Underground

“Ha, ha, ha! You will be finding enjoyment in toothache next,” you cry, with a laugh.

“Ha, ha, ha! Next you'll be enjoying a toothache,” you say with a laugh.

“Well, even in toothache there is enjoyment,” I answer. I had toothache for a whole month and I know there is. In that case, of course, people are not spiteful in silence, but moan; but they are not candid moans, they are malignant moans, and the malignancy is the whole point. The enjoyment of the sufferer finds expression in those moans; if he did not feel enjoyment in them he would not moan. It is a good example, gentlemen, and I will develop it. Those moans express in the first place all the aimlessness of your pain, which is so humiliating to your consciousness; the whole legal system of nature on which you spit disdainfully, of course, but from which you suffer all the same while she does not. They express the consciousness that you have no enemy to punish, but that you have pain; the consciousness that in spite of all possible Wagenheims you are in complete slavery to your teeth; that if someone wishes it, your teeth will leave off aching, and if he does not, they will go on aching another three months; and that finally if you are still contumacious and still protest, all that is left you for your own gratification is to thrash yourself or beat your wall with your fist as hard as you can, and absolutely nothing more. Well, these mortal insults, these jeers on the part of someone unknown, end at last in an enjoyment which sometimes reaches the highest degree of voluptuousness. I ask you, gentlemen, listen sometimes to the moans of an educated man of the nineteenth century suffering from toothache, on the second or third day of the attack, when he is beginning to moan, not as he moaned on the first day, that is, not simply because he has toothache, not just as any coarse peasant, but as a man affected by progress and European civilisation, a man who is “divorced from the soil and the national elements,” as they express it now-a-days. His moans become nasty, disgustingly malignant, and go on for whole days and nights. And of course he knows himself that he is doing himself no sort of good with his moans; he knows better than anyone that he is only lacerating and harassing himself and others for nothing; he knows that even the audience before whom he is making his efforts, and his whole family, listen to him with loathing, do not put a ha’porth of faith in him, and inwardly understand that he might moan differently, more simply, without trills and flourishes, and that he is only amusing himself like that from ill-humour, from malignancy. Well, in all these recognitions and disgraces it is that there lies a voluptuous pleasure. As though he would say: “I am worrying you, I am lacerating your hearts, I am keeping everyone in the house awake. Well, stay awake then, you, too, feel every minute that I have toothache. I am not a hero to you now, as I tried to seem before, but simply a nasty person, an impostor. Well, so be it, then! I am very glad that you see through me. It is nasty for you to hear my despicable moans: well, let it be nasty; here I will let you have a nastier flourish in a minute....” You do not understand even now, gentlemen? No, it seems our development and our consciousness must go further to understand all the intricacies of this pleasure. You laugh? Delighted. My jests, gentlemen, are of course in bad taste, jerky, involved, lacking self-confidence. But of course that is because I do not respect myself. Can a man of perception respect himself at all?

“Well, even a toothache can be enjoyable,” I answer. I had a toothache for a whole month, so I know it can be. In that case, of course, people are not spiteful in silence. They moan. But the moans are not sincere. They are malicious, and the malice is the whole point. The sufferer expresses his enjoyment through those moans. If he did not enjoy them, he would not moan. It is a good example, gentlemen, and I will explain it further. First, those moans express how pointless your pain is, which is so humiliating to know. They express the whole system of nature’s laws. Of course, you spit on those laws with contempt. But you suffer because of them all the same, while nature does not suffer. The moans express your awareness that you have no enemy to punish, but you do have pain. They express your awareness that, despite all the Wagenheims there may be, you are completely enslaved by your teeth. If someone wishes it, your teeth will stop aching. If he does not, they will go on aching for another three months. And finally, if you remain defiant and keep protesting, there is only one way to satisfy yourself. You can thrash yourself or punch the wall as hard as you can, and do absolutely nothing more. Well, these deadly insults, these taunts from some unknown person, finally become a kind of enjoyment. Sometimes this enjoyment reaches the highest degree of sensual pleasure. Gentlemen, I ask you to listen sometime to the moans of an educated nineteenth-century man with a toothache. Listen on the second or third day of the attack. By then, he no longer moans as he did on the first day, simply because his tooth aches. He no longer moans like any crude peasant. He moans as a man shaped by progress and European civilization. He is a man “divorced from the soil and the national elements,” as they say nowadays. His moans become nasty and disgustingly malicious. They go on for whole days and nights. And of course, he knows he is doing himself no good by moaning. He knows better than anyone that he is tormenting himself and others for nothing. He knows that the audience he performs for, including his whole family, listens to him with disgust. They do not believe him in the slightest. And they know, deep down, that he could moan differently, more simply, without all the trills and flourishes. They know he is only amusing himself that way out of bad temper and malice. Well, sensual pleasure lies in knowing all this and enduring all this disgrace. It is as though he were saying: “I am bothering you, I am tearing at your hearts, I am keeping everyone in the house awake. Well, stay awake, then. You should feel every minute that I have a toothache, too. I am not a hero to you now, as I tried to seem before. I am just a nasty person, an impostor. Well, so be it, then! I am very glad you see through me. You hate hearing my despicable moans. Well, go on hating them. In a minute I will give you an even nastier flourish....” You still do not understand, gentlemen? No, it seems our development and awareness must go further before we can understand all the subtleties of this pleasure. You laugh? I am delighted. My jokes, gentlemen, are of course in bad taste, awkward, convoluted, and lacking in confidence. But of course, that is because I do not respect myself. Can a perceptive man respect himself at all?