I picked up Crime and Punishment thinking I'd breeze through another classic for my reading list. Just another 19th-century Russian novel about a murderer feeling guilty, right? I figured I'd read it, understand the moral (don't kill people, obviously), and move on feeling intellectually accomplished.
Instead, Dostoevsky called me out personally. And I didn't see it coming.
This book, written in 1866, somehow predicted the exact kind of person I was becoming. The kind who thinks being smart means being right. The kind who scrolls through social media feeling superior to everyone else's stupid opinions. The kind who's so convinced of their own enlightenment that they don't notice when they're being cruel.
Dostoevsky saw this pattern 160 years ago, and watching it play out through Raskolnikov was uncomfortably familiar.
Meeting My Intellectual Twin (Who's Also a Murderer)
Raskolnikov is a broke college student in St. Petersburg. He's intelligent, well-read, and completely isolated. And he's developed this theory that divides humanity into two categories: ordinary people who just exist and follow rules, and extraordinary people like Napoleon who are destined to change history and transcend conventional morality.
When I first read this, I thought, "Wow, this guy is delusional." But then I kept reading, and I started recognizing myself.
Not in the murder part, obviously. But in the thinking that leads there. The subtle belief that because I understand things other people don't, I'm fundamentally different. That my intelligence or awareness puts me in a separate category. That normal social rules are for people who don't think as deeply as I do.
I'd never articulated it that explicitly, but it was there. In how I interacted online. In how I judged people. In the quiet superiority I felt when someone said something I thought was stupid.
Raskolnikov murders an old pawnbroker to prove he's extraordinary. He convinces himself it's rational because she's worthless to society and he can use her money for good. It's utilitarian logic taken to its extreme.
And then it destroys him.
The Part Where Your Brain Lies to You
After the murder, Raskolnikov intellectually still believes he was right. His theory makes sense. The math works out. But his body and mind are falling apart. He can't eat, sleep, or think clearly. He's paranoid and feverish. Something fundamental in him knows that what he did was wrong, even though his intellect insists otherwise.
This is what got me. Dostoevsky doesn't defeat Raskolnikov's philosophy through clever arguments. He shows you what it actually costs to dehumanize someone. You can rationalize anything in your head, but you can't escape the consequences in your soul.
I started thinking about all the times I'd rationalized being cruel online because someone "deserved it." All the times I'd dismissed someone's humanity because they held views I found stupid or harmful. I'd never killed anyone, but I'd definitely treated people as if they mattered less than me.
The scariest realization was that I thought I was being righteous. Just like Raskolnikov thought he was proving he was extraordinary, I thought my cruelty was justified because I was on the right side. My cause was noble. My targets deserved it.
But there's no natural stopping point once you start ranking human worth. Who decides who's extraordinary? Who gets to determine whose humanity matters?
We're All Stuck in the Same Pattern
Growing up with social media has made this worse. The algorithm literally trains us to sort people into categories and feel superior to the ones we don't like. Everyone exists in their own echo chamber, completely convinced they're the enlightened ones and everyone else is either with them or against them.
I see it in myself constantly. The rush of moral superiority when I see a bad take. The satisfaction of dunking on someone. The feeling that my political views or intellectual understanding makes me better than the "normies" who just don't get it.
Cancel culture. Political extremism. Online activism. Influencer culture. They all follow the same pattern Dostoevsky identified: convince yourself you're extraordinary enough that normal moral rules don't apply to you, then justify whatever cruelty follows.
And I've been participating in it without even realizing it. We all have.
The Uncomfortable Answer
Dostoevsky doesn't offer an easy way out. Raskolnikov's redemption comes through Sonya, a young woman forced into prostitution to support her family. By every societal measure, she should be the one looked down on. But she's the only character who actually understands what it means to be human.
She doesn't lecture him or argue with his philosophy. She just sees him as another broken person and offers him the only path forward: confession, suffering, and the slow work of rebuilding his humanity.
This is the part I'm still struggling with. There's no shortcut. You can't just intellectually understand you were wrong and move on. You have to actually confront what you've done, acknowledge the damage, and do the hard work of changing.
And for me, that means recognizing that my intelligence doesn't make me special. My awareness doesn't put me above other people. My righteous anger doesn't justify cruelty. Every person I interact with, no matter how wrong I think they are, is just as complex and human as I am.
I don't get to decide whose life or dignity matters.
What I'm Learning
I'm 18 and I'm still figuring this out. I catch myself falling back into the same patterns all the time. Feeling superior. Judging people. Treating disagreement as proof of someone's inferiority.
But Crime and Punishment gave me a framework to recognize it. Every time I feel that rush of moral superiority, I think of Raskolnikov. Every time I'm about to be cruel to someone online because they "deserve it," I remember what that thinking costs.
The book is terrifying because it shows you the monster you become when you convince yourself you're better than everyone else. And it doesn't let you off the hook by making the protagonist obviously evil. Raskolnikov is intelligent, thoughtful, and genuinely believes he's doing the right thing.
Just like I did. Just like we all do.
The question Dostoevsky poses isn't whether you're smart enough to understand his point. It's whether you're brave enough to see yourself in Raskolnikov and admit you're not as extraordinary as you think you are.
I'm working on it. Some days are better than others. But at least now I know what I'm working on.
That's what great literature does, I guess. It doesn't just teach you about the world. It teaches you about yourself. Even when, especially when, you don't want to hear it.