Notes From Underground by Fyodor Dostoevsky

Notes from Underground !

Dostoevsky,*Fyodo r*!

Translator!Garnett,!Constance!

PART I

Underground

I AM A SICK MAN.... I am a spiteful man. I am an unattractive man. I believe my liver is diseased.

However, I know nothing at all about my disease, and do not know for certain what ails me. I don't consult

a doctor for it, and never have, though I have a respect for medicine and doctors. Besides, I am extremely

superstitious, sufficiently so to respect medicine, anyway (I am well-educated enough not to be

superstitious, but I am superstitious). No, I refuse to consult a doctor from spite. That you probably will not

understand. Well, I understand it, though. Of course, I can't explain who it is precisely that I am mortifying

in this case by my spite: I am perfectly well aware that I cannot "pay out" the doctors by not consulting

them; I know better than anyone that by all this I am only injuring myself and no one else. But still, if I

don't consult a doctor it is from spite. My liver is bad, well -- let it get worse!

I have been going on like that for a long time -- twenty years.

I want now to tell you, gentlemen, whether you care to hear it or not, why I could not even become an

insect. I tell you solemnly, that I have many times tried to become an insect. But I was not equal even to

that. I swear, gentlemen, that to be too conscious is an illness -- a real thorough-going illness. For man's

everyday needs, it would have been quite enough to have the ordinary human consciousness, that is, half or

a quarter of the amount which falls to the lot of a cultivated man of our unhappy nineteenth century,

especially one who has the fatal ill-luck to inhabit Petersburg, the most theoretical and intentional town on

the whole terrestrial globe. (There are intentional and unintentional towns.) It would have been quite

enough, for instance, to have the consciousness by which all so-called direct persons and men of action

live. I bet you think I am writing all this from affectation, to be witty at the expense of men of action; and

what is more, that from ill-bred affectation, I am clanking a sword like my officer. But, gentlemen,

whoever can pride himself on his diseases and even swagger over them?

Though, after all, everyone does do that; people do pride themselves on their diseases, and I do, may be,

more than anyone. We will not dispute it; my contention was absurd. But yet I am firmly persuaded that a

great deal of consciousness, every sort of consciousness, in fact, is a disease. I stick to that. Let us leave

that, too, for a minute. Tell me this: why does it happen that at the very, yes, at the very moments when I

am most capable of feeling every refinement of all that is "sublime and beautiful," as they used to say at

one time, it would, as though of design, happen to me not only to feel but to do such ugly things, such that

... Well, in short, actions that all, perhaps, commit; but which, as though purposely, occurred to me at the

very time when I was most conscious that they ought not to be committed. The more conscious I was of

goodness and of all that was "sublime and beautiful," the more deeply I sank into my mire and the more

ready I was to sink in it altogether. But the chief point was that all this was, as it were, not accidental in me,

but as though it were bound to be so. It was as though it were my most normal condition, and not in the

least disease or depravity, so that at last all desire in me to struggle against this depravity passed. It ended

by my almost believing (perhaps actually believing) that this was perhaps my normal condition. But at first,

in the beginning, what agonies I endured in that struggle! I did not believe it was the same with other

people, and all my life I hid this fact about myself as a secret. I was ashamed (even now, perhaps, I am

ashamed): I got to the point of feeling a sort of secret abnormal, despicable enjoyment in returning home to

my corner on some disgusting Petersburg night, acutely conscious that that day I had committed a

loathsome action again, that what was done could never be undone, and secretly, inwardly gnawing,

gnawing at myself for it, tearing and consuming myself till at last the bitterness turned into a sort of

Existentialism! Dostoevsky: Notes From Underground—2!

shameful accursed sweetness, and at last -- into positive real enjoyment! Yes, into enjoyment, into

enjoyment! I insist upon that. I have spoken of this because I keep wanting to know for a fact whether other

people feel such enjoyment? I will explain; the enjoyment was just from the too intense consciousness of

one's own degradation; it was from feeling oneself that one had reached the last barrier, that it was horrible,

but that it could not be otherwise; that there was no escape for you; that you never could become a different

man; that even if time and faith were still left you to change into something different you would most likely

not wish to change; or if you did wish to, even then you would do nothing; because perhaps in reality there

was nothing for you to change into.

And the worst of it was, and the root of it all, that it was all in accord with the normal fundamental laws

of over-acute consciousness, and with the inertia that was the direct result of those laws, and that

consequently one was not only unable to change but could do absolutely nothing. Thus it would follow, as

the result of acute consciousness, that one is not to blame in being a scoundrel; as though that were any

consolation to the scoundrel once he has come to realise that he actually is a scoundrel. But enough.... Ech,

I have talked a lot of nonsense, but what have I explained? How is enjoyment in this to be explained? But I

will explain it. I will get to the bottom of it! That is why I have taken up my pen....

I, for instance, have a great deal of amour propre. I am as suspicious and prone to take offence as a

humpback or a dwarf. But upon my word I sometimes have had moments when if I had happened to be

slapped in the face I should, perhaps, have been positively glad of it. I say, in earnest, that I should

probably have been able to discover even in that a peculiar sort of enjoyment -- the enjoyment, of course, of

despair; but in despair there are the most intense enjoyments, especially when one is very acutely conscious

of the hopelessness of one's position. And when one is slapped in the face -- why then the consciousness of

being rubbed into a pulp would positively overwhelm one. The worst of it is, look at it which way one will,

it still turns out that I was always the most to blame in everything. And what is most humiliating of all, to

blame for no fault of my own but, so to say, through the laws of nature. In the first place, to blame because

I am cleverer than any of the people surrounding me. (I have always considered myself cleverer than any of

the people surrounding me, and sometimes, would you believe it, have been positively ashamed of it. At

any rate, I have all my life, as it were, turned my eyes away and never could look people straight in the

face.) To blame, finally, because even if I had had magnanimity, I should only have had more suffering

from the sense of its uselessness. I should certainly have never been able to do anything from being

magnanimous -- neither to forgive, for my assailant would perhaps have slapped me from the laws of

nature, and one cannot forgive the laws of nature; nor to forget, for even if it were owing to the laws of

nature, it is insulting all the same. Finally, even if I had wanted to be anything but magnanimous, had

desired on the contrary to revenge myself on my assailant, I could not have revenged myself on any one for

anything because I should certainly never have made up my mind to do anything, even if I had been able to.

Why should I not have made up my mind? About that in particular I want to say a few words.

III

With people who know how to revenge themselves and to stand up for themselves in general, how is it

done? Why, when they are possessed, let us suppose, by the feeling of revenge, then for the time there is

nothing else but that feeling left in their whole being. Such a gentleman simply dashes straight for his

object like an infuriated bull with its horns down, and nothing but a wall will stop him. (By the way: facing

the wall, such gentlemen -- that is, the "direct" persons and men of action -- are genuinely nonplussed. For

them a wall is not an evasion, as for us people who think and consequently do nothing; it is not an excuse

for turning aside, an excuse for which we are always very glad, though we scarcely believe in it ourselves,

as a rule. No, they are nonplussed in all sincerity. The wall has for them something tranquillising, morally

soothing, final-maybe even something mysterious ... but of the wall later.)

Well, such a direct person I regard as the real normal man, as his tender mother nature wished to see him

when she graciously brought him into being on the earth. I envy such a man till I am green in the face. He

is stupid. I am not disputing that, but perhaps the normal man should be stupid, how do you know? Perhaps

it is very beautiful, in fact. And I am the more persuaded of that suspicion, if one can call it so, by the fact

that if you take, for instance, the antithesis of the normal man, that is, the man of acute consciousness, who

has come, of course, not out of the lap of nature but out of a retort (this is almost mysticism, gentlemen, but

I suspect this, too), this retort-made man is sometimes so nonplussed in the presence of his antithesis that

Existentialism! Dostoevsky: Notes From Underground—3!

with all his exaggerated consciousness he genuinely thinks of himself as a mouse and not a man. It may be

an acutely conscious mouse, yet it is a mouse, while the other is a man, and therefore, et caetera, et caetera.

And the worst of it is, he himself, his very own self, looks on himself as a mouse; no one asks him to do so;

and that is an important point. Now let us look at this mouse in action. Let us suppose, for instance, that it

feels insulted, too (and it almost always does feel insulted), and wants to revenge itself, too. There may

even be a greater accumulation of spite in it than in l'homme de la nature et de la vérité. The base and nasty

desire to vent that spite on its assailant rankles perhaps even more nastily in it than in l'homme de la nature

et de la vérité . For through his innate stupidity the latter looks upon his revenge as justice pure and simple;

while in consequence of his acute consciousness the mouse does not believe in the justice of it. To come at

last to the deed itself, to the very act of revenge. Apart from the one fundamental nastiness the luckless

mouse succeeds in creating around it so many other nastinesses in the form of doubts and questions, adds to

the one question so many unsettled questions that there inevitably works up around it a sort of fatal brew, a

stinking mess, made up of its doubts, emotions, and of the contempt spat upon it by the direct men of action

who stand solemnly about it as judges and arbitrators, laughing at it till their healthy sides ache. Of course

the only thing left for it is to dismiss all that with a wave of its paw, and, with a smile of assumed contempt

in which it does not even itself believe, creep ignominiously into its mouse-hole. There in its nasty,

stinking, underground home our insulted, crushed and ridiculed mouse promptly becomes absorbed in cold,

malignant and, above all, everlasting spite. For forty years together it will remember its injury down to the

smallest, most ignominious details, and every time will add, of itself, details still more ignominious,

spitefully teasing and tormenting itself with its own imagination. It will itself be ashamed of its imaginings,

but yet it will recall it all, it will go over and over every detail, it will invent unheard of things against itself,

pretending that those things might happen, and will forgive nothing. Maybe it will begin to revenge itself,

too, but, as it were, piecemeal, in trivial ways, from behind the stove, incognito, without believing either in

its own right to vengeance, or in the success of its revenge, knowing that from all its efforts at revenge it

will suffer a hundred times more than he on whom it revenges itself, while he, I daresay, will not even

scratch himself. On its deathbed it will recall it all over again, with interest accumulated over all the years

and ...

But it is just in that cold, abominable half despair, half belief, in that conscious burying oneself alive for

grief in the underworld for forty years, in that acutely recognised and yet partly doubtful hopelessness of

one's position, in that hell of unsatisfied desires turned inward, in that fever of oscillations, of resolutions

determined for ever and repented of again a minute later -- that the savour of that strange enjoyment of

which I have spoken lies. It is so subtle, so difficult of analysis, that persons who are a little limited, or even

simply persons of strong nerves, will not understand a single atom of it. "Possibly," you will add on your

own account with a grin, "people will not understand it either who have never received a slap in the face,"

and in that way you will politely hint to me that I, too, perhaps, have had the experience of a slap in the

face in my life, and so I speak as one who knows. I bet that you are thinking that. But set your minds at

rest, gentlemen, I have not received a slap in the face, though it is absolutely a matter of indifference to me

what you may think about it. Possibly, I even regret, myself, that I have given so few slaps in the face

during my life. But enough ... not another word on that subject of such extreme interest to you.

I will continue calmly concerning persons with strong nerves who do not understand a certain refinement

of enjoyment. Though in certain circumstances these gentlemen bellow their loudest like bulls, though this,

let us suppose, does them the greatest credit, yet, as I have said already, confronted with the impossible

they subside at once. The impossible means the stone wall! What stone wall? Why, of course, the laws of

nature, the deductions of natural science, mathematics. As soon as they prove to you, for instance, that you

are descended from a monkey, then it is no use scowling, accept it for a fact. When they prove to you that

in reality one drop of your own fat must be dearer to you than a hundred thousand of your fellow-creatures,

and that this conclusion is the final solution of all so-called virtues and duties and all such prejudices and

fancies, then you have just to accept it, there is no help for it, for twice two is a law of mathematics. Just try

refuting it.

"Upon my word, they will shout at you, it is no use protesting: it is a case of twice two makes four!

Nature does not ask your permission, she has nothing to do with your wishes, and whether you like her

laws or dislike them, you are bound to accept her as she is, and consequently all her conclusions. A wall,

you see, is a wall ... and so on, and so on."

Merciful Heavens! but what do I care for the laws of nature and arithmetic, when, for some reason I

dislike those laws and the fact that twice two makes four? Of course I cannot break through the wall by

Overview

Notes From Underground by Fyodor Dostoevsky

Fyodor Dostoevsky's *Notes From Underground* delves into the psyche of an unnamed narrator, often referred to as the Underground Man, who grapples with themes of existentialism, free will, and societal alienation. Set against the backdrop of 19th-century St. Petersburg, the narrative explores the conflict between rationality and human emotion, as well as the struggle for identity in a conformist society. This work is essential for students of literature and philosophy, providing insight into the human condition and the complexities of consciousness. It serves as a foundational text for understanding existential thought and its implications in modern society. Key Points Explores the psychological turmoil of the Underground Man, a character embodying existential angst. Examines th…

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What are the main themes in Notes From Underground?

The primary themes in *Notes From Underground* include existentialism, free will, and the conflict between rationality and emotion. Dostoevsky explores how societal norms can alienate individuals, leading to a profound sense of isolation. The Underground Man's struggles reflect the complexities of human consciousness and the desire for authenticity in a conformist world. Additionally, the text critiques the rational egoism prevalent in 19th-century thought, showcasing the limitations of purely logical perspectives on human behavior.

Who is the protagonist of Notes From Underground?

The protagonist of *Notes From Underground* is an unnamed narrator known as the Underground Man. He is a retired civil servant living in St. Petersburg, characterized by his acute self-awareness and deep-seated resentment towards society. His internal monologue reveals his struggles with feelings of inadequacy, alienation, and existential despair. The Underground Man serves as a critique of the rationalist ideologies of his time, embodying the conflict between individual desires and societal expectations.

How does Dostoevsky portray the concept of free will in the novel?

Dostoevsky presents free will as a double-edged sword in *Notes From Underground*. The Underground Man believes that true freedom involves the ability to choose one's path, even if those choices lead to suffering or self-destruction. This perspective challenges the notion that rational decisions always lead to beneficial outcomes. Instead, Dostoevsky suggests that the complexity of human emotions and desires often complicates the exercise of free will, leading individuals to act against their own interests.

What is the significance of the setting in Notes From Underground?

The setting of *Notes From Underground* in 19th-century St. Petersburg is crucial to understanding the narrative's themes. The city represents the socio-political climate of the time, marked by rapid modernization and the emergence of new ideologies. Dostoevsky uses the urban environment to highlight the alienation and disconnection felt by the Underground Man. The oppressive atmosphere of St. Petersburg mirrors the protagonist's internal struggles, emphasizing the conflict between individual identity and societal pressures.

What is the structure of Notes From Underground?

The novel is divided into two distinct parts. The first part consists of the Underground Man's monologue, where he reflects on his life, thoughts, and feelings of alienation. This section serves as a philosophical exploration of his psyche and critiques societal norms. The second part presents a narrative involving his interactions with other characters, particularly a visit to a dinner party, which further illustrates his struggles with social engagement and personal relationships. This dual structure enhances the exploration of existential themes.

How does Notes From Underground influence modern literature?

Dostoevsky's *Notes From Underground* has had a profound impact on modern literature and existential thought. Its exploration of the human psyche paved the way for later existentialists, including Jean-Paul Sartre and Albert Camus. The novel's focus on individual consciousness and the complexities of free will resonates with contemporary themes in literature, psychology, and philosophy. Its influence can be seen in various works that examine the struggles of identity and the human condition in an increasingly complex world.