Generations of Russian (and other) writers have spent a lot of ink describing the unique characteristics of the "Russian soul." These have been variously defined as fatalism, a talent for endurance and suffering without complaint, as well as an emotional volatility, spontaneity, candor, and openheartedness not unlike a child's (or a saint's). Are such traits really specific to Russians and to Russian culture, or at least once specific to them and to it? For that matter, do you believe there is such a thing as a national character, and if so, what is (or was) the Russian national character? How is or was it different than say, the English or the American national character?
Just to get you thinking, here are two very famous poems by the Russian poet F.I. Tiutchev about the uniqueness of Russia in the landscape of the world. They are engraved in most Russians' hearts:
"Through reason Russia can’t be known,
No common yardstick can avail you:
She has a nature all her own –
Have faith in her, all else will fail you."
Feodor I. Tiutchev, 1866, translation by Alan Myers
"These poor villages, this humble landscape – native land of long suffering, land of the Russian people!
The foreigner’s haughty glance will not understand or notice that which shines dimly and mysteriously through your humble nakedness.
Weighed down by the burden of the cross, the King of Heaven, in the likeness of a servant, has walked up and down all of you, my native land, blessing you."
Feodor I. Tiutchev, 18??, translation by Dmitry Obolensky
And this is what Virginia Woolf had to say about the distinguishing characteristics of Russian literature from English literature:
"Indeed, it is the soul that is the chief character in Russian fiction. Delicate and subtle in Chekhov, subject to an infinite number of humours and distempers, it is of greater depth and volume in Dostoevsky; it is liable to violent diseases and raging fevers, but still the predominant concern [….] It is the soul that matters, its passion, its tumult, its astonishing medley of beauty and vileness […as] the elements of the soul are seen, not separately in scenes of passion or scenes of humour as our slower English minds conceive them, but streaked, involved, inextricably confused, a new panorama of the human mind is revealed. The old divisions melt into each other. Men are at the same time villains and saints; their acts are at once beautiful and despicable. We love and hate at the same time. There is none of that precise division between good and bad to which we are used. Often those we feel most affection for are the greatest criminals, and the most abject sinners move us to the strongest admiration as well as love… [no] restraints were laid on Dostoevsky. It is all the same to him whether you are a noble or simple, a tramp or a great lady. Whoever you are, you are the vessel of this perplexed liquid, this cloudy, yeasty, precious stuff, the soul. The soul is not restrained by barriers. It overflows, it floods, it mingles with the souls of others…"
Virginia Woolf, "The Russian Point of View," 1925