俄国思想家经典读后感有感( 九 ) 俄国思想家|读后感「问人人知识网」

好像还是伯林说的，俄罗斯的制度虽然暴虐，但是你要看陀思妥耶夫斯基笔下的那些角色，也只配这样的制度，暴虐的民众配这样的暴虐的政治，真是天地绝配，这是俄国才有的这种情况。为什么会是这样？金雁的书里提出另一解。十六世纪莫斯科小公国，在其后几个世纪的急剧扩张中成为世界上领土最辽阔的国家，中国作为新老沙皇病态扩张的受害者，恐怕很少有人想到，这种扩张让俄国民众与文化也深受其害。金雁的书揭示出新老沙皇热衷侵略扩张带来的另一面，那就是领土越扩张越空旷，统治也就越发暴虐。我还没有看到有人以这样的视角论述过相关问题，给人留下深刻的印象。
总体说来，这本书我虽然没有看完，但还是很受益。比起我以前看过的那些研究苏俄专家的书，这本书给了我好多知识。对于二十世纪俄苏文化对于中国文化的影响，如何加以理清，这是一个大题目。但是我们需要的不是简单化的善恶评判，我觉得正确的方法应当是像金雁这样，理清俄国知识阶层的来龙去脉，让我们对俄苏文化及其发生的语境，获得一种理性的清明，我们就更容易分辨俄苏文化对于近代中国的正面与负面影响。（作者系《读书》杂志总编）
《俄国思想家》读后感(五)：The Reverie of a Solitary Walker
关于《刺猬与狐狸》
I somehow see the miserable picture of my future life. It is one full of struggle, the struggle between the gigantic amount of moments, memory and mayhem of things to process with my scarcely-ridged tiny brain and the singular, simplistic and synchronizing principle in which I seek to fit all my fragmentary experiences. I distain all the abandoned attempts at seeking it, though I myself am yet at sea as to what it is. I promise to burn the short and brutish life of mine all to the pilgrimage towards this end, yet my sail remains permanently at shore when storm strikes. I can never claim to have caught a single glimpse of its sparks, yet I promise to be following its light. I have never tasted the authentic flavor of its product, but neither have I doubted that its fruit must smell sweet. I have never touched or tested its core with either my body or soul, yet I dare to be its unyielding disciple, and I adamantly call it Truth.
Tolstoy is just one among the many learned men who have been tempted early in their life by the good, the true and the beautiful to believe in the existence of a transcendental order within their mind’s reach, one to which they should aim to dedicate all their genius in order to bring into sight. War and Peace is such an attempt, though at the very end he only manages to show us the missing puzzle of truth in face of which he is silent. He confesses his ignorance only because he knows too much to accept an expedient answer as his faith calls upon him to, yet he is too faithful a believer in its existence to give up the try and succumb to the fact that the answer may never be there. Life, to Tolstoy, is not a mystery but a riddle, one with an answer eternally suspended in air, yet there it must exist so that the whole course of the journey would not be too heavily loaded with intolerable myths and burdensome question marks. “Tolstoy himself, too, knows that the truth is there, and not ‘here’—not in the regions susceptible to observation, discrimination, constructive imagination, not in the power of microscopic perception and analysis of which he is so much the greatest master of our time; but he has not, himself, seen it face to face; for he has not, do what he might, a vision of the whole; he is not, he is remote from being, a hedgehog; and what he sees is not the one, but always, with an ever growing minuteness, in all its teeming individuality, with an obsessive, inescapable, incorruptible, all-penetrating lucidity which maddens him, the many.” (Berlin 71)