Notes from the Underground , livre ebook

Pub One Info - Fyodor Dostoyevsky

Découvre YouScribe en t'inscrivant gratuitement

Je m'inscris

Obtenez un accès à la bibliothèque pour le consulter en ligne
En savoir plus

75 pages

English

Vous pourrez modifier la taille du texte de cet ouvrage

Obtenez un accès à la bibliothèque pour le consulter en ligne
En savoir plus

A propos
Informations
Extrait

Description

pubOne.info thank you for your continued support and wish to present you this new edition. Underground* *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.

Informations

Publié par	Pub One Info
Date de parution	23 octobre 2010
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9782819918721
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0100€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

Extrait

PART I
Underground* *The author of the diary and the diaryitself are, of course, imaginary. Nevertheless it is clear thatsuch persons as the writer of these notes not only may, butpositively must, exist in our society, when we consider thecircumstances in the midst of which our society is formed. I havetried to expose to the view of the public more distinctly than iscommonly done, one of the characters of the recent past. He is oneof the representatives of a generation still living. In thisfragment, entitled "Underground," this person introduces himselfand his views, and, as it were, tries to explain the causes owingto which he has made his appearance and was bound to make hisappearance in our midst. In the second fragment there are added theactual 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 anunattractive man. I believe my liver is diseased. However, I knownothing at all about my disease, and do not know for certain whatails me. I don't consult a doctor for it, and never have, though Ihave a respect for medicine and doctors. Besides, I am extremelysuperstitious, sufficiently so to respect medicine, anyway (I amwell-educated enough not to be superstitious, but I amsuperstitious). No, I refuse to consult a doctor from spite. Thatyou probably will not understand. Well, I understand it, though. Ofcourse, I can't explain who it is precisely that I am mortifying inthis case by my spite: I am perfectly well aware that I cannot "payout" the doctors by not consulting them; I know better than anyonethat by all this I am only injuring myself and no one else. Butstill, if I don't consult a doctor it is from spite. My liver isbad, 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 governmentservice, but am no longer. I was a spiteful official. I was rudeand took pleasure in being so. I did not take bribes, you see, so Iwas bound to find a recompense in that, at least. (A poor jest, butI will not scratch it out. I wrote it thinking it would sound verywitty; but now that I have seen myself that I only wanted to showoff in a despicable way, I will not scratch it out on purpose!)
When petitioners used to come for information to thetable at which I sat, I used to grind my teeth at them, and feltintense enjoyment when I succeeded in making anybody unhappy. Ialmost did succeed. For the most part they were all timid people –of course, they were petitioners. But of the uppish ones there wasone officer in particular I could not endure. He simply would notbe humble, and clanked his sword in a disgusting way. I carried ona feud with him for eighteen months over that sword. At last I gotthe better of him. He left off clanking it. That happened in myyouth, though. But do you know, gentlemen, what was the chief pointabout my spite? Why, the whole point, the real sting of it lay inthe fact that continually, even in the moment of the acutestspleen, I was inwardly conscious with shame that I was not only nota spiteful but not even an embittered man, that I was simplyscaring sparrows at random and amusing myself by it. I might foamat the mouth, but bring me a doll to play with, give me a cup oftea with sugar in it, and maybe I should be appeased. I might evenbe genuinely touched, though probably I should grind my teeth atmyself afterwards and lie awake at night with shame for monthsafter. That was my way.
I was lying when I said just now that I was aspiteful official. I was lying from spite. I was simply amusingmyself with the petitioners and with the officer, and in reality Inever could become spiteful. I was conscious every moment in myselfof many, very many elements absolutely opposite to that. I feltthem positively swarming in me, these opposite elements. I knewthat they had been swarming in me all my life and craving someoutlet from me, but I would not let them, would not let them,purposely would not let them come out. They tormented me till I wasashamed: they drove me to convulsions and – sickened me, at last,how they sickened me! Now, are not you fancying, gentlemen, that Iam expressing remorse for something now, that I am asking yourforgiveness 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, Idid 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 thespiteful and useless consolation that an intelligent man cannotbecome anything seriously, and it is only the fool who becomesanything. Yes, a man in the nineteenth century must and morallyought to be pre-eminently a characterless creature; a man ofcharacter, an active man is pre-eminently a limited creature. Thatis my conviction of forty years. I am forty years old now, and youknow forty years is a whole lifetime; you know it is extreme oldage. To live longer than forty years is bad manners, is vulgar,immoral. Who does live beyond forty? Answer that, sincerely andhonestly I will tell you who do: fools and worthless fellows. Itell all old men that to their face, all these venerable old men,all these silver-haired and reverend seniors! I tell the wholeworld that to its face! I have a right to say so, for I shall go onliving to sixty myself. To seventy! To eighty! ... Stay, let metake breath ...
You imagine no doubt, gentlemen, that I want toamuse you. You are mistaken in that, too. I am by no means such amirthful 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 acollegiate assessor. I was in the service that I might havesomething to eat (and solely for that reason), and when last year adistant relation left me six thousand roubles in his will Iimmediately retired from the service and settled down in my corner.I used to live in this corner before, but now I have settled downin it. My room is a wretched, horrid one in the outskirts of thetown. My servant is an old country- woman, ill-natured fromstupidity, and, moreover, there is always a nasty smell about her.I am told that the Petersburg climate is bad for me, and that withmy small means it is very expensive to live in Petersburg. I knowall that better than all these sage and experienced counsellors andmonitors. ... But I am remaining in Petersburg; I am not going awayfrom Petersburg! I am not going away because ... ech! Why, it isabsolutely no matter whether I am going away or not going away.
But what can a decent man speak of with mostpleasure?
Answer: Of himself.
Well, so I will talk about myself.
II
I want now to tell you, gentlemen, whether you careto hear it or not, why I could not even become an insect. I tellyou solemnly, that I have many times tried to become an insect. ButI was not equal even to that. I swear, gentlemen, that to be tooconscious is an illness – a real thorough-going illness. For man'severyday needs, it would have been quite enough to have theordinary human consciousness, that is, half or a quarter of theamount which falls to the lot of a cultivated man of our unhappynineteenth century, especially one who has the fatal ill-luck toinhabit Petersburg, the most theoretical and intentional town onthe whole terrestrial globe. (There are intentional andunintentional towns.) It would have been quite enough, forinstance, to have the consciousness by which all so-called directpersons and men of action live. I bet you think I am writing allthis from affectation, to be witty at the expense of men of action;and what is more, that from ill-bred affectation, I am clanking asword like my officer. But, gentlemen, whoever can pride himself onhis diseases and even swagger over them?
Though, after all, everyone does do that; people dopride themselves on their diseases, and I do, may be, more thananyone. We will not dispute it; my contention was absurd. But yet Iam firmly persuaded that a great deal of consciousness, every sortof consciousness, in fact, is a disease. I stick to that. Let usleave that, too, for a minute. Tell me this: why does it happenthat at the very, yes, at the very moments when I am most capableof 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 wasmost conscious that they ought not to be committed. The moreconscious I was of goodness and of all that was "sublime andbeautiful," the more deeply I sank into my mire and the more readyI was to sink in it altogether. But the chief point was that allthis was, as it were, not accidental in me, but as though it werebound 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 alldesire in me to struggle against this depravity passed. It ended bymy almost believing (perhaps actually believing) that this wasperhaps my normal condition. But at first, in the beginning, whatagonies I endured in that struggle! I did not believe it was thesame with other people, and all my life I hid this fact aboutmyself as a secret. I was ashamed (even now, perhaps, I amashamed): I got to the point of feeling a sort of secret abnormal,despicable enjoyment in returning home to my corner on somedisgusting Petersburg night, acutely conscious that that day I hadcommitted a loathsome action again, that what was done could neverbe undone, and secretly, inwardly gnawing, gnawing at myself forit, tearing and consuming myself till at last the bitterness turnedinto a sort of shameful accursed sweetness, and at last – intopositive real enjoy