Dostoevsky and Hans Holbein's 'The Body of the Dead Christ in the Tomb'

 

(A conversation between Dostoevsky and Nietzsche) 

Painted between 1520 and 1522 by Hans Holbein the Younger, The Body of the Dead Christ in the Tomb shows Christ laid out in death, moments before any imagined resurrection. The painting is life-sized, roughly 30.5 cm by 200 cm, measuring like a real tomb, forcing us to see Christ not as a holy figure, but as a corpse.

There is no halo, no light, no suggestion of divinity. Holbein gives us a human body in decay: emaciated limbs, discolored skin, dead weight sinking into darkness. The only signs that this is Christ are the wounds on his hands, feet, side, and the stark inscription above him. According to legend, Holbein may have used the body of a drowned man from the Rhine as his model. The result is a painting so real it strips away hope.

In 1867, on the way to Geneva, Dostoevsky and his wife Anna stopped in Basel. They visited the Kunstmuseum. There, Dostoevsky stood before Holbein’s painting and was completely shaken by its brutal reality. Anna later wrote:

“On our way to Geneva, we stopped for a day in Basel to see a painting … [it] depicts Christ … decaying. His bloated face is covered with bloody wounds, and his appearance is terrible. The painting had a crushing impact on Fyodor Mikhailovich. He stood before it as if stunned. … expecting the attack from one minute to the next. Luckily, this did not happen. … he insisted on returning once again to view this painting which had struck him so powerfully.”

She added:

“Fedya … was enraptured by it and, wishing to see it more closely, he climbed on a chair.”

From Anna’s words, it’s pretty clear that it broke something in Dostoevsky. Because if Christ, the most perfect being, ends like this - what hope is there for the rest of us? And he really began to struggle with that.

Soon after, in Geneva, he started writing The Idiot. Holbein’s painting shows up in the book more than once. It hangs in Rogozhin’s house, and it’s not just decoration. It becomes a moment of deep crisis for two characters: Prince Myshkin and Ippolit.

Myshkin, who’s sensitive and pure, is shaken by it. He says:

“That picture! That picture!” cried Muishkin, struck by a sudden idea. “Why, a man’s faith might be ruined by looking at that picture!” (Part 2, Chapter 4)

Then there’s Ippolit, a dying teenager who’s been fighting his own fear of death. He stares at the painting and says:

“This blind, dumb, implacable, eternal, unreasoning force is well shown in the picture, and the absolute subordination of all men and things to it is so well expressed that the idea unconsciously arises in the mind of anyone who looks at it. All those faithful people who were gazing at the cross and its mutilated occupant must have suffered agony of mind that evening; for they must have felt that all their hopes and almost all their faith had been shattered at a blow. They must have separated in terror and dread that night, though each perhaps carried away with him one great thought which was never eradicated from his mind for ever afterwards. If this great Teacher of theirs could have seen Himself after the Crucifixion, how could He have consented to mount the Cross and to die as He did? This thought also comes into the mind of the man who gazes at this picture.” (Part 3, Chapter 6)

That’s what Dostoevsky saw that day in Basel. Not just a terrifying painting, but something that shook his core beliefs. It may have been the moment that started his deep wrestling with God, and with his own faith. You can see that struggle not only in The Idiot, but even more powerfully in The Brothers Karamazov, where questions about God, suffering, and the meaning of faith are pushed to their absolute limit.

#copied from internet

Rishte, zarooratain aur umeedain

 Sifawaye ma baap ke saare rishte zarooratoN aur UmeedoN ke mohtaj hote hain

Jab rishtoN se zarooratoN ki khu kam ho jaati hai, aur umeedoN ki lo madham paR jaati hai, to rishte bhi amar-des sadhaar jaate hain

I don't know (either)

 

Pretty Accurate

 

Constrains!

کیسے کوئی عزیز روایات چھوڑ دے 

کیسے کوئی عزیز روایات چھوڑ دے 

کچھ کھیل ہے کہ کہنہ حکایات چھوڑ دے 

گھٹی میں تھے جو حل وہ خیالات چھوڑدے 

ماں کا مزاج باپ کی عادات چھوڑدے 

کس جی سے کوئی رشتۂ اوہام چھوڑ دے 

ورثے میں جو ملے ہیں وہ اصنام توڑ دے 

اوہام کا رباب قدامت کا ارغنوں 

فرسودگی کا سحر روایات کا فسوں 

اقوال کا مراق حکایات کا جنوں 

رسم و رواج و صحبت و میراث و نسل و خوں 

افسوس یہ وہ حلقۂ دام خیال ہے 

جس سے بڑے بڑوں کا نکلنا محال ہے

(جوش ملیح آبادی) 

Friends

 

Society, Elites and Common Men

 

Love and Universe

 

Ma!

‏صوفی غلام مصطفیٰ تبسم کو اپنی موت سے چند سال قبل اپنی والدہ کی موت کا صدمہ پہنچا تو انہوں نے کہا ، اس دنیا میں ایک ہی وجود ایسا تھا جو مجھے مصطفیٰ کہہ کر پکارتا تھا، ماں کے ساتھ یہ مصطفیٰ بھی وفات پاگیا. 

اس وقت میں ان کی یہ بات پوری طرح نہیں سمجھا تھا مگر یکم مارچ کو پوری طرح سمجھ گیا جب میری ماں کے ساتھ منیر احمد بھی وفات پا گیا.

منو بھائی ، مارچ 1983 

On Human's Intellectual Evolution

 

Aik hi Hadsa to hai....

As Murshid said:

 

To our former selves

 Loved this - Beautiful

As they say in Urdu - Sohbat e barham or Jab Aatish jawan tha

A lesson on evolution and survival

 

Life goes on!

 

Been there

 

Wise Sayings

 

The hierarchy of Humor

 

Well Painted!

 

The right shyr

 

The “satellite child” and the “walking-stick child.”

(A forward)

Many of my parents' generation sent their kids abroad for better opportunities, and most stayed on; some came back, but the parents found themselves vulnerable in their old age. One such child has shared their family experience, and I think of all the ones in the same situation! 

In many families, there are two roles: the “satellite child” and the “walking-stick child.”

On the day of my mother’s funeral, I arrived feeling important. A rented luxury SUV, an impeccable black suit, and expensive sunglasses. I believed I was the pillar of the family. The child who “showed up.” The successful one. The one who never failed… at least with bank transfers.

I’ve lived abroad for thirty years. I did well. My own company, stability, comfort. Every month, without fail, I sent 400 dollars to my younger brother, Pablo — the one who stayed with Mom in the old house in our hometown. I kept telling myself: “Thanks to me, they lack nothing.” “With my money, Mom is fine.” I felt at peace. I felt responsible.

After the burial, I went into the house and started doing what many people do when they come back for a visit: judging.

— Why is the garden dry?

— The walls need painting.

— Why was Mom so thin in the coffin? Didn’t you give her what I told you?

Pablo didn’t answer. He was sitting in the kitchen, wearing an old T-shirt, with deep dark circles under his eyes and hands full of calluses. He looked exhausted. Defeated. Ten years older than me… even though he’s three years younger.

Then I offered “the solution” in a generous tone:

— I think it’s best to sell the house. I don’t need the money. We’ll split it 60–40; you keep more since you stayed here.

I expected gratitude. I received the truth.

Pablo slowly stood up, pulled an old school notebook from a drawer — wrinkled, stained — and dropped it on the table.

— Read, he said.

It was a logbook of everyday hell.

October 2: Mom didn’t sleep. She screamed all night, asking for you. I changed her diaper five times. She bit me when I tried to bathe her.

November 9: The money wasn’t enough for the medications. I sold my motorcycle.

December 25: She didn’t recognize anyone. She cried because “the successful son” didn’t call. I played an old recording of your voice to calm her. I ate a sandwich next to her bed.

January 10: The doctor says my back is damaged from lifting her. I can’t work this week.

I couldn’t keep reading. The lump in my throat was suffocating me.

Pablo looked straight at me and said, without shouting, without hatred:

— You sent 400 dollars, Carlos. Thank you. But you slept eight hours a night. You had weekends. Vacations. A life.

He touched his chest.

— I haven’t slept a full night in four years. I lost my girlfriend. I gave up my career. I stayed so Mom wouldn’t die alone or end up in a nursing home. Money doesn’t clean diapers. Money doesn’t endure insults from a sick mind. Money doesn’t hug a terrified mother at three in the morning.

He took one step closer.

— Sell the house. Keep it all. I’ve already paid my share. I paid it with my life.

And he went to sleep in Mom’s room — the first real nap he’d have in years.

I stayed alone in the kitchen. I looked at my expensive watch, my brand-name shoes. I was the financial provider. He was the son. I paid for the pills. He put them in her mouth. I sent money for the coffin. He held her hand until she stopped breathing.

That same afternoon, I went to the notary and transferred 100% of the house to him. It wasn’t a gift. It was the fairest retroactive payment I could make. And even so, I know I still owe him.

Don’t fool yourself: A check doesn’t change diapers. A transfer doesn’t cure loneliness. And if one day it’s time to divide an inheritance, remember this: The caregiver’s time, health, and life cannot be recovered. It’s recognizing who carried the weight when everyone else walked away.