Straight after Raskolnikov, I’ve been letting my soul go for a ride with another reprehensible protagonist: the unnamed photographer of Antonioni’s Blow-up, played by David Hemmings as a bored playboy, who in one scene reminds me of a remark by Marc, commenting on my last: 
“Every time I ever pointed to a passing girl or woman and, in a commanding voice, said ‘You! Come over here,’ they did so”—as indeed in the scene where Hemmings commands Vanessa Redgrave to sit on the sofa. (NB, it’s Varuschka, not Redgrave, in the photo.) She surprises herself by meekly obeying, but then she’s come to get possession of the incriminating negatives and will stop at nothing. Other dolly-birds of the Swinging Sixties throw themselves at him, anything to be photographed, and they romp and strip in a roll of violet backdrop paper. But this was just the cappucino froth on the director’s intent: according to the audio commentary, “we impose a narrative on our life, forcing the inchoate reality to carry a meaning”. And then the commentator says, “All meaning is interpersonal,” explaining how Hemmings needs someone else to also see the corpse in the park, to validate that he didn’t just imagine it. The corpse is gone. So he joins in a game of tennis without a ball: the others believe in it, so he can too.
[the following was an attempt to tie together the different sections of the original post, now separated]
A becalmed schooner; Raskolnikov; the playboy photographer of Blow-up; Dostoyevsky; the current Archbishop of Canterbury; the late mincer in my late grandmother’s late kitchen. What do these have in common? Only this, that as in life, as in a Dostoyevsky novel or an Antonioni film, they may suggest different perspectives.