Raskalnikov. Sensitive student. Genius. Killer.

Oscar from the Office. Accountant. Gay. Kind of a jerk.

At the outset, it seems like there’s very little in common between these two. Oscar sits in his cubicle, complains every now and then, and makes small quips about other office workers. Raskalnikov bounces between moments of paranoia and mania to moments of bizarre calm that eventually lead him to killing a cranky old woman and her sister.

But there’s more going on between the scenes, something that binds these two men and can help us understand them, as well as ourselves.

What is it?

Think about the way Raskalnikov behaves before and after he kills the old lady. He is obsessed with justifying himself. Immediately afterwords, he is constantly telling himself why he was right to kill the woman, why he needed to and why he could have done nothing else. He is fixated on the idea that he had to test whether he was a “great man” like Napoleon. Even after he confesses, even after his own emotions betray him, making him do what his brain would not allow him to do, he cannot confess to himself. He cannot allow himself to understand his own horrible, horrendous actions.

Oscar, in fact, lives a very similar life to the one Raskalnikov led. Every day, the man wakes up, frustrated with his life, bitter at the world he lives in. This manifests itself in the way he complains about the people around him. He’s always finding a reason to criticize his boss, his coworkers, even people that have never done anything to him. There are very few moments where Oscar seems genuinely happy. Sometimes, his frustrations even come out in bizarre ways, like a recent episode in which he smashed a car apart because the driver had locked his dog inside.

Oscar and Raskalnikov are prototypes of the classically frustrated man. Never happy. Never content. Always empty. There seems to be no actual content to their lives, except for the way they react to the world around them.

They see themselves as intellectuals. They think, they ponder, they gesticulate. The moment someone gives them a chance to talk about something intelligent, they grasp the opportunity and seize it, as if their lives depends on it.

And in a way they do. There is no way either Raskalnikov or Oscar could live with themselves if they weren’t intellectualizing every moment of their lives.

Raskalnikov has his deep-seeded guilt. Guilt that he couldn’t face for years. Even after prostrating himself on the ground in public, even after admitting his crime, even after years in a prison, he couldn’t admit his guilt to the one person that really needed to hear that he was responsible for the death of the two women: himself.

And Oscar. Imagine if Oscar admitted to himself that the reason he is so angry all the time is because he hates his job. Because he isn’t living the life he is made to be living. Imagine if he finally realized that smashing the windows of a car was really the behavior of someone that just can’t handle his meaningless life anymore.

Recently, I was talking with someone who asked me why I can’t even intellectually accept the possibility that G-d doesn’t exist.

I came up with a few reasons, intellectualizing my lack of intellectualizing. But after going back and forth with this person for a while, I realized something.

The reason I can’t admit that possibility to myself is that deep within me, beyond a world of intellect, beyond the most profound thoughts of the most insightful philosopher, is something I simply can’t deny: that I will believe in the existence of G-d even if the most obvious proof in the world is brought to bear against me.

It’s only when we admit these things to ourselves, it’s only when we realize that intellect is, in fact, a very shallow part of our consciousness that we can really, truly live the lives we are meant to live.

Raskalnikov tries to reason the guilt in his heart away. Oscar uses logic to distract him from a reality he doesn’t want to face.

In the end, though, no matter how logical they are, there exists a truth within their hearts. And until they acknowledge the truth, they are in a prison. Raskalnikov existed in bars within bars. A metaphysical prison within a real prison. Oscar lives in a prison within a cubicle.

From these characters, we can learn that until we accept that there is more to our nature than reason, we will forever live in in a prison of deceit. Until we accept that there is, in our very essence, a part of us that is completely unreasonable, logic will only be a weapon we cut ourselves down with.

But when we free ourselves, as Raskalnikov did at the end of Crime and Punishment, when we realize that, in the end, whatever we truly believe in, whether it be G-d or anything else, is in a deep, true part of ourselves, that has nothing to do with logic, our hearts are let out of their cage, and we are free to lead the life we were meant to live.