so much that he can't get overhimself and just enjoy his time with them. Everything said becomes an insult. Everything he says has to be the most eloquent and meaningful phrase ever. He spends most of the night with them pacing between their table and the fireplace, waiting for someone's attention so he can shame them for not addressing his pacing sooner. They leave for (he presumes) a brothel. He begs a former brother for cash, and it's spat on him.
Feeling refused and rejected hurts. In the moment it can feel worse than anything you've ever felt before. Or at least that's how I've felt in the past! I was the only person who ended up eating my weird soup, but that's really quite fine. I invited others to try it, and it not being to their tastes isn't a problem for me. It wasn't to my tastes either. That didn't make it a useless endeavor! Conquering this strange and slimy thing makes a whole bunch of other foods I've struggled to eat more appealing. Beans on toast with an egg could save me. I know someday I'll feel rejected again and feel broken beyond repair. Right now that's not where I'm at.
The rest of the book just hurts me more than anything. He goes to a brothel, confesses his love, waits three days for her to come to his house, then abuses his servant in her presence until he screams so much she leaves. The whole thing feels like Dostoyevsky doesn't want us to relate to sex-workers or the plight of women, or that only those who beat their servants might show pity - but only as a selfish display of their own decency - to the plight of the unfortunate. There's delicacy, still. The man's thrashings and ravings break into poetry, genuine concern, care and love for others, but since he's unable to accept his feelings as genuine, he can't control himself.
I can't say how glad I am to finally stop reading this book. I'm also glad that I won't ever have to make that soup again. I've got better ideas for how to treat myself and my food. I think some people call that 'healing', which goes quicker with medicine. Still doesn't stop it tasting bitter and slimy. Blech.