Notes From Underground

positive as twice two makes four, and such positiveness is not life,

  gentlemen, but is the beginning of death. Anyway, man has always been

  afraid of this mathematical certainty, and I am afraid of it now. Granted

  that man does nothing but seek that mathematical certainty, he traverses

  oceans, sacrifices his life in the quest, but to succeed, really to find it,

  dreads, I assure you. He feels that when he has found it there will be

  nothing for him to look for. When workmen have finished their work

  they do at least receive their pay, they go to the tavern, then they are taken

  to the police-station--and there is occupation for a week. But where can

  man go? Anyway, one can observe a certain awkwardness about him

  when he has attained such objects. He loves the process of attaining, but

  does not quite like to have attained, and that, of course, is very absurd. In

  fact, man is a comical creature; there seems to be a kind of jest in it all.

  But yet mathematical certainty is after all, something insufferable. Twice

  two makes four seems to me simply a piece of insolence. Twice two

  makes four is a pert coxcomb who stands with arms akimbo barring your

  path and spitting. I admit that twice two makes four is an excellent thing,

  but if we are to give everything its due, twice two makes five is sometimes

  a very charming thing too.

  And why are you so firmly, so triumphantly, convinced that only the

  normal and the positive--in other words, only what is conducive to

  welfare--is for the advantage of man? Is not reason in error as regards

  advantage? Does not man, perhaps, love something besides well-being?

  Perhaps he is just as fond of suffering? Perhaps suffering is just as great a

  benefit to him as well-being? Man is sometimes extraordinarily, passionately,

  in love with suffering, and that is a fact. There is no need to appeal

  to universal history to prove that; only ask yourself, if you are a man and

  have lived at all. As far as my personal opinion is concerned, to care only

  for well-being seems to me positively ill-bred. Whether it's good or bad, it

  is sometimes very pleasant, too, to smash things. I hold no brief for

  suffering nor for well-being either. I am standing for ... my caprice, and

  for its being guaranteed to me when necessary. Suffering would be out of

  place in vaudevilles, for instance; I know that. In the "Palace of Crystal" it

  is unthinkable; suffering means doubt, negation, and what would be the

  good of a "palace of crystal" if there could be any doubt about it? And yet

  I think man will never renounce real suffering, that is, destruction and

  chaos. Why, suffering is the sole origin of consciousness. Though I did

  lay it down at the beginning that consciousness is the greatest misfortune

  for man, yet I know man prizes it and would not give it up for any

  satisfaction. Consciousness, for instance, is infinitely superior to twice

  two makes four. Once you have mathematical certainty there is nothing

  left to do or to understand. There will be nothing left but to bottle up your

  five senses and plunge into contemplation. While if you stick to

  consciousness, even though the same result is attained, you can at least flog

  yourself at times, and that will, at any rate, liven you up. Reactionary as it

  is, corporal punishment is better than nothing.

  X

  You believe in a palace of crystal that can never be destroyed--a palace at

  which one will not be able to put out one's tongue or make a long nose on

  the sly. And perhaps that is just why I am afraid of this edifice, that it is

  of crystal and can never be destroyed and that one cannot put one's tongue

  out at it even on the sly.

  You see, if it were not a palace, but a hen-house, I might creep into it

  to avoid getting wet, and yet I would not call the hen-house a palace out

  of gratitude to it for keeping me dry. You laugh and say that in such

  circumstances a hen-house is as good as a mansion. Yes, I answer, if one

  had to live simply to keep out of the rain.

  But what is to be done if I have taken it into my head that that is not the

  only object in life, and that if one must live one had better live in a

  mansion? That is my choice, my desire. You will only eradicate it when

  you have changed my preference. Well, do change it, allure me with

  something else, give me another ideal. But meanwhile I will not take a

  hen-house for a mansion. The palace of crystal may be an idle dream, it

  may be that it is inconsistent with the laws of nature and that I have

  invented it only through my own stupidity, through the old-fashioned

  irrational habits of my generation. But what does it matter to me that it is

  inconsistent? That makes no difference since it exists in my desires, or

  rather exists as long as my desires exist. Perhaps you are laughing again?

  Laugh away; I will put up with any mockery rather than pretend that I am

  satisfied when I am hungry. I know, anyway, that I will not be put off with

  a compromise, with a recurring zero, simply because it is consistent with

  the laws of nature and actually exists. I will not accept as the crown of my

  desires a block of buildings with tenements for the poor on a lease of a

  thousand years, and perhaps with a sign-board of a dentist hanging out.

  Destroy my desires, eradicate my ideals, show me something better, and I

  will follow you. You will say, perhaps, that it is not worth your trouble;

  but in that case I can give you the same answer. We are discussing things

  seriously; but if you won't deign to give me your attention, I will drop

  your acquaintance. I can retreat into my underground hole.

  But while I am alive and have desires I would rather my hand were

  withered off than bring one brick to such a building! Don't remind me

  that I have just rejected the palace of crystal for the sole reason that one

  cannot put out one's tongue at it. I did not say because I am so fond of

  putting my tongue out. Perhaps the thing I resented was, that of all your

  edifices there has not been one at which one could not put out one's

  tongue. On the contrary, I would let my tongue be cut off out of gratitude

  if things could be so arranged that I should lose all desire to put it out. It

  is not my fault that things cannot be so arranged, and that one must be

  satisfied with model flats. Then why am I made with such desires? Can I

  have been constructed simply in order to come to the conclusion that all

  my construction is a cheat? Can this be my whole purpose? I do not

  believe it.

  But do you know what: I am convinced that we underground folk

  ought to be kept on a curb. Though we may sit forty years underground

  without speaking, when we do come out into the light of day and break

  out we talk and talk and talk ....

  XI

  The long and the short of it is, gentlemen, that it is better to do nothing!

  Better conscious inertia! And so hurrah for underground! Though I have

  said that I envy the normal man to the last drop of my bile, yet I should

  not care to be in his place such as he is now (though I shall not cease

  envying him). No, no; anyway the underground life is mor
e 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!

  I will tell you another thing that would be better, and that is, if I

  myself believed in anything of what I have just written. I swear to you,

  gentlemen, there is not one thing, not one word of what I have written that I

  really believe. That is, I believe it, perhaps, but at the same time I feel

  and suspect that I am lying like a cobbler.

  "Then why have you written all this?" you will say to me. "I ought to

  put you underground for forty years without anything to do and then

  come to you in your cellar, to find out what stage you have reached! How

  can a man be left with nothing to do for forty years?"

  "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!"

  Of course I have myself made up all the things you say. That, too, is

  from underground. I have been for forty years listening to you through a

  crack under the floor. I have invented them myself, there was nothing

  else I could invent. It is no wonder that I have learned it by heart and it

  has taken a literary form ....

  But can you really be so credulous as to think that I will print all this

  and give it to you to read too? And another problem: why do I call you

  "gentlemen," why do I address you as though you really were my readers?

  Such confessions as I intend to make are never printed nor given to other

  people to read. Anyway, I am not strong-minded enough for that, and I

  don't see why I should be. But you see a fancy has occurred to me and I

  want to realise it at all costs. Let me explain.

  Every man has reminiscences which he would not tell to everyone,

  but only to his friends. He has other matters in his mind which he would

  not reveal even to his friends, but only to himself, and that in secret. But

  there are other things which a man is afraid to tell even to himself, and

  every decent man has a number of such things stored away in his mind.

  The more decent he is, the greater the number of such things in his

  mind. Anyway, I have only lately determined to remember some of my

  early adventures. Till now I have always avoided them, even with a

  certain uneasiness. Now, when I am not only recalling them, but have

  actually decided to write an account of them, I want to try the experiment

  whether one can, even with oneself, be perfectly open and not take

  fright at the whole truth. I will observe, in parenthesis, that Heine says

  that a true autobiography is almost an impossibility, and that man is

  bound to lie about himself. He considers that Rousseau certainly told lies

  about himself in his confessions, and even intentionally lied, out of

  vanity. I am convinced that Heine is right; I quite understand how

  sometimes one may, out of sheer vanity, attribute regular crimes to

  oneself, and indeed I can very well conceive that kind of vanity. But

  Heine judged of people who made their confessions to the public. I write

  only for myself, and I wish to declare once and for all that if I write as

  though I were addressing readers, that is simply because it is easier for me

  to write in that form. It is a form, an empty form--I shall never have

  readers. I have made this plain already ...

  I don't wish to be hampered by any restrictions in the compilation of

  my notes. I shall not attempt any system or method. I will jot things down

  as I remember them.

  But here, perhaps, someone will catch at the word and ask me: if you

  really don't reckon on readers, why do you make such compacts with

  yourself--and on paper too--that is, that you won't attempt any system

  or method, that you jot things down as you remember them, and so on,

  and so on? Why are you explaining? Why do you apologise?

  Well, there it is, I answer.

  There is a whole psychology in all this, though. Perhaps it is simply

  that I am a coward. And perhaps that I purposely imagine an audience

  before me in order that I may be more dignified while I write. There are

  perhaps thousands of reasons. 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?

  Quite so; but yet it is more imposing on paper. There is something

  more impressive in it; I shall be better able to criticise myself and improve

  my style. Besides, I shall perhaps obtain actual relief from writing.

  Today, for instance, I am particularly oppressed by one memory of a

  distant past. It came back vividly to my mind a few days ago, and has

  remained haunting me like an annoying tune that one cannot get rid of.

  And yet I must get rid of it somehow. I have hundreds of such reminiscences;

  but at times some one stands out from the hundred and oppresses me.

  For some reason I believe that if I write it down I should get rid of it.

  Why not try?

  Besides, I am bored, and I never have anything to do. Writing will be a

  sort of work. They say work makes man kind-hearted and honest. Well,

  here is a chance for me, anyway.

  Snow is falling today, yellow and dingy. It fell yesterday, too, and a few

  days ago. I fancy it is the wet snow that has reminded me of that incident

  which I cannot shake off now. And so let it be a story A PROPOS of the

  falling snow.

  PART II

  A Propos of the Wet Snow

  When from dark error's subjugation

  My words of passionate exhortation

  Had wrenched thy fainting spirit free;

  And writhing prone in thine affliction

  Thou didst recall with malediction
/>
  The vice that had encompassed thee:

  And when thy slumbering conscience, fretting

  By recollection's torturing flame,

  Thou didst reveal the hideous setting

  Of thy life's current ere I came:

  When suddenly I saw thee sicken,

  And weeping, hide thine anguished face,

  Revolted, maddened, horror-stricken,

  At memories of foul disgrace.

  NEKRASSOV

  (translated by Juliet Soskice).

  I

  AT THAT TIME I was only twenty-four. My life was even then gloomy, ill-

  regulated, and as solitary as that of a savage. I made friends with no one

  and positively avoided talking, and buried myself more and more in my

  hole. At work in the office I never looked at anyone, and was perfectly

  well aware that my companions looked upon me, not only as a queer

  fellow, but even looked upon me--I always fancied this--with a sort of

  loathing. I sometimes wondered why it was that nobody except me

  fancied that he was looked upon with aversion? One of the clerks had a

  most repulsive, pock-marked face, which looked positively villainous. I

  believe I should not have dared to look at anyone with such an unsightly

  countenance. Another had such a very dirty old uniform that there was

  an unpleasant odour in his proximity. Yet not one of these gentlemen

  showed the slightest self-consciousness--either about their clothes or

  their countenance or their character in any way. Neither of them ever

  imagined that they were looked at with repulsion; if they had imagined it

  they would not have minded--so long as their superiors did not look at

  them in that way. It is clear to me now that, owing to my unbounded

  vanity and to the high standard I set for myself, I often looked at myself

  with furious discontent, which verged on loathing, and so I inwardly

  attributed the same feeling to everyone. I hated my face, for instance: I

  thought it disgusting, and even suspected that there was something base

  in my expression, and so every day when I turned up at the office I tried to

  behave as independently as possible, and to assume a lofty expression, so

  that I might not be suspected of being abject. "My face may be ugly," I

  thought, "but let it be lofty, expressive, and, above all, EXTREMELY

  intelligent." But I was positively and painfully certain that it was

  impossible for my countenance ever to express those qualities. And what was

  worst of all, I thought it actually stupid looking, and I would have been quite

  satisfied if I could have looked intelligent. In fact, I would even have put

  up with looking base if, at the same time, my face could have been

  thought strikingly intelligent.

  Of course, I hated my fellow clerks one and all, and I despised them all,

  yet at the same time I was, as it were, afraid of them. In fact, it happened at

  times that I thought more highly of them than of myself. It somehow

  happened quite suddenly that I alternated between despising them and

  thinking them superior to myself. A cultivated and decent man cannot be

  vain without setting a fearfully high standard for himself, and without

  despising and almost hating himself at certain moments. But whether I

  despised them or thought them superior I dropped my eyes almost every

  time I met anyone. I even made experiments whether I could face so and

  so's looking at me, and I was always the first to drop my eyes. This worried

  me to distraction. I had a sickly dread, too, of being ridiculous, and so had

  a slavish passion for the conventional in everything external. I loved to fall

  into the common rut, and had a whole-hearted terror of any kind of

  eccentricity in myself. But how could I live up to it? I was morbidly

  sensitive as a man of our age should be. They were all stupid, and as like

  one another as so many sheep. Perhaps I was the only one in the office who