TheChristianPhilosopher, first published by the Pontificia Accademia di San Tommaso (Rome: Anglicum 2005)

Man’s Irreconcilable Freedom

Abstract: This paper draws on the masterful novels of Dostoyevsky and argues that Dostoyevsky reveals something new about man’s freedom. He shows how goodness and freedom are not the same thing and are irreconcilable. The attempt to exalt happiness, reason and order above freedom is doomed to fail, because of that very freedom. The truth Dostoyevsky’s work reveals poses not so much a threat to the project of humanism, but represents an important moment in the recreation of it.

At the end of the thirteenth century, not many years after Thomas Aquinas' death, something revolutionary took place in the north of Italy which would have permanent repercussions for mankind. What took place might be called a “revolution of the senses”, for the way man represented what he saw of the world changed, a new concept of space was formulated. The painter Giotto (1267-1337) started to mould the figures he painted, to give them a life-like look. On a two dimensional surface Giotto began to place figures and landscape in such a way, with paint, that they looked three-dimensional. This required the creation of dimension within the painting for the one standing back from it. The decoration of the Scrovegni Chapel in Padua (between 1303-05) is universally recognised as a turning point in the history of painting.

This was not just a new way of painting. The construction of an illusion of three-dimensional space upon two dimensions implies a new way of visualising reality, therefore, of sensing. For sensing is not something pure and simple in humans as (presumably) in animals; man perceives through the senses. Giotto marks a difference in the representation of perception. I refer of course to the creation of perspective. This would be refined and mastered by process of trial and error over subsequent centuries, but the new invention, or re-invention, since it was known to the ancient Greeks, would spell the end of the medieval way of representing sight and sense.

What St. Thomas shared with his Islamic counterparts was an idea of sensing and the senses – at least in representation - which was without perspective; it stated an objective order, which in both cases, Islamic and Christian, was prescribed as an objective order of being. Man had an objective place in this order. Although they differed in matters of religion, Christians and Muslims sensed the world in such a way that they represented an objectivised order of being that moved from the top to bottom, up and down, vertically, and without depth.

Before Giotto medieval Islam and Medieval Christian painting had no perspective. Correspondingly, their idea of perception (for instance in a proposition such as "knowledge starts in the senses") upholds, at the level of its envisioning in representation, visual and verbal, a non-perspectival idea of the senses.

After Giotto, it slowly began to dawn on people that sensing itself was perspectival, that what started in the senses, started within some perspective and that there were an infinity of perspectives. Man moved into the middle. Man became the medium. The envisioning of reality became more a matter of reflective description, natural depiction, rather than objective description according to prescribed outlines. No longer did the stiff and severely lifeless Christ of the icon stare back at the kneeling believer in Church, she now looked into the beautiful human face of her Lord. In the new way of envisioning and representing, the painted road no longer went up the page, its two sides remaining parallel the whole way, rather the two sides of a road going off into the distance would close off and disappear into a point. But this point would alter depending where one was.

Man began to get a sense of perspective on things. The extrinsic order of being presumed in Medieval theology began to look extrinsic. For the first time it could be seen to be so. The universe as a totality of order of an objective nature came to be seen in perspective as itself one.

I am talking about the birth of humanism properly speaking. If Aquinas' philosophy had closed the world in a natural order that accorded with reason, after Giotto it gradually began to be realised that man stood at the centre, and not man in general, not the species man, but the individual. Gradually it was not the objective and generic concept of "the soul" which signified man, but the personal sense of me. Giotto's silent revolution in Assisi and Padua changed man.

With a new found sense of perspective we can still look at man existentially, as Thomas did. Thomas’s system is not one which intends to totally absorb all views as lesser views in proportion to his own, as German idealism at its height strove to do; it is a system which works out the relations, what is ‘more’ what is ‘less’ qua God. It is a philosophy of the whole, in the sense that it strives not for mastery over the parts but understanding within them. What differs though are the kinds of problems which we have to see in whole terms.

I do not want to theorise this problem but to illustrate its difficulty. To this end I want to introduce Dostoyevsky. Perhaps this supreme novelist from Russia may seem to you a far cry from Thomas. This is not true insofar as both have something to say about Christian man. The difference between them brings before us the question of the Good in a different light. But this is a productive difference for thinking on the question of Christian humanism in our time.

In his book on Dostoyevsky, the Russian philosopher and theologian Nicolai Berdyaev says that already, in the Renaissance, by Shakespeare’s time, man has shifted out from an objective hierarchical world order, in which he was a gradation in the divine universe with heaven above him and hell beneath. Man felt free.[1] Classic humanist understanding of the high Renaissance period is psychologically rather than theologically oriented. This reflects the way man is in the world, with respect to himself. Heaven and hell are humanised, they become subjects of great art. It is the beginning of the secular world, of that sensibility which can see (and represent) that what is ordained sacred is not necessarily what is holy.

Another similarity Thomas and Dostoyevsky have is their angelology, although strictly speaking of course Dostoyevsky doesn’t have one. In common with scholasticism, Thomas' angelology may be understood as a phenomenonology of human understanding. Thomas' angelology is comprised of disembodied constituents of human understanding. These are objectified in abstract concepts and categories and brought into a unity of thought and understanding, which is static. It is then as if the angels belong to an objective order which the scientific mind might inspect. Even so, it is inferentially constructed. Dostoyevsky’s angels, however, appear as fictional characters. They are embodiments, depictions and raw dramatisations of the really great problems and question-marks of existence, which is what his books set forth in their creative mastery. Yet his novels are not allegorical. His angels and devils do not inhabit a world of their own as in Thomas, they look like man, at least to the outward eye. Dostoyevsky’s characters, his angels and devils, are not reducible to rational, general abstract terms and categories any more than modern urban life is. His novels are expressive of life, they are exemplificatory. The chief matter of any of Dostoyevsky's novels is commonly drawn by the central character, around which the action swirls. Dostoyevsky treats by this dramatised form, rather than by an abstract philosophy, the nature of human understanding, and, quite simply, man. His man is potentially angelic and-or daemonic.

If in Medieval texts angelology is the phenomenology of the pure human understanding, in the Ninteenth century novel angelology is perspectival. No longer may angels be disembodied intellectual creatures as they were perceived to be in the Middle Ages. In Dostoyevsky and many another modern novel, angels exist as individuals that throw perspectives on and within our world. Dostoyevsky’s novels are exemplary in this respect. The classic novelist's angelology does not make us ‘look up’, as it were, as if angels were above us in an objective order of being. Instead we are led to look around us. Particularly, with Dostoyevsky, we are made to look ahead, to project forward into the future. Much of what Dostoyevsky brings into view in his novels points forward to the terrors and crazed ideologies of the century to come; the century we were born into. He shows that the sources of war and peace are in man.

The angelology of the modern novel reflects modern existence. For modern people existence is not derived supernaturally from outside nature by virtue of God being God, neither do we think we only partially exist qua an objective order of being in which only God exists as such. Modern existence is subjective. " I think; therefore I exist." This is the truth which is “on everyone’s doorstep” and which anyone can grasp directly. In other words, it is common sense. “Every theory which takes man out of the moment in which he becomes aware of himself is, at its very beginning, a theory which confounds truth.”[2] I would add that any theory that takes man out of the moment in which he becomes aware of himself, or which prevents this self-transfiguration which self-awareness brings, partly destroys man by replacing the image of God before him with a man-made image. The truth that existence is subjective is the only truth “which gives man dignity, the only one which does not reduce him to an object.”

The medieval angels ultimately form a choir. To speak metaphorically, the medieval angelology is “monarchal”, redolent of the monastery where uniformly dressed and educated same-sex groups chant in unison. The image is one of peace and harmony. The modern angelology in which man sees himself incarnate is urban and sub-urban, it is a cacophony, and insofar as it forms a whole at all, its model is democratic. Or if it is not democratic – that “lesser evil” of Aristotle’s Politics – it is revolutionary, a hotbed. There are as many and diverse angelologies as there are philosophical novels in the Nineteenth century tradition. Dostoyevsky gives us an angelology and a demonology, but it is subject to man.

Dostoyevsky presents a dark knowledge of God. One of the characters in Crime and Punishment (1866) is undoubtedly St. Petersburg itself. Berdyaev writes about Dostoyevsky’s relation to the city as follows:

Petersburg is a spectral vision begotten by erring and apostate men; crazy thoughts are born and criminal schemes ripen in the midst of its fogs. In such an atmosphere everything is concentrated in men, and in men who have been torn from their divine origins; their whole surrounding, the town and its particular atmosphere, the lodging-houses with their monstrous appointments, the dirty, smelly shops, the external plots of the novels, are so many signs and symbols of the inner spiritual world of men, a reflection of its tragedy.[3]

The lives and fates of Dostoyevsky’s main characters revolve round what one of the characters, Ivan Karamazov, calls “these cursed everlasting questions.” These questions may be resolved in one word: man. What is man? What is the spirit of mankind? What is his end? What is man’s salvation? The answer to the question of man’s salvation for Dostoyevsky is Christ. But it is a Christ Thomas could never have imagined any more than he could have imagined the Reformation or the Spanish Inquisition, which are passé for us. The “tragedy” of man that Berdyaev in the quote just given refers to is man’s uprootedness. The cities in which we live are an outward manifestation of our inner confusion. But the modern city, if we focus on its underbelly, exceeds most Medieval visions of Hell. Yet this is no Hell, this is normality for innumerable citizens. Dostoyevsky was a great reader of Charles Dickens who wrote similarly, but with rather less philosophical resource, about London. Literary examples of man’s uprootedness easily spring to mind. The point about the city, Dostoyevsky’s St Petersburg in particular, is that man is uprooted in the very place he calls home.

In Dostoyevsky, we can see the world has turned on its axis again. The repressed returns with a vengeance, only Dostoyevsky does not speak of the repressed, but of the Underground. There is a murmuring Underground against the Establishment. Underground Man is Prodigal Man. There is no ‘man as such’, as thing, except the dead man. In these novels, people become angelic, like Prince Myshkin (The Idiot) or Alyosha Karamazov; or already are angelic, like Sonya (Crime and Punishment) or Aglaya (The Idiot); and men are daemonic, like Stavrogin (The Possessed) and Rogozhin (The Idiot); and men become daemonic (but not deliberately) that they might be saved and become thereby angelic, like Raskolnikov and Dmitri Karamazov. Underground Man himself is a voice of spleen, capriciousness, envy and ennui, of the seamy underbelly of St. Petersburg. The Russian word for Underground that Dostoyevsky used, “podpolya”comes from pol, meaning floor and pod, under. It refers to the space between floor and ground, or a floor and the ceiling beneath. As Berdyaev says, “The word is associated with the idea of vermin breeding in the darkness and preparing destruction.”[4] In Dostoyevsky man is that which cannot of its nature be ordered – or as Dostoyevsky puts it, “contained in a logarithm”. Dostoyevsky’s Underground Man claims “the right to want the absurd and not to be bound by the necessity of wanting only what is reasonable.” And he adds that caprice, absurdity, “can be more advantageous to our neighbour than anything else in the world.” Dostoyevsky shows us that man’s nature is “extreme and contradictory all through.”[5] None of Dostyevsky’s characters inhabit a normal workaday world, angel and devil alike belong to the Underground and we the reader know that ultimately they belong to us, to our world.

In Dostoyevsky’s work man refuses happiness, man refuses what he knows is good, what he should do, what he shouldn’t, man refuses reason, honest purpose, honour, harmony, true love, not because he is deluded about the true nature of the good or about God. This is clearly not the case. Dostoyevsky’s world is tragic – which Thomas’ world was not - but Dostoyevsky’s world is tragic in a new way that he did not create, but first and best represented. No longer did tragedy mean the clash between human purpose and fate. In conventional tragedy before Dostoyevsky, man meets an unforseen and implacable fate which, however, the audience sees coming. In this classic tragedy human freedom is mocked by human destiny which is in the lap of fatal forces, of which death is the signal, and death by one’s own hand the proof. But Dostoyevsky’s tragedy is predicated not on fate, but on freedom. Dostoyevsky’s man is sunk in a chasm of freedom which proves his fate and his tragedy. Even the good in Dostoyevsky is like this - Alyosha meeting Zossima, or Zossima’s account of how he came to the monastery - there is something accidental and chancy about it. Things might have turned out very differently. The destiny of man in Dostoyevsky is the great question of our freedom. And in this freedom, God is not absent, as in the classic humanist or Greek tragedy, but is there above all.

Let me clarify Dostoyevsky’s God. It is not an abstract God - God as Being, Essence, Existence, Beyond-Being etc. God appears not as a philosophical formula, nor according to any. Dostoyevsky’s God is the living God into whose hands it is terrible to fall, as St Paul puts it to the Hebrews. He appears as the God-man, the Risen Christ. He comes in a gesture, a look, a kiss. He appears as a matter of existence, certainly. He comes as a matter of existence. But this is existence is a moment of transfiguration. Existence apart from itself, irreducible to itself. The divine Life appears in a moment, in the midst of man, in the unlikliest of places.

Man transfigured in the image of Christ appears distinct from the man-God of humanism and of the Church (in saying which, Dostoyevsky offended many in the Orthodox hierarchy). The humanitarian man-God is the man who does not need God, he makes himself, he is the self-made man who is the measure of all things. Man may be massed and herded by the self-deified man, the great man, who would save the world, best represented by Kirrilov for instance in The Possessed. Ultimately, such a man is a tyrant, a mad man. In the Church this man is ‘religious’. At his worst he is the anti-type of Christ, best represented by the Grand Inquisitor in The Brothers Karamazov. For Dostoyevsky, the domesticated Christos of the Church, with its supposed potestas clavium is ultimately duplicitous, satanic. The Grand Inquisitor is the living personification – arch-daemonic, not arch-angelic - of the Mystery, Miracle, and Authority, which the Church guards. The Grand Inquisitor is good, but like the great man, he is limited to massing and herding people away from their particular freedom to one marked out in advance for all of them. Dostoyevsky’s humanitarian man and his religious man must be distinguished from that man transfigured in the image of Christ, who belongs to the spiritual dimension of this of this world, and who it is not always so easy to see, as it was not so easy for those who knew Jesus to see that he was the Son of God.

The differentiation between transfigured man and humanitarian man signals Dostoyevsky’s depiction of human nature as burdened by freedom, or condemned to it. It is not the Good (or the God reduced to it) that draws us or which is the end of our action and desire, it is freedom. Good which is not free is not truly good. This is not the French idea of ‘liberté’, which Dostoyevsky knew all too well and loathed as the work, again, of the self-deifying humanitarian. Dostoyevsky’s freedom is spiritual in that it belongs to the Holy Spirit, as shown by the face of Christ. Only in the transfigured man is our true face to be seen. But the recovery of our true face belongs to the future, to an age to come. We can look at the city and see that the time is yet to come. Salvation is not accomplished before the end, or instead of it. In this Dostoyevsky can be seen as prophetic, not merely because he fore-shadowed much in twentieth century thought, but because his first principle, freedom, points to an end time. His angelology is not hierarchical but eschatological. But we cannot reach this time, this other shore, without the initiation, the spiritual baptism, that living freedom means for modern man, and it includes living through the era in which ‘man is free’.

Berdyaev writes:

The dignity of man and the dignity of faith require the recognition of two freedoms, freedom to choose the truth and freedom in the truth. Freedom cannot be identified with goodness or truth or perfection: it is by nature autonomous, it is freedom and not goodness. Any identification or confusion of freedom with goodness and perfection involves a negation of freedom and a strengthening of the methods of compulsion; obligatory goodness ceases to be goodness by the fact of its constraint. But free goodness, which alone is true, entails the liberty of evil.[6]

When Dostoyevsky’s characters look into themselves – and in this they are not different from us – they do not find a calm pool of eternity in the depths of their soul, they find collision and contradiction go right to the depths. This is the truth of freedom. It is contrary.

Where Thomas Aquinas is in calm control of his ideas, including his angels (he is the Angelic Doctor after all), in Dostoyevsky we relive the clash of angelic and daemonic forces. We are shown how the good may be demonic because it may be tragic. We are shown this most notably by the presence of the Christlike Myshkin in The Idiot (1868). Myshkin's presence wreaks more havoc than calm, much as Christ’s did. Myshkin is seen by everyone as a comforter, and he is, but also, importantly, he is a tremendous catalyst. One ramification of this is straightforwardly obvious: if the Holy Spirit is catalytic that means it engenders disorder. And this is not a disorder emergent for some reason, it is spiritual, without reason.

The world to come in Dostoyevsky’s vision has to do with this quest for freedom and with all the evil that such a quest will bring. And we can see, more than 100 years on, how such a quest in the old Christian countries, and further afield as well, has already begun. Freedom, Dostoyevsky believed, is shown by the face of Christ, His presence with us, as the image of that final freedom. But the story of our ways of freedom will be a tragic one in any case. Man has infinite ways to destroy himself. Dostoyevsky’s characters bear out some of these ways. The most absolute of such ways - that is, the most indissoluble - is borne out in the story of the Grand Inquisitor in The Brothers Karamazov (1880). Christ walks the earth barefoot once again. He comes to the Grand Inquisitor, the incarnation of the Church Triumphant, to remind him of freedom in an act of pure forgiveness. The Grand Inquisitor holds Heaven and Earth in place by his Authority. Christ sets Heaven and Earth free, letting go the Mystery, the Miracle, the Authority. But by this very act they are somehow spiritually reconstituted beyond themselves. This is not the love that is Good, but the love that frees. Any other kind of love is not properly Christlike. There is no Greek word for this love, even though, for want of a better word, agape and philia are used by the Evangelists.

Let us focus more statedly and more categorically on what we mean here by man’s freedom. In Thomas, freedom is discussed at a macro level in terms of its compatibility with Providence. At the micro level of man, freedom in Thomas is largely a matter of the will. Reason informed by faith knows what is best to do and not to do, and why. The discussion is wholly impersonal. The individual person and situation is removed from the equation. This approach lends itself easily to legalism and objectivism. It lends itself also to flagrant abuse in an ecclesiastical situation where Church office is objectified as if it were the natural order. Objectivism is the precursor of positivism. It sees man as an object. But the whole depth of personal experience is missing. And missing too is the cardinal insight of all real psychology, that no person can experience themself as a scientific problem or a "soul".

In Dostoyevsky freedom is personal, that means it is the possession and birthright of a person ie. of one of his characters. This is in line with a shift from a theological and cultural milieu blind to perspective, to a world unable to see otherwise. The cool choice and reasoned will are barely in evidence anywhere in Dostoyevsky; but faith is there in abundance. Dostoyevsky’s man struggles. He struggles because he is not simply and naturally a creature, not actually belonging to an order of being. He is free. Certainly there is providence, but it is something which intervenes, which one gives thanks for, not something which dovetails predictably with reason. In Notes from the Underground Dostoyevsky says, “What are the laws of nature to me!… Obviously I cannot pierce the wall with my head… but neither will I reconcile myself to it just because it is a stone wall.” And: “The whole human enterprise consists exclusively in man’s proving to himself at every moment that he is a man and not a cog.” Man is not simply part of nature. Man is not simply a creature. Man’s freedom to create, man’s freedom for good or evil is testimony to that. Such freedom is the very basis for an authentic ethical life.

Modern man experiences this freedom as aloneness. This Pascalian view of man which has him face God is Dostoyevskian and is a truth still dawning in the world. No man was more alone than Christ in this sense. But this aloneness is not simply a feeling. It is existential. Sartre once said, “Man is both a being lost in the world and consequently surrounded by it on all sides – imprisoned in the world, as it were – and at the same time he is a being who could synthesise this world and see it as an object, he being over and against the world and outside. He is no longer in it; he is outside. It’s this binding together of without and within that constitutes man.”[7] Man is a within-without creature. Contrary to the objectivised and imposed medieval ‘order of being’ in which the lesser issues always from the greater, in the Dostoyevskian frame of reference, that is, in perspective, man is bound by relativity; nevertheless, his decision to do this, rather than that, is marked by an absolute quality, since such action bears reference and regard to all men. Out of relative problems and situations come absolute decisions. According to the holy monk Zossima, Dostoyevsky's voice of spiritual authority in The Brothers Karamazov, we need to take care for what we do because each thing we do, we do for all people for all time. In other words, every act goes down in history, and it goes down in Eternity.

There is tragedy and ambiguity to moral life and moreover we experience it. Berdyaev said, “this tragic element lies not in the opposition between good and evil, between divine and diabolic, but above all in the clash of one good with another, one value with another value – the conflict between love for God and love for man, love for one’s fatherland and love for one’s neighbour, love for science and art and pity for man, etc. … A man is compelled to be cruel because he faces the necessity of sacrificing one value for another, one good for another good. … And here the most tragic point is reached when it becomes necessary to sacrifice one quality of love for another. … And it is important here to note that no law, no norm, can help solve the resultant conflict. …The tragic is a category quite other than good or evil.”[8] This is what Dostoyevsky brought into view in his novels. Who can decide between different goods? What ethics will tell us? What virtues lead us? and in case they do, is it not because they are the virtues and ethics we have chosen?

We read of this very conflict in the life of Jesus himself. He forewent the love of Mary and Joseph as a boy to find intellectual company instead, when they lost him on the way home from Jerusalem and found him again in the temple. In his Passion his love for his mother and for John came second to his love for God’s will, from which we can see that God’s will is hardly exempt from what is in view here. Of the two robbers on the crosses between which Jesus hung, one chose damnation. Man is free to prefer hell to paradise. I do not mean the hell which the so-called “good” establish for others in the name of “justice”, but the “unending” hell freedom can make for itself by virtue of itself.

If Dostoyevsky’s thought strikes a chord with us, which it will if we live in the world (rather than a fool’s paradise) how does the thought of Thomas Aquinas apply? So much of what Dostoyevsky’s writing brings out about human nature seems contrary to the picture Thomas would give us. Although, at the greatest moments of their work there would seem to be some parity: Christ’s forgiving silence in that chapter entitled The Grand Inquisitor bespeaks, perhaps, the silence into which Thomas fell. His last words after all did not belong to his Summa, but were comment on the Song of Songs. Moreover, Thomas does not present us with a closed system, but opens our mind to the questions of man and God. This is like Dostoyevsky. On the other hand, it is pointless to try and ‘connect’ or ‘harmonise’ these two great thinkers. Let us keep them dissonant.

In a perspectival world they represent perspectives. This is what the conventional academic milieu would take for granted. Yet, both Thomas and Dostoyevsky would dispute such an imposition upon them. Perspective becomes perspectivism at the cost of truth – the true good in Thomas, true freedom in Dostoyevsky. 'Perspectivism' is merely the middle-class liberal democratic philosophy of tolerance. Thomas and Dostoyevsky show that no ‘ism’ is the answer, nor is any social philosophy, nor is culture per se. But rather, there is a place from which all perspectives open out. For Thomas this is contemplation. The templum defines the field of vision; it is the perspective on perspective, which is not itself one. To ‘contemplate’ means “to set one’s sights on” that place; but more importantly, I think, it means to set out for it. The templum is not an image of sanctuary so much as of freedom. For Dostoyevsky freedom is precisely the templum, the perspective that puts all in perspective. Dostoyevsky sets his sights on it, in this he is contemplative. But the sanctuary that the templum offers stands beyond the abyss of our nature, beckoning us. It is not unlike Thomas’ beatitudo. But it is not the beatitude of the good man, but the free man.

St. Peter’s words, “Thou art the Christ, the Son of the living God,” says Berdyaev, “must burst from the spirit, from an unconstrained conscience, and Dostoyevsky knew that therein alone lay their salvation.”[9] According to Dostoyevsky neither Peter’s affirmation of Christ, nor his denial of him, are acts of reason. Such supra- and sub- rational acts are typical of spiritual life. They are typical of the very action of the Holy Spirit in the world. Dostoyevsky shows in every novel that Christ is not recognised in the act of goodness but in the act of freedom.

To sum up my main points are as follows. Firstly that our sense of perspective signifies, among other things, the primary existential factor of subjectivity as marking man. Second, once we gain a sense of subjectivity, of perspective on the world, the objective order of being into which man is slotted becomes a lost cause, a quaint tapestry, a faded fresco. At best it is another perspective. Thirdly, in the modern urban sprawl the angelic and daemonic are human, all-too-human. Life is tragic, not merely disordered. Lastly, the question of freedom opens out beyond the teleology of the Good. This is the question we must reckon with and it demands new terms of reference, just as Thomas’s own thought did in his day. Thomas was a creative philosopher, not one whose mind was fixed in the past and formulated by it. Something similar is demanded of us with respect to existential questions of subjectivity and freedom, which did not exist for Thomas.

How can we turn the whole existential problem of freedom to the credit of Christianity? I think this is a fundamental question for us.

[1] N. Berdyaev, Dostoyevsky (1923) tr. Donald Attwater, Meridian, NY, 1969, p.41.
[2] Jean-Paul Sartre, Essays on Existentialism, Carol, Secaucus, NJ, 1999, p.51.
[3] Berdyaev, Dostoyevsky, p.41.
[4] Berdyaev, Dostoyevsky, p.50.
[5] Berdyaev, Dostoyevsky, p.53.
[6] Berdyaev, Dostoyevsky, p.69.
[7] Simone de Beauvoir, Adieux, tr. Patrick O’Brien, Pantheon, NY, 1984, p.435.
[8] Berdyaev, The Destiny of Man, (1931), tr. N. Duddington, Geoffrey Bles, London, 1954, p.165.
[9] Berdyaev, Dostoyevsky, p.80.