A Critic's Meta Review: 4/5

The Idiot by Fyodor Dostoevsky (1821-1881). Published by planksip

Alright, now I am going to just level with you at this point, because this is starting to become old hat for me now - these old, dead dudes need to stop writing books about me. Seriously, I am not even concerned about compensation at this point. I am concerned about my privacy - about my security, to be quite frank with you all. I mean, this has all gone too far.

Enough is enough.

Actions have consequences.

You will be hearing from my lawyer shortly in regards to the restraining order that I have just submitted a request for, Mr. Dostoevsky. Do not expect to be able to simply extract tales from my personal life any longer - unfortunately for you, you will have to come up with your own ideas from here on out. Condolences.

Anyhoo - cooling off a bit - I think that this book might lead me to start going back to therapy - or, at the very least, re-seek the wise counsel of my elderly Greek neighbor, Alexander Kapalaskaris  (a real swell fellow; he just made me waffles about thirty minutes ago, as a form of consolation for defeating me in three brutal rounds of chess earlier this morning). I am Prince Myshkin. I am not just like Prince Myshkin - I am Prince Myshkin. I have lived a life, thus far, in which my kindness and boundless optimism has routinely been interpreted as naivete and those who have modelled themselves after a different Prince - the one Niccolo Machiavelli wrote about, centuries earlier - have, as a result, continued to exploit and take advantage of me until I have nothing left to give but my tears.

Do you guys hear that? This is what it sounds like. This is what it sounds like...when doves cry.


Didn’t think I would be able to complete that trifecta of “Prince” references, did you? Oh, silly mortals - how foolish you all are. Have you not realized that I am the lord of all references. Indeed, there is not a single soul on this spinning marble that could ever even dare to go toe to toe with me when it comes to making massively outdated, corny, and (very often)  out of place references. No one does it better. I’m like The D.O.C., baby. I hope that I do not get into a near-fatal car accident and lose half my voice.

Be sure to get plenty of sleep before driving, folks. And, of course, always wear a seatbelt.



The Idiot by Fyodor Dostoevsky (1821-1881). Published by planksip

Share this post