Is Fyodor Dostoevsky (1821—1881) the greatest author of all time? I think the answer to that may quite possibly be yes.
It puts you in mind of some frail and sickly girl you sometimes note with pity, even a sort of compassionate love-and at others simply fail to notice at all, who suddenly, in an instant, becomes inexplicably, marvelously beautiful, while you, overwhelmed and enraptured, are forced to ask yourself what power has made those sad, pensive eyes glitter with such fire; what power has summoned up the blood to those wan, pinched cheeks; what has infused passion into those gentle features; why is her bosom heaving so; what has suddenly conjured up animation, strength, and beauty in the face of that poor girl, to make it glow with such a smile, and come alive with flashing, sparkling laughter like that?You glance round, filled with surmise, looking for someone …But the moment has passed and next day perhaps you will encounter once again the same abstracted, brooding glance as before, the same wan face, the same meek and diffident movements; possibly accompanied by a feeling of remorse, traces even of a sort of numb, aching vexation at having been momentarily carried away… You regret that this fleeting beauty should have faded so swiftly and irrevocably, that it had flashed so beguilingly, so vainly before you— regret that there had been no time for you to fall in love with it.
White Nights, Fyodor Dostoevsky
In my lifelong struggle for literary excellence, I have liked to consider myself a well-read fellow. At least, that’s the impression I try to give off, especially here on this blog of mine. But more often than not, I am prey to imposter syndrome and, given the measly 300 or so books I’ve read in my fifty-years on this planet, I often feel like a poser. This is by no means a humble brag. I truly feel I should be better read, especially if my goal is to learn from the greats. But this begs the question, who exactly are ‘the greats’? The answer is subjective, shaped by cultural whims and shifting trends, and I have never been one to scoff at another reader’s tastes. I remember growing up when reading comic books was a shameful thing. “Serious” writers could not enjoy anything so inane as Spider-Man. “Serious” writers preferred French and Russian, and sometimes English literature. But now we are living in 2025, and the age of Trump and anti-intellectualism is upon us, and comic books are being taught in universities, while the “classics” are deemed a snooze-fest, something for monocle-wearing seniors in their stuffy tweed jackets to fawn over. And yet, when it comes to Fyodor, this is a gross misrepresentation.
What people don’t realize about Shakespeare is that he wrote for the common folk. He was a populist, the James Cameron/Spielberg of his day. His plays were as full of silly puns, bawdy humor, and sex scenes as the high-brow philosophy he’s come to be known for. His actors were stabbed with fake swords, spilling bags of chicken blood, to titillate the audience. “Dying” on stage was the Michael Bay “explosion” of the 1500s. Shakespeare was so controversial that the Christians of the age burnt his theater to the ground. All that’s changed between then and now is the language and a decline in literacy, which have given schoolchildren the impression that the greatest playwright in history was a bore.
Dostoevsky is the Shakespeare of the novel. His stories deal with love, loneliness, heartbreak, and suicide in the most vivid and gut-wrenching ways. His writing speaks to us from the grave, yet the feelings he expresses are as real and relatable as any lyric from any modern pop star. He speaks to us like a dear friend, confiding in us some deeply held secret, and we are rapt to listen. He isn’t writing for the snobby elites; he’s writing for us, for the lonely teens who wish they could talk to the girl, who suffer from depression, who are tormented by the myriad uncertainties of life. Dostoevsky isn’t outdated—can never be outdated—because his concerns belong to us, the same concerns as anyone who has ever asked, “Why me?” This isn’t just an assumption on my part; this isn’t me trying to correlate my jaded memories of my high school with 150-year-old Russian literature. My 15-year old daughter discovered Dostoevsky through anime, of all things, and without my influencing her (I actually told her it might be too challenging to read), she fell in love with him, buying a second collection of his short stories and putting this old author (me) to shame for not having read him sooner. Dostoevsky’s writing, she told me, was “a delight” to read. His words “danced” off the page. Sadly, her English class has not been assigning her any books to read, which is a worrying trend I am noticing, one that is leading to the downfall of literacy and possibly democracy. And it makes me sad knowing so few readers will ever know Fyodor, that he’ll be passed over by the reading masses seeking the latest romantasy craze.
Why has grim inertia smashed what was most dear to me? What are your laws to me now? I part company with them? Oh, what do I care!
A Gentle Creature, Fyodor Dostoevsky
I say Dostoevsky may be the greatest writer of all time because he was so far ahead of his time. I list my reviews in order of date, from Frankenstein in 1818 to yesterday’s bestseller. I do this because I am intensely interested in the evolution of literature. Reading these books in order, you notice certain techniques developing over the years. Older fiction is more surface-level. There is little introspection or psychological depth to the characters. You often have to infer what Odysseus, Frodo, or Conan may be thinking or feeling. Modern books delve deeper into their protagonists’ minds, investing the reader emotionally, which is why I have taken such a liking to Stephen King. And yet, I had erroneously assumed this trend started somewhere around the 1950s. I was wrong, for in this regard, Dostoevsky’s writing is remarkably modern. He pulls us into the inner world of his characters in ways that most others, writing a hundred years after him, could not. As early as the 1840s, Dostoevsky learned to make us care, and this, to me, is the truest form of storytelling. This is where the magic lies. This is why I say he may be the greatest of all time.
Want to know more? My daughter and I delve into Dostoevsky’s three short stories: White Nights, A Gentle Creature, and Dream of a Ridiculous Man. Please give it a listen and a share!
The Art of Storytelling 
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