I have read

Фёдор Достоевский, Идіотъ (1868-1869)
Лев Толстой, Война и мир (1869) - in progress...
Ewa M. Thompson, Imperial Knowledge. Russian Literature and Colonialism (2000)

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I have written

... nothing ...

reading Russia as a palimpsest

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Is it a privilege to know Russian? This idea came to me for the first time while reading George Steiner's Errata. The comparativist's autobiography contains a lament concerning "doors that remained unopened", one of them the world of great Russian novelists read in the original. Myself, I learned Russian under duress, at school, in total for some nine years, which is a lot for a language that is not so distant from my mother tongue; but it was enforced, and we saw it as the language of the enemy. This is why my Russian is hardly at the level of those nine years of formal education. Actually, it is rather laborious for me to read Cyrillic, laborious enough to make me abandon any book after a couple of pages. Nonetheless, I enjoy audiobooks with Russian literature, specially if it is some light reading, like a little novella of Chekhov. Be that as it may, I have some Russian books in my Polyglot Library, especially Dostoevsky. I'm sure to have Anna Karenina, and others. I remember to have searched for them on my last trip to Kiev, not quite sure what I actually found and bought; between one of those travels of mine and another, I missed enough time to unpack and read all my books.
During my school years I might have read some verses of Pushkin. If I gathered my wits, I might even be able to quote a verse from memory. But my perspective on Russian authors needed time to turn from resentfully hostile to postcolonial. I see through them all those underlying layers of landscapes, peoples, languages, identities of Caucasus, Central Asia, Siberia. No wonder that, rather than one Russian literature, many literatures of Russia exist for me. Not only just Myshkin, Dostoevsky's Idiot.  
It used to be the other way around. Europe and the western world used to see Russia, the imperial, metropolitan Russia, and nothing but her. I would rather see the peoples of Russia, and nothing but them. The Yakuts, the Buryats, the Kalmyks, the Chechens, the Circassians. Dostoevsky, Chekhov hardly form a background, a context for all of them. Certainly, there is a Bulgakov, and other metropolitan writers. I do keep them, under a thick cover of dust, in my Multilingual Library. But my real interest resides very far from Moscow, in the wilderness. 
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Kraków -Neuville-sur-Oise - Kraków again...