Marmeladov. Man’s capacity for suffering being far greater than what is required by evolutionary adaptation, surely it must be of metaphysical import? How do we find out? How do we react to being the captive, tortured insects of such a capacity for suffering? You push it to it’s limit, like Marmeladov, you search it’s depths for some form of illumination. You refuse to be an unwilling victim, and, instead, will it’s intensification. But only, of course, if you are Marmeladov, cradled in the benign providence of Dostoyevsky.