Familiar Paradoxes.

What is it about the Russian novel? This permanent existential combat that plumbs every pit of the soul’s darkness and almost never reassures one of anything other than, yes indeed, we’ve got it all wrong: Life is bleak, though there are some tiny specks of glittering joy? Why do I find it intriguing, or even reassuring?

Fear of a White Girl.

we see the shadow figure of the young white girl’s honor and virginity; the great thing we fear about having devoted our white culture to it with violent defense—that maybe she doesn’t have it; maybe she was just playing us all along.