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NOTES FROM THE UNDERGROUND
By Fyodor Dostoevsky
Part I
___________________
*The author of the diary and the diary itself are, of course,
imaginary. Nevertheless it is clear that such persons as the
writer of these notes not only may, but positively must, exist
in our society, when we consider the circumstances in the
midst of which our society is formed. I have tried to expose
to the view of the public more distinctly than is commonly
done, one of the characters of the recent past. He is one of the
representatives of a generation still living. In this fragment,
entitled ‘Underground,’ this person introduces himself and
his views, and, as it were, tries to explain the causes owing to
which he has made his appearance and was bound to make
his appearance in our midst. In the second fragment there
are added the actual notes of this person concerning certain
events in his life. —AUTHOR’S NOTE.
I
I am a sick man. ... I am a spiteful man. I am an unattract-ive man. I believe my liver is diseased. However, I know
nothing at all about my disease, and do not know for cer-
tain what ails me. I don’t consult a doctor for it, and never
have, though I have a respect for medicine and doctors. Be-
sides, I am extremely superstitious, sufficiently so to respect
medicine, anyway (I am well-educated enough not to be su-
perstitious, 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. Now I am forty. I used to be in the government ser-
vice, but am no longer. I was a spiteful official. I was rude
and took pleasure in being so. I did not take bribes, you
see, so I was bound to find a recompense in that, at least.
(A poor jest, but I will not scratch it out. I wrote it thinking
it would sound very witty; but now that I have seen myself
that I only wanted to show off in a despicable way, I will not
Notes from the Underground
scratch it out on purpose!)
When petitioners used to come for information to the
table at which I sat, I used to grind my teeth at them, and
felt intense enjoyment when I succeeded in making any-
body unhappy. I almost did succeed. For the most part they
were all timid people—of course, they were petitioners. But
of the uppish ones there was one officer in particular I could
not endure. He simply would not be humble, and clanked
his sword in a disgusting way. I carried on a feud with him
for eighteen months over that sword. At last I got the better
of him. He left off clanking it. That happened in my youth,
though. But do you know, gentlemen, what was the chief
point about my spite? Why, the whole point, the real sting of
it lay in the fact that continually, even in the moment of the
acutest spleen, I was inwardly conscious with shame that I
was not only not a spiteful but not even an embittered man,
that I was simply scaring sparrows at random and amusing
myself by it. I might foam at the mouth, but bring me a doll
to play with, give me a cup of tea with sugar in it, and maybe
I should be appeased. I might even be genuinely touched,
though probably I should grind my teeth at myself after-
wards and lie awake at night with shame for months after.
That was my way.
I was lying when I said just now that I was a spiteful of-
ficial. I was lying from spite. I was simply amusing myself
with the petitioners and with the officer, and in reality I
never could become spiteful. I was conscious every moment
in myself of many, very many elements absolutely opposite
to that. I felt them positively swarming in me, these oppo-
Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com
site elements. I knew that they had been swarming in me
all my life and craving some outlet from me, but I would
not let them, would not let them, purposely would not let
them come out. They tormented me till I was ashamed: they
drove me to convulsions and—sickened me, at last, how
they sickened me! Now, are not you fancying, gentlemen,
that I am expressing remorse for something now, that I am
asking your forgiveness for something? I am sure you are
fancying that ... However, I assure you I do not care if you
are. ...
It was not only that I could not become spiteful, I did not
know how to become anything; neither spiteful nor kind,
neither a rascal nor an honest man, neither a hero nor an
insect. Now, I am living out my life in my corner, taunting
myself with the spiteful and useless consolation that an in-
telligent man cannot become anything seriously, and it is
only the fool who becomes anything. Yes, a man in the nine-
teenth century must and morally ought to be pre-eminently
a characterless creature; a man of character, an active man
is pre-eminently a limited creature. That is my conviction
of forty years. I am forty years old now, and you know forty
years is a whole lifetime; you know it is extreme old age. To
live longer than forty years is bad manners, is vulgar, im-
moral. Who does live beyond forty? Answer that, sincerely
and honestly I will tell you who do: fools and worthless fel-
lows. I tell all old men that to their face, all these venerable
old men, all these silver-haired and reverend seniors! I tell
the whole world that to its face! I have a right to say so, for
I shall go on living to sixty myself. To seventy! To eighty! ...
Notes from the Underground
Stay, let me take breath ...
You imagine no doubt, gentlemen, that I want to amuse
you. You are mistaken in that, too. I am by no means such
a mirthful person as you imagine, or as you may imagine;
however, irritated by all this babble (and I feel that you are
irritated) you think fit to ask me who I am—then my answer
is, I am a collegiate assessor. I was in the service that I might
have something to eat (and solely for that reason), and when
last year a distant relation left me six thousand roubles in
his will I immediately retired from the service and settled
down in my corner. I used to live in this corner before, but
now I have settled down in it. My room is a wretched, hor-
rid one in the outskirts of the town. My servant is an old
country- woman, ill-natured from stupidity, and, moreover,
there is always a nasty smell about her. I am told that the
Petersburg climate is bad for me, and that with my small
means it is very expensive to live in Petersburg. I know all
that better than all these sage and experienced counsellors
and monitors. ... But I am remaining in Petersburg; I am not
going away from Petersburg! I am not going away because
... ech! Why, it is absolutely no matter whether I am going
away or not going away.
But what can a decent man speak of with most pleasure?
Answer: Of himself.
Well, so I will talk about myself.
Sent using Jamii Forums mobile app
By Fyodor Dostoevsky
Part I
___________________
*The author of the diary and the diary itself are, of course,
imaginary. Nevertheless it is clear that such persons as the
writer of these notes not only may, but positively must, exist
in our society, when we consider the circumstances in the
midst of which our society is formed. I have tried to expose
to the view of the public more distinctly than is commonly
done, one of the characters of the recent past. He is one of the
representatives of a generation still living. In this fragment,
entitled ‘Underground,’ this person introduces himself and
his views, and, as it were, tries to explain the causes owing to
which he has made his appearance and was bound to make
his appearance in our midst. In the second fragment there
are added the actual notes of this person concerning certain
events in his life. —AUTHOR’S NOTE.
I
I am a sick man. ... I am a spiteful man. I am an unattract-ive man. I believe my liver is diseased. However, I know
nothing at all about my disease, and do not know for cer-
tain what ails me. I don’t consult a doctor for it, and never
have, though I have a respect for medicine and doctors. Be-
sides, I am extremely superstitious, sufficiently so to respect
medicine, anyway (I am well-educated enough not to be su-
perstitious, 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. Now I am forty. I used to be in the government ser-
vice, but am no longer. I was a spiteful official. I was rude
and took pleasure in being so. I did not take bribes, you
see, so I was bound to find a recompense in that, at least.
(A poor jest, but I will not scratch it out. I wrote it thinking
it would sound very witty; but now that I have seen myself
that I only wanted to show off in a despicable way, I will not
Notes from the Underground
scratch it out on purpose!)
When petitioners used to come for information to the
table at which I sat, I used to grind my teeth at them, and
felt intense enjoyment when I succeeded in making any-
body unhappy. I almost did succeed. For the most part they
were all timid people—of course, they were petitioners. But
of the uppish ones there was one officer in particular I could
not endure. He simply would not be humble, and clanked
his sword in a disgusting way. I carried on a feud with him
for eighteen months over that sword. At last I got the better
of him. He left off clanking it. That happened in my youth,
though. But do you know, gentlemen, what was the chief
point about my spite? Why, the whole point, the real sting of
it lay in the fact that continually, even in the moment of the
acutest spleen, I was inwardly conscious with shame that I
was not only not a spiteful but not even an embittered man,
that I was simply scaring sparrows at random and amusing
myself by it. I might foam at the mouth, but bring me a doll
to play with, give me a cup of tea with sugar in it, and maybe
I should be appeased. I might even be genuinely touched,
though probably I should grind my teeth at myself after-
wards and lie awake at night with shame for months after.
That was my way.
I was lying when I said just now that I was a spiteful of-
ficial. I was lying from spite. I was simply amusing myself
with the petitioners and with the officer, and in reality I
never could become spiteful. I was conscious every moment
in myself of many, very many elements absolutely opposite
to that. I felt them positively swarming in me, these oppo-
Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com
site elements. I knew that they had been swarming in me
all my life and craving some outlet from me, but I would
not let them, would not let them, purposely would not let
them come out. They tormented me till I was ashamed: they
drove me to convulsions and—sickened me, at last, how
they sickened me! Now, are not you fancying, gentlemen,
that I am expressing remorse for something now, that I am
asking your forgiveness for something? I am sure you are
fancying that ... However, I assure you I do not care if you
are. ...
It was not only that I could not become spiteful, I did not
know how to become anything; neither spiteful nor kind,
neither a rascal nor an honest man, neither a hero nor an
insect. Now, I am living out my life in my corner, taunting
myself with the spiteful and useless consolation that an in-
telligent man cannot become anything seriously, and it is
only the fool who becomes anything. Yes, a man in the nine-
teenth century must and morally ought to be pre-eminently
a characterless creature; a man of character, an active man
is pre-eminently a limited creature. That is my conviction
of forty years. I am forty years old now, and you know forty
years is a whole lifetime; you know it is extreme old age. To
live longer than forty years is bad manners, is vulgar, im-
moral. Who does live beyond forty? Answer that, sincerely
and honestly I will tell you who do: fools and worthless fel-
lows. I tell all old men that to their face, all these venerable
old men, all these silver-haired and reverend seniors! I tell
the whole world that to its face! I have a right to say so, for
I shall go on living to sixty myself. To seventy! To eighty! ...
Notes from the Underground
Stay, let me take breath ...
You imagine no doubt, gentlemen, that I want to amuse
you. You are mistaken in that, too. I am by no means such
a mirthful person as you imagine, or as you may imagine;
however, irritated by all this babble (and I feel that you are
irritated) you think fit to ask me who I am—then my answer
is, I am a collegiate assessor. I was in the service that I might
have something to eat (and solely for that reason), and when
last year a distant relation left me six thousand roubles in
his will I immediately retired from the service and settled
down in my corner. I used to live in this corner before, but
now I have settled down in it. My room is a wretched, hor-
rid one in the outskirts of the town. My servant is an old
country- woman, ill-natured from stupidity, and, moreover,
there is always a nasty smell about her. I am told that the
Petersburg climate is bad for me, and that with my small
means it is very expensive to live in Petersburg. I know all
that better than all these sage and experienced counsellors
and monitors. ... But I am remaining in Petersburg; I am not
going away from Petersburg! I am not going away because
... ech! Why, it is absolutely no matter whether I am going
away or not going away.
But what can a decent man speak of with most pleasure?
Answer: Of himself.
Well, so I will talk about myself.
Sent using Jamii Forums mobile app