Dostoevsky Diagnosed Your Doomscrolling Addiction 150 Years Ago

Dostoevsky Diagnosed Your Doomscrolling Addiction 150 Years Ago

On February 9, 1881, Fyodor Dostoevsky died in St. Petersburg, leaving behind novels that read less like 19th-century fiction and more like a psychiatric evaluation of the 21st century. One hundred and forty-five years later, we're still squirming under his gaze — and if anything, his diagnoses have only gotten more accurate. The man who never owned a smartphone somehow understood our collective nervous breakdown better than any influencer therapist on TikTok.

Let's start with a confession: Dostoevsky was a terrible person to have at a party. He was an epileptic gambling addict who once lost his wife's wedding ring at roulette and then wrote a novel about it. He borrowed money from everyone, argued with everyone, and held grudges like a professional wrestler holds a championship belt. But here's the thing — that absolute wreck of a human being understood the architecture of the human soul with a precision that makes modern psychology look like finger painting.

Take "Crime and Punishment," his 1866 masterpiece. Strip away the horse-drawn carriages and the Petersburg fog, and what do you get? A brilliant young man convinced he's special enough to operate above the rules. Raskolnikov isn't some dusty literary relic — he's every tech bro who's ever said "move fast and break things" without considering that the things being broken might be people. He's every online ideologue who constructs an elaborate intellectual framework to justify what is, at its core, just selfishness wearing a philosophy degree. Dostoevsky understood that the most dangerous people aren't the stupid ones; they're the smart ones who've reasoned themselves into moral bankruptcy.

And then there's "The Idiot" — quite possibly the most audacious experiment in literary history. Dostoevsky asked himself: what if I dropped a genuinely good person into a society that runs on manipulation, vanity, and performance? Prince Myshkin is basically what would happen if you sent a saint to a networking event. Everyone likes him, nobody understands him, and society chews him up and spits him out. Sound familiar? In the age of social media, where authenticity is just another brand strategy, Myshkin's fate feels less like fiction and more like prophecy. Try being genuinely, unironically kind on the internet and see how long before someone calls you naive or, worse, suspicious.

But Dostoevsky's real nuclear bomb was "The Brothers Karamazov," published just months before his death. Four brothers — one intellectual atheist, one passionate soldier, one gentle monk, one illegitimate outcast — each representing a different answer to the question that haunted Dostoevsky his entire life: if God doesn't exist, is everything permitted? Forget the theological packaging for a moment. What he's really asking is the question we're all drowning in right now: in a world without agreed-upon moral authority, how do we decide what's right? Every culture war tweet, every ethical debate about AI, every argument about cancel culture is just a footnote to a conversation Dostoevsky started in 1880.

The Grand Inquisitor chapter alone — where Ivan Karamazov tells a story about Jesus returning to Earth during the Spanish Inquisition, only to be arrested by the Church — is the single greatest piece of political philosophy ever disguised as fiction. The Inquisitor tells Christ, essentially: people don't want freedom, they want bread and circuses, and we're the ones kind enough to give it to them. Replace "the Church" with "the algorithm" and tell me that doesn't describe your Netflix recommendations with terrifying accuracy.

What makes Dostoevsky genuinely unnerving — and this is why people either love him or throw his books across the room — is that he refuses to let you be comfortable. Tolstoy gives you the panoramic sweep of history and lets you feel pleasantly small. Chekhov gives you gentle melancholy and a cup of tea. Dostoevsky grabs you by the collar, drags you into a basement, and forces you to stare at the ugliest parts of yourself until you either break down crying or start laughing. Often both.

His characters don't just think bad thoughts — they think YOUR bad thoughts. That little voice that whispers you're a fraud? That's the Underground Man. The part of you that resents someone you love? That's Dmitri Karamazov. The intellectual arrogance that makes you think you've got it all figured out? Meet Ivan. Dostoevsky didn't invent these demons; he just had the audacity to put them on paper and sign his name.

Here's a fact that should humble every living writer: Dostoevsky wrote most of his greatest works while in crippling debt, dictating them to his stenographer wife Anna just hours before publisher deadlines. "The Gambler" was written in 26 days because he literally owed it, contractually. And it's brilliant. Most of us can't write a decent email under deadline pressure, and this man was churning out psychological masterpieces with creditors banging on his door.

The influence is everywhere, even when people don't realize it. Christopher Nolan's obsession with unreliable morality? Dostoevsky. The entire antihero wave from Tony Soprano to Walter White? Dostoevsky invented that template with Raskolnikov. Existentialism as a philosophical movement? Nietzsche read Dostoevsky and called him "the only psychologist from whom I have anything to learn." When Nietzsche — NIETZSCHE — is fanboying over you, you've clearly touched something elemental.

Even his writing process was ahead of its time. He kept detailed notebooks where he'd sketch his characters' faces, write dialogue fragments, argue with himself in the margins. It looks exactly like a modern writer's room whiteboard, complete with arrows and question marks and crossed-out ideas. The creative chaos was part of the method. He didn't write from outlines; he wrote from obsessions.

So 145 years after his death, what do we actually owe Dostoevsky? Not comfort. Not entertainment. Not even wisdom in the traditional sense. What he gave us is something far more dangerous and necessary: a mirror that doesn't flatter. In an age where every app, every platform, every cultural product is designed to tell you you're fine, you're great, keep scrolling — Dostoevsky remains the one voice saying, no, actually, stop. Look at yourself. Not the curated version. The real one. The one who's capable of both extraordinary compassion and breathtaking cruelty, sometimes in the same afternoon.

That's his gift, and it's also his curse on us. You can't unread Dostoevsky. Once you've been through "The Brothers Karamazov," the world looks different — messier, more painful, but also somehow more honest. And honestly, in 2026, couldn't we all use a little more of that?