White Nights

“It was a wonderful night, the kind of night which is only possible when we are young.”

I approached White Nights with curiosity and an open mind, aware of its reputation as a delicate, melancholic tale of youthful longing and the human need for connection. Yet, despite its many admirers and the recent surge in popularity—fueled largely by BookTok influencers and endless tea reels—I found myself frustrated, detached, and frankly unimpressed.

The young man is dreamy to a fault—too naïve, too desperate, and far too ethereal to feel like a real person. He “protests too much,” as if clinging to an ideal of love rather than experiencing it. Nastenka, on the other hand, isn’t just a fragile, weeping girl—she’s a calculated manipulator wrapped in a pretty sob story. Her tears aren’t signs of weakness but weapons aimed to entangle the dreamer in her self-centred drama. She knew exactly what she was doing all along: milking his desperation for attention and comfort, then dropping him without a second thought. No innocence here—just cold, strategic emotional theatre. Together, they form one of the most exasperating “couples” in literature—two lonely souls wrapped up in their own emotional whirlwinds but lacking genuine chemistry or empathy.

Yet, I can’t deny that Dostoevsky’s novella strips the human soul bare in its reflections on loneliness, silence, and the pain of unfulfilled dreams. His insights into how deeply we understand others’ unhappiness when we ourselves are hurt are thoughtful and timeless. But these moments are few and far between, scattered amid dialogue that often feels juvenile and melodramatic, and a narrative tone that rarely sustains a believable atmosphere.

It’s no secret that White Nights has recently become a darling of social media, especially BookTok, where emotional intensity is sometimes mistaken for literary depth. I am sceptical of the frenzy—and honestly, it feels more like romanticising a lost innocence than engaging with a fully realized story. Who am I to judge Dostoyevsky, or the legions of wannabe influencers who have likely never read another book but flood the internet with vapid tea reels? But my frustration stands: this novella didn’t move me in the way so many claim.

Let’s be real. These two characters? They don’t need to be adored; they need a reality check. The dreamer is a pathetic mess—clinging to an idea of love like a drowning man to driftwood. He’s more a ghost than a person, lost in his own desperate fantasy, incapable of genuine connection.

Nastenka? She’s a minx of the highest order—a self-serving drama queen who weaponises her tears and vulnerability like a pro. She knows exactly what she’s doing: playing the dreamer for all he’s worth, soaking up attention and comfort without giving a damn in return. She treats him like a consolation prize, a warm body to fill the void while waiting for the “real” love to come back.

Their so-called “love story” is nothing more than a masterclass in emotional manipulation and self-absorption. They’re two lonely people caught in a circle of neediness and theatrical sadness, with zero chemistry and zero growth.

And yet, thanks to social media hype and BookTok’s obsession with manufactured emotional intensity, this tired, overwrought novella has been elevated to some kind of romantic ideal.

Here’s the truth: White Nights isn’t the soaring ode to love and loneliness it’s cracked up to be. It’s a theatrical farce dressed in the guise of a poignant tale, and if you want to read something genuinely moving, you’ll have to look elsewhere.

“And you regret that the momentary beauty faded so quickly, so irretrievably, that it flashed before you so deceptively and in vain — you regret this because there was not time for you even to fall in love with her…”

In the end, White Nights is like watching a beautiful painting from a distance—there is technique and occasional tenderness, but the emotional pull never quite reaches me. It remains an important literary piece with meaningful themes, but for me, it was more an exercise in observation than immersion. I can appreciate its place in literature without sharing the hype that currently surrounds it.

My reviews can also be found on https://theopinionatedreaderblog.wordpress.com/