Underground

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?

Now, gentlemen, whether you want to hear it or not, I want to tell you why I could not even become an insect. I tell you solemnly that I tried many times to become an insect. But I was not even capable of that. I swear, gentlemen, that being too conscious is an illness, a real, serious illness. For everyday needs, ordinary human consciousness would have been quite enough. That is, half or a quarter of the consciousness a cultivated man receives in our unhappy nineteenth century. This is especially true of a man with the fatal bad luck to live in Petersburg. Petersburg is the most theoretical and deliberately planned city on the entire globe. (There are deliberately planned and unplanned cities.) For example, the consciousness of all so-called straightforward people and men of action would have been quite enough. I bet you think I am writing all this just to seem clever at the expense of men of action. What is more, you think I am showing off in a vulgar way, rattling a sword like my officer. But, gentlemen, who can take pride in his illnesses, let alone boast about 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 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.

Though, after all, everyone does that. People do take pride in their diseases, and perhaps I do more than anyone. Let us not argue about it. My claim was absurd. But I am still firmly convinced that a great deal of consciousness, every kind of consciousness, in fact, is a disease. I stand by that. Let us leave that aside for a moment, too. Tell me this. Why did it happen at the very moments when I was most capable of feeling every refinement of all that was “sublime and beautiful,” as they used to say? At those very moments, I would not only feel but do such ugly things, as if on purpose, things that ... Well, in short, they were things that everyone perhaps does. But I did them, as if on purpose, just when I was most aware that I should not. The more aware I was of goodness and all that was “sublime and beautiful,” the deeper I sank into my own filth. And the more ready I was to sink into it completely. But the main point was that none of this seemed accidental. It was as if it had to be that way. It was as if this were my most normal state, not a disease or depravity at all. In the end, I lost all desire to struggle against this depravity. I came close to believing, perhaps I actually believed, that this was perhaps my normal state. But at first, what agonies I suffered in that struggle! I did not believe it was the same for other people. All my life I kept this fact about myself a secret. I was ashamed, and perhaps I still am. I came to feel a kind of secret, abnormal, contemptible pleasure when I returned home to my corner on some disgusting Petersburg night. I would be painfully aware that I had committed another loathsome act that day. What I had done could never be undone. Secretly, inwardly, I would gnaw and gnaw at myself over it. I would tear myself apart and consume myself until the bitterness finally turned into a kind of shameful, accursed sweetness. At last, it turned into actual, real enjoyment! Yes, enjoyment, enjoyment! I insist on that. I have mentioned this because I keep wanting to know for certain whether other people feel such enjoyment. Let me explain. The enjoyment came from being too intensely aware of my own degradation. It came from feeling that I had reached the final limit. It was horrible, but it could not be otherwise. There was no escape. You could never become a different person. Even if you still had time and faith enough to change into something different, you most likely would not want to. And even if you did want to, 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....

And the worst part, the root of it all, was that it all followed the normal, basic laws of overacute consciousness. So did the inertia that came directly from those laws. As a result, one could not change or do anything at all. So, because of acute consciousness, one is not to blame for being a scoundrel. As if that were any comfort to a scoundrel once he realizes he actually is one. But enough.... Oh, I have talked a lot of nonsense, but what have I explained? How can the enjoyment in this be explained? But I will explain it. I will get to the bottom of it! That is why I have picked 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.

I, for example, have a great deal of self-regard. I am as suspicious and easily offended as a hunchback or a dwarf. But I swear, there have been moments when I might actually have been glad to be slapped in the face. I mean it. I probably could have found a peculiar kind of pleasure even in that. The pleasure would, of course, have been the pleasure of despair. But despair offers the most intense pleasures, especially when you are painfully aware that your situation is hopeless. And when you are slapped in the face, the awareness that you are being crushed into a pulp would overwhelm you. The worst of it is that, however I look at it, I always turn out to be the most to blame for everything. And most humiliating of all, I am to blame through no fault of my own, but, so to speak, because of the laws of nature. First, I am to blame because I am cleverer than anyone around me. (I have always considered myself cleverer than anyone around me. Sometimes, would you believe it, I have actually been ashamed of it. At any rate, all my life I have, so to speak, looked away and never been able to look people straight in the face.) Finally, I am to blame because even if I had been magnanimous, I would only have suffered more from knowing how useless it was. I certainly could never have acted on that magnanimity. I could not have forgiven my attacker, because he might have slapped me because of the laws of nature. And you cannot forgive the laws of nature. Nor could I have forgotten the slap, because even if it happened because of the laws of nature, it is still insulting. Finally, even if I had wanted to be anything but magnanimous, and had wanted instead to take revenge on my attacker, I could not have taken revenge on anyone for anything. Even if I had been able to act, I certainly would never have made up my mind to do it. Why would I not have made up my mind? That is just what I want to say a few words about.