Having just finished my second complete reading of The Karamazov Brothers, which I first read about a quarter of a century ago, I must confess I feel a bit let down, a bit exposed, and maybe even abandoned: Dostoevsky has left so much, perhaps too much, for me to ponder and resolve by myself. I do appreciate his trust, I do appreciate his faith in my prowess, and yet, at least for the moment, I must admit this is not enough to dispel my discomfort, my anxiety, my foreboding. At least for the moment, this cold and damp evening in godforsaken England, I still crave his tender voice, his warm hand. Having just reached the last page, I reckon his trust is not nearly enough.