This book has the same theme as most of Dostoyevsky’s work – why the fuck does anyone do anything? This story focuses on an epileptic prince with the nature of a little child, trusting, forgiving, Christ-like. Upon emerging from the sanatorium he’s grown up in, he immediately falls in with a bunch of arseholes and becomes obsessed with this woman Anastassya Filippovna, an absolute fucking cunt whom everyone loves because she’s braw. He gets caught up in their hysterical melodrama, and in particular Anastassya’s headlong dive towards self-destruction, trying to make peace and promote understanding. Needless to say, he goes mad and has to go back to the sanatorium. But not before pretty much everyone else in the book is both miserable or dead. So standard Russian fare.