To be honest, I was expecting much out of this book than what I got but I also can not say that all the goodness that came with that prose was lost on me. It is slightly disjointed collection of stories which turns to a daily journal in the end.
Pechorin, our protagonist anti-hero, is not your usual psychopath-killer-shoota, rather he struggles sometimes with the vices that seems to branch out of his goodness. The moral weaknesses he nourishes, are not too violent neither innocent. He’s trapped in his shell of overpowering wisdom. His notion of happiness, wealth and power is pretty outdated for the current times because almost every man is somewhat following the Pechorin character with zeal these days. He’s also pretty hot for romance (hmm..I was looking forward to some sex, which there is none) but has too many ellipses in his life to actually nurture that employment, afterwards, he soon recluses to himself. Modern man can also find a guide to woo Circassian women in there.
As simple as I am when it comes to extracting the moral out of a story, I think I need to be explicitly told sometimes and with a little research at the author’s history reveals that he died in a duel – as Pechorin might have done – at the age of 26. Much as the epilogue suggests otherwise, I do believe Pechorin was tad bit too reflective of the author who invented him. At the end of this review, I really am wondering whether I should be more selective of the Russian books next time!