On the back of my copy of Fyodor Dostoevsky’s 1869 novel The Idiot, there’s a quote from A.C. Grayling that tells you what to think of it. ‘One of the most excoriating, compelling and remarkable books ever written,’ it reads, ‘and without question one of the greatest.’ That ‘without question’ bothered me. Why assume that every classic deserves its reputation? We should make up our own minds after having read one, as we do with any other book.  

Burnham’s tour of Britain is pure narcissism

David Miliband would be a disastrous foreign secretary

Thomas Tuchel has done the impossible: he’s made me love the Germans

That wasn’t the only reason why I treated Grayling’s claims with scepticism as I edged my way into this gargantuan novel (I can’t remember exactly when that was, but I know I was a much younger man at the time). Having kicked and dragged myself through the same author’s late ‘masterpiece’ The Brothers Karamazov (1880) last year, I knew what I was in for. And now, having almost finished The Idiot, I can say with confidence that Dostoevsky is a dreadful writer. Dreadful.   

I don’t say this lightly. I am a patient, generous reader (also a professional reviewer) and I have given Dostoevsky plenty of time to prove my first impressions........

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