Why do so many authors feel compelled to write in the midst of sorrow, suffering, and pain? You show me a world-class novel, and I'll show you a human, broken with anguish, ravaged by the inexorable forces of discomfort. Pain yanks the beating heart straight out of the breast and plops it unceremoniously onto the page. Is it the "raw, gritty, sensuality" that captivates us, as the obsequious critics would describe, or is it the relevance to our own trials that keep us turning the pages? For me, I feel like I'm buying a support group everytime I pick up a Russian novel. If anyone reading this is showing signs of depression, skip the Prozac -- read Crime and Punishment.
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