[Icarus]

Gents,

You may be most amused by Dostoevsky's views on Feminism:

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At the parties I gave, Dostoevsky showed himself to be a charming person. He told his stories, and he displayed his wit and humor, as well as his unusual and original way of thinking. As a new person entered the room, however, Dostoevsky became silent for a moment and looked like a snail retreating into its shell, or like a silent and evil-looking pagan idol. And this lasted until the newcomer produced a good impression on him…. If the stranger engaged Dostoevsky in conversation, one generally heard him make some rude remark, or saw a sour look on his face.

Dostoevsky was opposed to the so-called “Women’s Question.” At that time, this movement took the form of eccentric behavior and attire on the part of some women, such as very short haircuts, dark blue spectacles and other fads. Among other things, these ladies did not notice that Dostoevsky disliked them, and they revered him as their teacher.

Several times, I was present at such meetings. A contemporary woman entered the room. She failed to notice the forbidding expression on Dostoevsky’s face. She did not hear his cold tone of voice or his formal question, “What do you want?” This lady, filled with her own motives, began to tell her story, with animated and shining eyes and flushed cheeks.

Dostoevsky listened to her attentively. His expression became very nervous, and I saw that every feature of his face had become very tense, as if he had a volcano burning within. I sensed that he was restraining himself. As soon as this woman finished her discourse on the Women’s Question, she waited for a word of support from Dostoevsky. At this point, the resolute enemy of the Women’s Question put to her his own question. “Have you finished?” “Yes, I have finished,” replied the lady with the short haircut.

”So, listen to me. My speech will be much shorter than yours. I want to tell you this: all that you told me now was very stupid and banal. Do you understand me? It was stupid. It would be better to dispense with you, in this matter, but your family, your children and your kitchen cannot survive without a woman … a woman has only one main purpose in life: to be a wife and a mother … there is no, there was no, and there will not be any other ‘social purpose’ of a woman. This is all stupidity, senseless talk, and gibberish. All that you have told me here is nonsense, do you hear me? It was nonsense, and I am not going to say anything else to you.”

This was the conversation I witnessed, and which I remember. He was equally strict and uncompromising with regard to all other fashionable, liberal, social questions, and he hated these issues because he considered them to be false.

Source: The Dostoevsky Archive. Hat tip to Laura Wood.

[Brodiaga]

He is still ahead of his time with this point of view. Wait until feminism and negative reproduction rates will basically destroy us white people as a race and make us irrelevant. Then people will understand that Dostoevsky was right, but it will be too late.

[Handsome Creepy Eel]

Dostoyevsky was THE MAN. Almost all of his works are masterpieces that have never been surpassed so far. He had tremendous insight into the human character, basic game tenets included.

Nikolay Vasilyevich Gogol was also excellent and had a powerful intellect. I am still reminded of the great passage from "Dead Souls", in which he provides a summary of game, seduction and indirect effects of money as power:

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One particularly good result of this advertisement of his scheme was that he came to rank as neither more nor less than a millionaire. Consequently, much as the inhabitants had liked our hero in the first instance (as seen in Chapter I.), they now liked him more than ever.
...
Nevertheless, not ALL the ladies were governed by interested motives, since it is due to the term "millionaire" rather than to the character of the person who bears it, that the mere sound of the word exercises upon rascals, upon decent folk, and upon folk who are neither the one nor the other, an undeniable influence. A millionaire suffers from the disadvantage of everywhere having to behold meanness, including the sort of meanness which, though not actually based upon calculations of self-interest, yet runs after the wealthy man with smiles, and doffs his hat, and begs for invitations to houses where the millionaire is known to be going to dine. That a similar inclination to meanness seized upon the ladies of N. It goes without saying; with the result that many a drawing-room heard it whispered that, if Chichikov was not exactly a beauty, at least he was sufficiently good-looking to serve for a husband, though he could have borne to have been a little more rotund and stout. To that there would be added scornful references to lean husbands, and hints that they resembled tooth-brushes rather than men--with many other feminine additions.

The next 10 pages from this one onwards are pure gold: http://www.gutenberg.org/catalog/world/r...es=3274305

Driven by his confidence and reputation as a millionaire, Chichikov runs game on the gathered ladies, who swarm around him with hypergamous delight.

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To all and sundry Chichikov responded with a bow, and felt extraordinarily at his ease as he did so. To right and left did he incline his head in the sidelong, yet unconstrained, manner that was his wont and never failed to charm the beholder. As for the ladies, they clustered around him in a shining bevy that was redolent of every species of perfume--of roses, of spring violets, and of mignonette; so much so that instinctively Chichikov raised his nose to snuff the air. Likewise the ladies' dresses displayed an endless profusion of taste and variety; and though the majority of their wearers evinced a tendency to embonpoint, those wearers knew how to call upon art for the concealment of the fact. Confronting them, Chichikov thought to himself: "Which of these beauties is the writer of the letter?" Then again he snuffed the air.

When the ladies had, to a certain extent, returned to their seats, he resumed his attempts to discern (from glances and expressions) which
of them could possibly be the unknown authoress. Yet, though those glances and expressions were too subtle, too insufficiently open, the
difficulty in no way diminished his high spirits. Easily and gracefully did he exchange agreeable bandinage with one lady, and then approach
another one with the short, mincing steps usually affected by young-old dandies who are fluttering around the fair. As he turned, not without
dexterity, to right and left, he kept one leg slightly dragging behind the other, like a short tail or comma. This trick the ladies particularly admired. In short, they not only discovered in him a host of recommendations and attractions, but also began to see in his face a sort of grand, Mars-like, military expression--a thing which, as we know, never fails to please the feminine eye.

Chichikov then meets the hostess's daughter, a beautiful girl of 15 or 16 years of age, and is thunderstruck. All other women instantly fade from his eye.

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So deeply did Chichikov become plunged in conversation with his fair
pursuers--or rather, so deeply did those fair pursuers enmesh him in the
toils of small talk (which they accomplished through the expedient of
asking him endless subtle riddles which brought the sweat to his brow in
his attempts to guess them)--that he forgot the claims of courtesy which
required him first of all to greet his hostess. In fact, he remembered
those claims only on hearing the Governor's wife herself addressing him.
She had been standing before him for several minutes, and now greeted
him with suave expressement and the words, "So HERE you are, Paul
Ivanovitch!"
Upon that Chichikov turned to her, and was on the point of returning a reply at
least no worse than that which would have been returned, under similar
circumstances, by the hero of a fashionable novelette, when he stopped
short, as though thunderstruck.

Before him there was standing not only Madame, but also a young girl
whom she was holding by the hand. The golden hair, the fine-drawn,
delicate contours, the face with its bewitching oval--a face which might
have served as a model for the countenance of the Madonna, since it was
of a type rarely to be met with in Russia, where nearly everything, from
plains to human feet, is, rather, on the gigantic scale; these features,
I say, were those of the identical maiden whom Chichikov had encountered
on the road when he had been fleeing from Nozdrev's. His emotion was
such that he could not formulate a single intelligible syllable; he
could merely murmur the devil only knows what, though certainly
nothing of the kind which would have risen to the lips of the hero of a
fashionable novel.

"I think that you have not met my daughter before?" said Madame. "She is
just fresh from school."

He replied that he HAD had the happiness of meeting Mademoiselle before,
and under rather unexpected circumstances; but on his trying to say
something further his tongue completely failed him. The Governor's wife
added a word or two, and then carried off her daughter to speak to some
of the other guests.

Chichikov stood rooted to the spot, like a man who, after issuing
into the street for a pleasant walk, has suddenly come to a halt on
remembering that something has been left behind him. In a moment, as
he struggles to recall what that something is, the mien of careless
expectancy disappears from his face, and he no longer sees a single
person or a single object in his vicinity. In the same way did Chichikov
suddenly become oblivious to the scene around him.

Having met this beautiful, young, thin girl, he immediately ignores all of the other women. They get angry and storm off while he ponders how to game her.

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Yet all the while the melodious tongues of ladies were plying him with multitudinous hints and questions--hints and questions inspired with a desire to captivate. "Might we poor cumberers of the ground make so bold as to ask you what you are thinking of?" "Pray tell us where lie the happy regions in which
your thoughts are wandering?" "Might we be informed of the name of her
who has plunged you into this sweet abandonment of meditation?"--such were the phrases thrown at him. But to everything he turned a dead ear, and the phrases in question might as well have been stones dropped into a pool. Indeed, his rudeness soon reached the pitch of his walking away altogether, in order that he might go and reconnoitre wither the Governor's wife and daughter had retreated. But the ladies were not going to let him off so easily. Every one of them had made up her mind to use upon him her every weapon, and to exhibit whatsoever might chance
to constitute her best point. Yet the ladies' wiles proved useless, for Chichikov paid not the smallest attention to them, even when the dancing had begun, but kept raising himself on tiptoe to peer over people's heads and ascertain in which direction the bewitching maiden with the golden hair had gone. Also, when seated, he continued to peep between his neighbours' backs and shoulders, until at last he discovered her sitting beside her mother

It becomes apparent that, being unused to such hot women, his game is woefully inadequate for the occasion. He bravely tries something, but his ramble is poor and he soon bores her, failing the seduction attempt.

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Chichikov slipped past the mazurka dancers, and, almost treading on their heels, made his way towards the spot where Madame and her daughter were seated. Yet he approached them with great diffidence and none of his late mincing and prancing. Nay, he even faltered as he walked; his every movement had about it an air of awkwardness.

It is difficult to say whether or not the feeling which had awakened in our hero's breast was the feeling of love; for it is problematical whether or not men who are neither stout nor thin are capable of any such sentiment. Nevertheless, something strange, something which he could not altogether explain, had come upon him. It seemed as though the ball, with its talk and its clatter, had suddenly become a thing remote--that the orchestra had withdrawn behind a hill, and the scene grown misty, like the carelessly painted-in background of a picture. And from that misty void there could be seen glimmering only the delicate outlines of the bewitching maiden. Somehow her exquisite shape reminded him of an ivory toy, in such fair, white, transparent relief did it stand out against the dull blur of the surrounding throng.

Herein we see a phenomenon not infrequently observed--the phenomenon of
the Chichikovs of this world becoming temporarily poets. At all events, for a moment or two our Chichikov felt that he was a young man again, if not exactly a military officer. On perceiving an empty chair beside the mother and daughter, he hastened to occupy it, and though conversation at first hung fire, things gradually improved, and he acquired more confidence.

At this point I must reluctantly deviate to say that men of weight and high office are always a trifle ponderous when conversing with ladies. Young lieutenants--or, at all events, officers not above the rank of captain--are far more successful at the game. How they contrive to be so God only knows. Let them but make the most inane of remarks, and at once the maiden by their side will be rocking with laughter; whereas, should a State Councillor enter into conversation with a damsel, and remark that the Russian Empire is one of vast extent, or utter a compliment
which he has elaborated not without a certain measure of intelligence (however strongly the said compliment may smack of a book), of a surety the thing will fall flat. Even a witticism from him will be laughed at far more by him himself than it will by the lady who may happen to be listening to his remarks.

These comments I have interposed for the purpose of explaining to the reader why, as our hero conversed, the maiden began to yawn. Blind to this, however, he continued to relate to her sundry adventures which had befallen him in different parts of the world. Meanwhile (as need hardly be said) the rest of the ladies had taken umbrage at his behaviour. One of them purposely stalked past him to intimate to him the fact, as well as to jostle the Governor's daughter, and let the flying end of a scarf flick her face; while from a lady seated behind the pair came both a whiff of violets and a very venomous and sarcastic remark. Nevertheless,
either he did not hear the remark or he PRETENDED not to hear it. This was unwise of him, since it never does to disregard ladies' opinions. Later-but too late--he was destined to learn this to his cost.

In short, dissatisfaction began to display itself on every feminine face. No matter how high Chichikov might stand in society, and no matter how much he might be a millionaire and include in his expression of countenance an indefinable element of grandness and martial ardour, there are certain things which no lady will pardon, whosoever be the person concerned. We know that at Governor's balls it is customary for the onlookers to compose verses at the expense of the dancers; and in this case the verses were directed to Chichikov's address. Briefly, the prevailing dissatisfaction grew until a tacit edict of proscription had been issued against both him and the poor young maiden.

Gogol astutely describes in detail how money = power, but game > money.

[scorpion]

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”So, listen to me. My speech will be much shorter than yours. I want to tell you this: all that you told me now was very stupid and banal. Do you understand me? It was stupid. It would be better to dispense with you, in this matter, but your family, your children and your kitchen cannot survive without a woman … a woman has only one main purpose in life: to be a wife and a mother … there is no, there was no, and there will not be any other ‘social purpose’ of a woman. This is all stupidity, senseless talk, and gibberish. All that you have told me here is nonsense, do you hear me? It was nonsense, and I am not going to say anything else to you.”

This should just be copypasted in reply every time a feminist writes something.

[kbell]

This is probably one of the reasons a lot of Russian women are anti-feminist.

[MrXY]

Today we tend to think of people involved in the arts as being left wing almost uniformly, but that is really due to the Cultural Marxists having taken over the arts establishment and the media

It's remarkable how many of the first rank writers, visual artists,composers and thinkers are and have always been conservative or even right wing

[Jones]

Dostoevsky, through his character, "the Underground Man", predicted the future of Western women (whether he meant to or not) in his 1864 novella, Notes from Underground (Part 2, Chapter VII): irrational egoism leading to corruption. This should be mandatory teaching to all young women; however, for women over the age of 22 (post-university/college), it is the nightmare of reality. Dostoevsky describes the psychology of the modern woman, as he talks to Liza, a woman working in a brothel:

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Can you seriously think that you will never grow old, that you will always be good-looking, and that they will keep you here for ever and ever? I say nothing of the loathsomeness of the life here .... Though let me tell you this about it--about your present life, I mean; here though you are young now, attractive, nice, with soul and feeling, yet you know as soon as I came to myself just now I felt at once sick at being here with you! One can only come here when one is drunk.

The biological clock of women are ticking, and they are not getting the best offer for their product - like a used car, they depreciate in value over time. Like most women you find in clubs, they sexual history is sickening, yet they are only suitable for drunk hook-ups.

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But if you were anywhere else, living as good people live, I should perhaps be more than attracted by you, should fall in love with you, should be glad of a look from you, let alone a word; I should hang about your door, should go down on my knees to you, should look upon you as my betrothed and think it an honour to be allowed to. I should not dare to have an impure thought about you. But here, you see, I know that I have only to whistle and you have to come with me whether you like it or not. I don't consult your wishes, but you mine.

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The lowest labourer hires himself as a workman, but he doesn't make a slave of himself altogether; besides, he knows that he will be free again presently. But when are you free? Only think what you are giving up here? What is it you are making a slave of? It is your soul, together with your body; you are selling your soul which you have no right to dispose of!...it's a priceless diamond, it's a maiden's treasure, love--why, a man would be ready to give his soul, to face death to gain that love. But how much is your love worth now? You are sold, all of you, body and soul, and there is no need to strive for love when you can have everything without love.

Most men would fight and die for a good, pure, and traditional woman and the family she bares for him. Women have ruined themselves by hoping on the cock carousel and engaging in promiscuous, hedonistic, pursuits.

The woman today is a twofold slave - a slave to the work traditionally held by a man, but also a slave in a female's natural biological sense - the value attached to her physical gifts and beauty. Women sell physical labour as well as the labour of love. They have been bought and sold under the guise of feminism and equality.

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Why, do you suppose he really loves you, that lover of yours? I don't believe it. How can he love you when he knows you may be called away from him any minute? He would be a low fellow if he did! Will he have a grain of respect for you? What have you in common with him? He laughs at you and robs you--that is all his love amounts to! You are lucky if he does not beat you. Very likely he does beat you, too. Ask him, if you have got one, whether he will marry you. He will laugh in your face, if he doesn't spit in it or give you a blow--though maybe he is not worth a bad halfpenny himself.

"Alpha fucks, beta bucks". The smart men take advantage of women wanting to sleep around and will never marry them, while men with no respect for themselves will overlook the fact that these women are not with the respect these men give them.

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...don't rely upon your youth--all that flies by express train here, you know….the others, your companions, will attack you, too...for all are in slavery here, and have lost all conscience and pity here long ago. They have become utterly vile, and nothing on earth is viler, more loathsome, and more insulting than their abuse.

The wall is coming and coming fast, and forget about other women wanting what is best for you. Woman-on-woman hatred, jealousy, envy - women's natural enemies are not men, but other women - something the feminists will not tell you: dragging other women down with them. Men, not other women, truly care about women. Men are made to look like the enemy with the term "misogynist".

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And you are laying down everything here, unconditionally, youth and health and beauty and hope, and at twenty-two you will look like a woman of five-and-thirty, and you will be lucky if you are not diseased, pray to God for that!

Too much cock riding and semen - "thousand cock stare" - will accelerate the decay of a woman's body, and hopefully she does not get an STI or two along the way.

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...what if at that very minute [of despair] she recalled the pure early days in her father's house, when she used to go to school and the neighbour's son watched for her on the way, declaring that he would love her as long as he lived, that he would devote his life to her, and when they vowed to love one another for ever and be married as soon as they were grown up!

Post-wall dreams: After being used up by men and the corporation they shackled themselves to, women will look back on life, nostalgic for a time when the world truly cared for them and had their best interests at heart - the patriarchy.

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"Consumption is a queer disease, it is not like fever. The patient goes on hoping till the last minute and says he is all right. He deludes himself And that just suits your madam. Don't doubt it, that's how it is; you have sold your soul, and what is more you owe money, so you daren't say a word. But when you are dying, all will abandon you, all will turn away from you, for then there will be nothing to get from you.

The patient here is our woman: a consumer unto death in our society, hoping all will be right until they run out of time. They sell their souls, are in debt, and childless with only their cats to care for them in death.

[Sweet Jones]

Dostoevsky is by far my favourite author of fiction. I highly recommend his book 'Demons', a book about the lives of socialist revolutionaries in Russia in the 19th century. You will immediately recognise the modern SJW described better than you have ever seen, and this from a book in 1872.

[Max Henrich]

@Icarus: Good to know. Dostoevsky really was more of a saint than an ordinary author.

@Handsome Creepy Eel: That Chichikov sure is a guy with cunning, but not so lucky with the ladies, is he?