Underground

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 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 bottom line, gentlemen, is that it is better to do nothing! Conscious inaction is better! So hurrah for the underground! I said I envy the normal man with every last drop of my bile. But I would not want to be in his place, as he is now (though I will not stop envying him). No, no. In any case, life underground has more advantages. There, at least, one can ... Oh, but even now I am lying! I am lying because I know the underground is not better. I am thirsting for something else, something quite different, but I cannot find it! Damn the 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.

I'll tell you something else that would be better: if I actually believed anything I just wrote. I swear to you, gentlemen, I don't really believe a single thing, not one word of it. That is, perhaps I do believe it, but at the same time I feel and suspect I'm lying through my teeth.

“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?”

“Then why did you write all this?” you will ask me. “I should put you underground for forty years with nothing to do. Then I should come to your cellar and see what state you’re in! 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!”

“Isn’t that shameful, isn’t that humiliating?” you may say, shaking your heads in contempt. “You crave life, yet you try to solve its problems with a tangle of logic. How persistent and shameless your attacks are, and how frightened you are at the same time! You talk nonsense and enjoy it. You say rude things, yet you are constantly alarmed and apologizing for them. You claim to fear nothing, yet you try to win our approval. You say you are grinding your teeth, yet you try to be witty and amuse us. You know your jokes aren’t funny, but you’re clearly pleased with their literary merit. You may have truly suffered, but you have no respect for your own suffering. You may be sincere, but you have no modesty. Out of petty vanity, you expose your sincerity to public view and disgrace. You surely mean to say something, but you hold back your final word out of fear. You lack the resolve to say it. All you have is a cowardly kind of boldness. You boast of your awareness, but you are unsure of yourself. Your mind may be active, but your heart is dark and corrupt. You cannot be fully, genuinely aware without a pure heart. And how pushy you are, how you keep insisting and making faces! 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....

Of course, I made up all the things you say myself. That comes from underground too. For forty years, I have listened to you through a crack under the floor. I made those things up myself. There was nothing else I could make up. No wonder I know it all by heart and it has taken on 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.

But can you really be so gullible as to think I’ll print all this and let you read it too? And there’s another problem: why do I call you “gentlemen”? Why do I address you as if you really were my readers? Confessions like the ones I intend to make are never printed or given to other people to read. Anyway, I’m not strong-minded enough to do that, and I don’t see why I should be. But you see, an idea has occurred to me, and I want to carry it out 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 ...

Every man has memories he would share only with his friends, not with everyone. He has other thoughts he would not reveal even to his friends, but only to himself, in secret. But there are also things a man is afraid to tell even himself. Every decent man has a number of such things stored away in his mind. The more decent he is, the more such things he has. Anyway, I have only recently decided to recall some of my early adventures. Until now, I have always avoided thinking about them, even with a certain uneasiness. Now I am not only recalling them, but have actually decided to write about them. I want to test whether a person can be completely honest, even with himself, without being frightened by the whole truth. I should mention, in passing, that Heine says a true autobiography is almost impossible. He says a man is bound to lie about himself. He believes that Rousseau certainly lied about himself in his confessions, and even lied deliberately, out of vanity. I am convinced that Heine is right. I quite understand how someone might sometimes claim to have committed outright crimes, out of sheer vanity. Indeed, I can very well imagine that kind of vanity. But Heine was judging people who confessed to the public. I write only for myself. I want to declare once and for all that I write as if addressing readers simply because it is easier. It is a form, an empty form. I shall never have readers. I have already made that clear ...

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.

I don’t want any restrictions on how I write my notes. I won’t follow any system or method. I’ll write 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?

But perhaps someone will seize on my words and ask: If you really don’t expect any readers, why make these agreements with yourself? And why put them on paper? You say you won’t follow any system or method. You’ll just write things down as you remember them, and so on and so on. Why are you explaining yourself? Why are you apologizing?

Well, there it is, I answer.

Well, there it is, I reply.

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?

There is a whole psychology behind all this, though. Perhaps I am simply a coward. Or perhaps I deliberately imagine an audience so I can sound more dignified as I write. There may be thousands of reasons. Then again, what exactly is my purpose in writing? If it is not for the public’s benefit, why not just recall these incidents without writing them down?

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?

True, but it is more impressive on paper. There is something more striking about it. I’ll be better able to criticize myself and improve my style. Besides, writing may actually give me some relief. Today, for instance, I’m especially troubled by a memory from long ago. It came back vividly a few days ago and has haunted me ever since, like an annoying tune I can’t shake. Yet somehow I must get rid of it. I have hundreds of memories like this, but sometimes one stands out and weighs on me. For some reason, I believe that if I write this one down, I’ll be 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.

Besides, I’m bored, and I never have anything to do. Writing will give me a kind of work. They say work makes people kind and honest. Well, here’s 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 à propos of the falling snow.

Snow is falling today, yellow and dirty. It fell yesterday, too, and a few days ago. I think the wet snow has reminded me of an incident I can't shake off now. So let this be a story inspired by the falling snow.