Table of Contents
In Notes from Underground, Dostoevsky describes the psychology of the underground man. He is someone you may relate to, and in the unlikely event that you do not at all relate to him, it is likely that you know people that do.
The underground man is rational, intelligent, and perceptive. He claims to be afflicted with an “acute consciousness”, he thinks too much and does too little. And he hates and envies those men of action who do things without thinking, and without fear.
To him, these men are stupid, and he would not wish to be stupid, but at least they seem happy and content – it is a better way to live than being underground. In the end of the story, he encounters a prostitute. In a cynical effort to yield power over her (something he likes to do with people, even his friends), he convinces her to leave her destitute life and find love. She listens to him, but then, when she goes to his house, she discovers that he lives in poverty. Ashamed of this, and angered by her description of her experience of love, he snaps at her. He confesses his real intentions, that he has no interest in saving her, that he doesn’t care at all about her, or anyone else.
She breaks down as a result of all this, but he is unmoved, he takes a sinister pleasure in it all. After living underground for 40 years, his mind has become warped and twisted. He only looks for contrasts and asymmetries in everything, he is afraid of following his instinct, he thinks of himself as superior to others, but also as an inferior mouse. incapable of any real vengeance, who can only brood in silence, and grow bitter and resentful. This paradoxical thought, of wanting to be superior to everyone, and wielding power over them while at the same time acknowledging his inferiority and cowardice describes perfectly the predicament of the underground man.
Chapter 1
Being “something” is only reserved for naïve fools…
I could not become anything; neither good nor bad; neither a scoundrel nor an honest man; neither a hero nor an insect. And now I am eking out my days in my corner, taunting myself with the bitter and entirely useless consolation that an intelligent man cannot seriously become anything, that only a fool can become something.
Chapter 2
The underground man understands that it is tragic, the way his life turned out, but he refuses to take any blame for it. He instead blames the inertia of his acute consciousness. He thinks of himself as a mistaken creation – as the antithesis to the normal man, who is not fussed about war, who acts confidently and relishes life. He is instead like a mouse, cowering in his own corner, and afraid of confrontation.
Chapter 3
The normal man is stupid, but perhaps man should be stupid, there is a beauty to it. Even if the mouse wants revenge, it will only do so behind the stove, incognito. it does not believe in its right to revenge, or in the success of its attempts at revenge.
Chapter 5
The underground man has suffered too, he has done what normal men have done, but when he has done so, he did it in a self-mocking way. He has experienced the lows of love, but too self-consciously, he only took it cynically. Direct persons, men of action are active because they are stupid and limited. Why? because they mistake immediate and secondary causes for primary ones, and so they convince other people and themselves that they have found an infallible foundation for their activity, and their minds are at ease.
What is to be done with the millions of facts that bear witness that men, CONSCIOUSLY, that is fully understanding their real interests, have left them in the background and have rushed headlong on another path, to meet peril and danger, compelled to this course by nobody and by nothing, but, as it were, simply disliking the beaten track, and have obstinately, wilfully, struck out another difficult, absurd way, seeking it almost in the darkness.
He then speaks about a friend who speaks about how to act in accordance with reason and truth. And this man will speak passionately and excitedly about the normal interests of man, and with irony, he will mock the short-sighted fools who don’t know what is good for them. And then suddenly, within a quarter of an hour, he contradicts himself.
But he does not blame his friend, for his friend is a victim of what all people are victims of.
The fact is, gentlemen, it seems there must really exist something that is dearer to almost every man than his greatest advantages, or (not to be illogical) there is a most advantageous advantage….for the sake of which a man if necessary is ready to act in opposition to all laws; that is, in opposition to reason, honour, peace, prosperity — in fact, in opposition to all those excellent and useful things if only he can attain that fundamental, most advantageous advantage which is dearer to him than all.
He is speaking here of individuality.
Chapter 8
The underground man tells us about a false assumption that we make: by being more civilized, by building and adopting more systems, we will become more peaceful, and softer, but the truth is not so.
Only look about you: blood is being spilt in streams, and in the merriest way, as though it were champagne. Take the whole of the nineteenth century in which Buckle lived. Take Napoleon — the Great and also the present one. Take North America — the eternal union… The only gain of civilisation for mankind is the greater capacity for variety of sensations — and absolutely nothing more. And through the development of this many- sidedness man may come to finding enjoyment in bloodshed.
Cleopatra liked sticking gold pins into the breasts of her slave girls, and derived pleasure from hearing them scream. You might think that these were barbarous times but even today, such barbarism exists. Even though man has become more rational, he does not act according to science and reason. Paradise will not be built, because boredom and stupidity will cause man to rebel against reason and turn to violence.
Of course boredom may lead you to anything. It is boredom sets one sticking golden pins into people, but all that would not matter. What is bad (this is my comment again) is that I dare say people will be thankful for the gold pins then. Man is stupid, you know, phenomenally stupid; or rather he is not at all stupid, but he is so ungrateful that you could not find another like him in all creation.
What man really wants is not peace or prosperity, what he wants is simply independent choice, whatever that may cost, and wherever it may lead. Reason is an excellent thing, but it is limited.
Reason is nothing but reason and satisfies only the rational side of man’s nature, while will is a manifestation of the whole life, that is, of the whole human life including reason and all the impulses. And although our life, in this manifestation of it, is often worthless, yet it is life and not simply extracting square roots. Here I, for instance, quite naturally want to live, in order to satisfy all my capacities for life, and not simply my capacity for reasoning, that is, not simply one twentieth of my capacity for life.
Reason can only know what it succeeds in learning, but there will be many things it will never learn, and that is cold comfort. Even if we assume that man is not stupid (if man is stupid, then who is wise) he is still monstrously ungrateful. But that is not his worst quality, what’s worse is his amorality and lack of good sense.
You can say what you want about the history of the world, but you cannot say it is rational. The strange thing is that moral and rational sages constantly turn up, lovers of humanity who make it their goal to live a good life, to be a light to their neighbors, simply to show them that a moral and rational existence is possible. But sooner or later, these people will be false to themselves, as if playing an unseemly, queer trick.
Now I ask you: what can be expected of man since he is a being endowed with strange qualities? Shower upon him every earthly blessing, drown him in a sea of happiness, so that nothing but bubbles of bliss can be seen on the surface; give him economic prosperity, such that he should have nothing else to do but sleep, eat cakes and busy himself with the continuation of his species, and even then out of sheer ingratitude, sheer spite, man would play you some nasty trick. He would even risk his cakes and would deliberately desire the most fatal rubbish, the most uneconomical absurdity, simply to introduce into all this positive good sense his fatal fantastic element. It is just his fantastic dreams, his vulgar folly that he will desire to retain, simply in order to prove to himself — as though that were so necessary — that men still are men and not the keys of a piano, which the laws of nature threaten to control so completely that soon one will be able to desire nothing but by the calendar.
Man will do anything to prove he is not a piano key, and even if science proved to him that he was nothing but a piano key, he would still not become reasonable, but would do something perverse out of plain ingratitude, just to prove his point.
Chapter 9
You may feel tempted to cure men of their bad habits and reform them, but do you know that it is possible to do so? Do you even know if it is desirable? What makes you so sure that man’s inclinations need reforming?
Man likes to build structures and destroy them, unlike ants. It is as if he is afraid of living in what he has created or being too close to it. Maybe he can only love at a distance. He is a frivolous, incongruous creature, and perhaps what he enjoys, like a chess player, is the process of the game, and not the end of it. Absolute certainty is not the beginning of life to him, but the beginning of death – he is afraid of mathematical certainty.
Chapter 11
The underground man concludes that it is better to do nothing, to simply be conscious and to go underground. He envies the normal man but does not want to be in his place.
No, no; anyway the underground life is more advantageous. There, at any rate, one can . . . Oh, but even now I am lying! I am lying because I know myself that it is not underground that is better, but something different, quite different, for which I am thirsting, but which I cannot find! Damn underground!
The underground man knows that the answer does not exist where he is, but he is not certain where to find it. He then composes a rebuke to his past statements.
“Isn’t that shameful, isn’t that humiliating?” you will say, perhaps, wagging your heads contemptuously. “You thirst for life and try to settle the problems of life by a logical tangle. And how persistent, how insolent are your sallies, and at the same time what a scare you are in! You talk nonsense and are pleased with it; you say impudent things and are in continual alarm and apologising for them. You declare that you are afraid of nothing and at the same time try to ingratiate yourself in our good opinion. You declare that you are gnashing your teeth and at the same time you try to be witty so as to amuse us. You know that your witticisms are not witty, but you are evidently well satisfied with their literary value. You may, perhaps, have really suffered, but you have no respect for your own suffering. You may have sincerity, but you have no modesty; out of the pettiest vanity you expose your sincerity to publicity and ignominy. You doubtlessly mean to say something, but hide your last word through fear, because you have not the resolution to utter it, and only have a cowardly impudence. You boast of consciousness, but you are not sure of your ground, for though your mind works, yet your heart is darkened and corrupt, and you cannot have a full, genuine consciousness without a pure heart. And how intrusive you are, how you insist and grimace! Lies, lies, lies!”
He says this as if to prove that he is aware of what one can counter with, he has already thought about it. He is not sure why he writes at all, it may be because he is a coward, perhaps he imagines an audience to feel more dignified, and perhaps it is to help.
Again, what is my object precisely in writing? If it is not for the benefit of the public why should I not simply recall these incidents in my own mind without putting them on paper?
Yet it may be that it is more imposing and impressive on paper, he can better criticize himself and improve upon his style. Perhaps writing is even a form of relief. And sometimes, writing can help get rid of past memories that seem to haunt him continuously. And maybe it is because he is bored and has nothing else to do. Writing is a kind of work, and they say that work makes man kind-hearted and honest. Maybe writing offers him a chance out.
Chapter 12
Valiance belongs to donkeys and mules, not to men. The underground man is proudly a coward. Sometimes, he does not feel like speaking to anyone, and at other times, he feels like becoming friends with some. But he was usually alone. He spent most of his time reading – it was a source of excitement, pleasure, and pain. But it was sometimes boring. Movement was what he craved the most, but he only had reading as a way out.
I had no resource except reading, that is, there was nothing in my surroundings which I could respect and which attracted me. I was overwhelmed with depression, too; I had an hysterical craving for incongruity and for contrast, and so I took to vice.
Dreams offered another way out, and they could transport him into new situations.
Chapter 14
He looked down on his friends from school, he believed that they didn’t know anything about real life, that they understood nothing. They heartlessly laughed at what was oppressed and looked down upon. They favored rank for intelligence, this was due to their stupidity and bad examples they were surrounded with during childhood. They were depraved, and even that was superficial and cynical. And even though there was a freshness to them, it was not attractive. The underground man hated them, even though he may have been worse than they were. Yet he did have a friend.
Indeed, I did have a friend. But I was already a tyrant at heart; I wanted to exercise unbounded sway over him; I tried to instil into him a contempt for his surroundings; I required of him a disdainful and complete break with those surroundings. I frightened him with my passionate affection; I reduced him to tears, to hysterics. He was a simple and devoted soul; but when he devoted himself to me entirely I began to hate him immediately and repulsed him — as though all I needed him for was to win a victory over him, to subjugate him and nothing else.
Chapter 17
He recalls his encounter with a prostitute named Liza. They have a conversation, and he tells her about a father who loved his daughter more than anyone else. He was stingy, but with her he was not. He said that he could not let his daughters marry for he would love them too much.
The prostitute was intrigued, the underground man felt that his words were successfully influencing her, and continued.
I should worry myself to death; I should find fault with all her suitors. But I should end by letting her marry whom she herself loved. The one whom the daughter loves always seems the worst to the father, you know. That is always so. So many family troubles come from that.”
He then tells her about the joys of marriage, and how a husband can give her true happiness, and how she should change her life.
Chapter 18
One can only come here when one is drunk. But if you were anywhere else, living as good people live, I should perhaps be more than attracted by you, should fall in love with you, should be glad of a look from you, let alone a word; I should hang about your door, should go down on my knees to you, should look upon you as my betrothed and think it an honour to be allowed to. I should not dare to have an impure thought about you. But here, you see, I know that I have only to whistle and you have to come with me whether you like it or not.
The prostitute tells him about a student she danced with for a night, who she has hopes to be with, cheerfully and naively. But the underground man reacts angrily to this and tells her the real reason why she came to him.
“I’ll tell you, my good girl, why you have come. You’ve come because I talked sentimental stuff to you then. So now you are soft as butter and longing for fine sentiments again. So you may as well know that I was laughing at you then. And I am laughing at you now. Why are you shuddering? Yes, I was laughing at you! I had been insulted just before, at dinner, by the fellows who came that evening before me. I came to you, meaning to thrash one of them, an officer; but I didn’t succeed, I didn’t find him; I had to avenge the insult on someone to get back my own again; you turned up, I vented my spleen on you and laughed at you. I had been humiliated, so I wanted to humiliate; I had been treated like a rag, so I wanted to show my power.”
The cynicism of the underground man overwhelmed Liza. Power and sport was all he wanted, he wanted nothing but to humiliate her, because he is a wretched creature, and he was frightened.
I hated you already because of the lies I had told you. Because I only like playing with words, only dreaming, but, do you know, what I really want is that you should all go to hell. That is what I want. I want peace; yes, I’d sell the whole world for a farthing, straight off, so long as I was left in peace… Did you know that, or not? Well, anyway, I know that I am a blackguard, a scoundrel, an egoist, a sluggard.
Chapter 21
Even in his dreams his ideas of love were a struggle, they began with hatred and ended with moral subjugation, but he would never know what to do with his subjugated subject.
And what is there to wonder at in that, since I had succeeded in so corrupting myself, since I was so out of touch with “real life,” as to have actually thought of reproaching her, and putting her to shame for having come to me to hear “fine sentiments”; and did not even guess that she had come not to hear fine sentiments, but to love me, because to a woman all reformation, all salvation from any sort of ruin, and all moral renewal is included in love and can only show itself in that form.
He did not hate her, but was so oppressed by the underground world, that he just wanted to be left alone. Real life oppressed him so much with its novelty that he could hardly breathe.
And, indeed, I will ask on my own account here, an idle question: which is better — cheap happiness or exalted sufferings? Well, which is better?
He never saw Liza again. The underground spoiled his life by morally rotting in his corner, by divorcing himself from real life and rankling spite.
We are so divorced from it that we feel at once a sort of loathing for real life, and so cannot bear to be reminded of it. Why, we have come almost to looking upon real life as an effort, almost as hard work, and we are all privately agreed that it is better in books. And why do we fuss and fume sometimes? Why are we perverse and ask for something else? We don’t know what ourselves. It would be the worse for us if our petulant prayers were answered.
We think we want independence but even if were given it, even if our hands were untied, we would beg to be under control once again.
As for what concerns me in particular I have only in my life carried to an extreme what you have not dared to carry halfway, and what’s more, you have taken your cowardice for good sense, and have found comfort in deceiving yourselves. So that perhaps, after all, there is more life in me than in you.
If you leave us without books, we will be lost and confused at once. We would not know what to join onto or cling to, what to love or hate, what to respect or despise. We are oppressed at being men, with a real body and blood, we are ashamed of it, so we try to contrive some kind of impossible generalized man.
We are stillborn, and for generations past have been begotten, not by living fathers, and that suits us better and better. We are developing a taste for it. Soon we shall contrive to be born somehow from an idea. But enough; I don’t want to write more from “Underground.”