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    Notes from the Underground
    Notes from the Underground
    Notes from the Underground
    Ebook156 pages2 hours

    Notes from the Underground

    By Fyodor Dostoyevsky

    4/5

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    Notes from Underground is a study of a single character, and a revelation of Dostoyevsky's own deepest beliefs. In this work we follow the unnamed narrator of the story, who, disillusioned by the oppression and corruption of the society in which he lives, withdraws from that society into the underground. On the surface this is a story of one man's rant against a corrupt, oppressive society, but this philosophical book also explores the deeper themes of alienation, torment, and hatred.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherStart Publishing LLC
    Release dateFeb 20, 2013
    ISBN9781625584793
    Author

    Fyodor Dostoyevsky

    Fyodor Mikhailovich Dostoevsky, sometimes transliterated as Dostoyevsky, was a Russian novelist, short story writer, essayist, and journalist.

    Read more from Fyodor Dostoyevsky

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    Reviews for Notes from the Underground

    4/5

    2,754 ratings64 reviews

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    • 5/5
      Amazing how he can twist and turn a thought from nowhere and make it grow into a full blown psychological drama.
    • 4/5
      Short and enjoyable. I can't get enough. Feels like a slice from the mind of one of Dostoevsky's more expanded characters, in a good way. It's all been distilled into 130 pages and it really made me think. How is he so darn good at writing melodramatic and insane people? I probably relate a little too much to this guy.

      And in there, also a nugget of truth re: philosophy of science "Man is so partial to systems and abstract conclusions that he is ready intentionally to distort the truth, to turn a blind eye and a deaf ear, only so as to justify his logic.".
    • 3/5
      Shooting from my hip, I'd guess that Notes From The Underground emerged via the tradition of epistolary novels and the recent triumph of Gogol's Diary of a Madman. There is little need here to measure the impact and influence of Dostoevsky's tract. Nearly all of noir fiction is indebted. The monologue as a novella continues to thrive, finding its zenith, perhaps, in the work of Thomas Bernhard.

      Notes is a work for the young. Its transgressions can't begin to shock anymore. Its creative instability has to be appreciated for its technical merit. This hardly works on old sods like me. Somehow in this tale of honor lost and self deception I kept thinking of the Arab Spring. Dangerous potentials are unearthed when you cleave away traditions and don't offer realized possibilities.
    • 5/5
      All of Dostoyevsky's novels are works of genius, but, as far as I am concerned, this is the best one of them all.
    • 4/5
      My first Dostoyevsky reading, and I really enjoyed it. Soon I'll begin reading his longer works, this was a good introduction.
    • 4/5
      Notes from the Underground. Fyodor Dostoevsky. 1993. I tried to like this book, but, alas, I didn’t. I know it is a classic and that people far smarter than I am think it is a great novel. It was just an ordeal to get through. If you want to read Dostoevsky, try Crime and Punishment first.
    • 5/5
      painful articulation of the internal side of a self marginalized person
    • 5/5
      You can't help getting drawn into Dostoyevsky's "Notes from Underground" as you follow the rantings of a spiteful, bitter person. Dostoyevsky has created a character whose every action leads to his own self-destruction, pain and alienation from others.
    • 5/5
      My favourite Dostoyevsky and have read several times.
    • 3/5
      This rating is provisional - I'm going to need some time for this novel to stew before coming to a final decision. I read this as part of a challenge to read cult classics which seemed a good opportunity to read a famous Russian author whose work I have been avoiding since attempting Crime and Punishment as a teenager.

      If you, like myself, are coming to this book knowing little about it, a word of advice - don't let the first part make you quit! I disliked it and found it boringly pretentious; at this point I was sure I was going to hate the book and was tempted to stop. The second part I found much more interesting; although the neurotic narrator was just as pretentious, the overall style was more accessible.
    • 5/5
      With the opening sentences: "Dostoevsky introduces the unifying idea of his tale: the instability, the perpetual 'dialectic' of isolated consciousness". - Richard Pevear in the introduction.

      I've read two other translations. This one is excellent. It was like seeing an old friend with new clothes, ones that fit better and were complementary.
    • 3/5
      Torment and pain on the road to existentialism. As only a Russian could write it. One gets bogged down in the dismal slush of it all and hankers for some ray of hope in this eternal uphill struggle. Great literature, perhaps, but a slog nevertheless.
    • 4/5
      I think this may be the shortest work by a Russian novelist I have ever read. That being said, I don't know that this book is truly a novel so much as it is an extended short story told from the perspective of a Russian man who tends to rabble and who once drove away a woman who might have been able to love him. Overall, I liked the book, although the first part was certainly difficult to get through, the second (which actually relates a story instead of just philosophizing) more than made up for it.
    • 5/5
      This is a fantastic book that addresses the question of "what is the self?". The underground man can only represent us who find ourselves lost and unsure yet despised by our own ineptitude. For those who have not yet to begin exploring "what a self is" or "what and why makes the self?" I highly suggest you start here.
    • 2/5
      What a horrible person -- sad, sick, poisonous. If this guy is supposed to be a metaphor for modern man, what's the point of going on?
    • 3/5
      This guy is batcrap crazy. I don't think I'd ever want him as a friend (though I guarantee I would be his friend, because I seem to attract crazy), but he's certainly amusing to watch/listen to.
    • 4/5
      An entertaining at times critique of philosophy such as rationalism among others, overall not my cup of tea.
    • 1/5
      I have virtually no idea why this book is considered a classic. More of a "personal manifesto" than an actual story, this is a disjointed reasoning of why the narrator feels and acts so outlandishly. Though I can sympathize with some of his emotions on my very worst days, 'Notes' as a whole left me feeling exhausted and a little dull. The second part of the book does try to assume some semblance of a story, yet the other characters are hardly developed, the plot is weak, and the climax is wholly anticlimactic. The only saving grace is the scene with the prostitute, yet even that promise is not only not fulfilled, it is swept with disgust under the carpet.
    • 3/5
      I can see what it is that literary critics like about this book but I found that it required a bit more concentration than I was willing to give it.
    • 5/5
      Dostoevsky's novella is part narrative and part manifesto, all awash in anguish. The book is the indelible cornerstone of existential literature, being a violent confrontation with the human condition and the nature of life. There are a number of quotable passages here, and the writing is smooth and digestible in contrast to the narrator. He is not likable, though he is interesting in much the same way as a car crash or the aftermath of disaster, and it is probable that most readers can relate to his bitterness, though maybe not at such extreme levels.
    • 4/5
      The story of a man that goes through his life and no one seems to notice him. On the few occasions that they do he feels compelled to drive them away with his self loathing.. I think many people do live lives similar to the protagonist here that become reclusive and spiteful and don't realize that many of their problems that bring on themselves. As always with Dostoevsky the writing is beautiful as well as painful to read. An existential nowhere man living a life of terrible insignificance.
    • 4/5
      “My God. A moment of bliss. Why, isn’t that enough for a whole lifetime?” (p. 61)

      So concludes Dostoyevsky’s first short story (“White Nights”) in this collection. It’s a story of unrequited love … in a sense. But Dostoyevsky being Dostoyevsky, the love is not entirely unrequited, and the requisition of it is not entirely a requisition. And I suppose we’ll just have to ponder the use of that comma after “why” (in the last sentence of the story). It’s obviously not an interrogative ‘why.’ Is it merely an interjection? I, for one, will never know for sure.


      “It’s hard to imagine to what extent a man’s nature can be corrupted” is how Dostoyevsky concludes the selection ‘In the Hospital’ from his “House of the Dead.” This is preceded by a detailed psychological study – and an excellent one – of the man whose responsibility it is to mete out punishment in a prison: i.e., the flogger. In an age in which BDSM (bondage/discipline/sado-masochism) apparently still fascinate (cf. the success of Fifty Shades of Grey), Dostoyevsky’s observations are clearly as relevant as the day he first made them.


      “Notes from (the) Underground” is the principal story in this collection and is indeed sui generis. Never have I read what amounts to an internal monologue by what has to be literature’s most notably bipolar-disordered antihero. (“Antihero,” by the way, is not my invention. As you’ll see shortly [below], Dostoyevsky uses it himself to describe the principal character of his novella.)


      Perhaps the following “exchange” (with himself) will help to illustrate the matter: “I don’t want to let considerations of literary composition get in the way. I won’t bother with planning and arranging; I’ll note down whatever comes to my mind.

      “Now, of course, you may feel you’ve caught me and ask my why, if I really don’t expect to have any readers, I bother to record all these explanations about writing without a plan, jotting down whatever comes to mind and so on. What’s the point of all these excuses and apologies then?

      My answer is—well, that’s the way it is “ (p. 122).


      But with what justification do I use the words “disordered” and “antihero” to describe the principal character of this piece? Could I (or anyone else) not just as accurately call him a truth-teller or a soothsayer? Perhaps this is the conceit of the work — and its genius.


      In a footnote at the very beginning (p. 90) of the piece, Dostoyevsky writes “(i)t goes without saying that both these Notes and their author are fictitious. Nevertheless, people like the author of these notes may, and indeed must, exist in our society…”.


      We subsequently learn everything we could possibly want to know about this principal character — except his name. And then, on the penultimate page (p. 202), Dostoyevsky writes (in the voice, once again, of the narrator) “I swear it (the story) has no literary interest, because what a novel needs is a hero, whereas here I have collected, as if deliberately, all the features of an anti-hero. These notes are bound to produce an extremely unpleasant impression, because we’ve all lost touch with life and we’re all cripples to some degree. We’ve lost touch to such an extent that we feel a disgust for life as it is really lived and cannot bear to be reminded of it.”


      And so, one is forced to ask: is the principal character of this piece supposed to be everyman? If so, Dostoyevsky is on to something no other writer (at least in my experience) has ever attempted.


      The final piece in this collection, “The Dream of a Ridiculous Man,” is just that: the dream of a ridiculous man. If you can figure out some higher purpose or meaning to this piece, you’re a better, more intelligent and more perceptive reader than I am.


      If I’ve been at all unclear or equivocal in this review, I apologize. Andrew R. MacAndrew—in his quite helpful Afterward (which I’ve just now read) — states clearly that I’m not alone in my mis- (or dis-) understanding of Dostoyevsky. More to the point, MacAndrew illustrates with a series of events in Dostoyevsky’s own life why the author was not only self-contradictory, but has also been largely misunderstood by readers, scholars and critics alike since he first put pen to paper. It might help you, as a potential reader of this collection, to first read MacAndew’s Afterward as to better understand the sense (or nonsense) of each part of it.


      RRB
      08/08/14
      Brooklyn, NY

    • 3/5
      I preferred the second half of this one to the first half, which is philosophical rambling more than a story.
    • 2/5
      I'd been really looking forward to reading some of Dostoevsky's works, and I still am to some extent. It's just a shame that my first experience with his work is such a disappointment. Notes from the Underground starts off well, with its rather enthralling first Part, where the bitter, miserable Underground Man rails against certain types of rationalist thinking. He says a lot of rather insightful things; a lot of it wasn't that eye-opening to me, but it was a very good expression of familiar ideas. It's just a shame that in the second half the book becomes such annoying rubbish. Part Two consists of a story in which the Underground Man does nothing except exhibit the sort of stupid misanthropic behaviour and thinking I was guilty of when I was about 14 (though he does many more extreme things). It's not entertaining or even remotely interesting, it's just boring and irritating. I understand Dostoevsky is making a point and doesn't agree with what this guy says, but that doesn't make it an engaging read. I skimmed through the last few chapters because I'd got so angry at this guy and his general uselessness. However, I've heard a few Dostoevsky fans express similar thoughts about this book, so I've not been too discouraged. Might take a while for me to pick up another one of his books though, because this one has left a seriously bad taste.
    • 5/5
      I kind of dreaded reading this book, as if I needed to read it to get into Dostoevsky's work. But this book is still quite funny and a very interesting read, especially for its take on human nature and idealism.
    • 3/5
      Possibly the first existential novel (novella). The unnamed writer, 40 years old, tells us he is writing to no one but argues that man must choose (free will) and will choose not to live by logic and in fact will choose against logic. The second part, gives us the background of the writer and how he ended up underground. Then the very end, we learn that even this has been edited and we the reader do not know what is the truth. Rating 3.43.
    • 2/5
      Yeah yeah I know this is "important" or whatever, it's also kind of annoying. But hey, you won't find a bigger fan of "Crime and Punishment" than me.
    • 5/5
      Yes, this is a classic; it's the sort of book that other people write books about. While Part 1, the more philosophical section, is an intense read with plenty of depth and quotable quotes, Part 2 verges on the burlesque in its tragicomic depiction of a series of events that exemplify, in more tangible form, the nature of 'underground'. While the initial philosophy clearly sets the stage for the pastiche that follows, in some way it might be an easier 'in' to the work of Dostoyevsky to read the two in reverse order. The lack of a reliable narrator figure, in particular, is one literary dimension that a reader new to Dostoyevsky needs to discover, and this can become one of the perversely enjoyable facets of the work: navigating the paradoxically self-aware yet simultaneously unaware nature of the 'underground man'.
    • 5/5
      A terrifying look into one man's confession. The end is more haunting after you have swam through his thoughts at the start of the story.
    • 3/5
      Ahead of its time, deeply psychological, and enhanced by a crafty translation, this Dostoevsky novella is a brilliant precursor to the Modernist Age of literature.

    Book preview

    Notes from the Underground - Fyodor Dostoyevsky

    Part I

    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.

    I

    I am a sick man. ... I am a spiteful man. I am an unattractive man. I believe my liver is diseased. However, I know nothing at all about my disease, and do not know for certain what ails me. I don’t consult a doctor for it, and never have, though I have a respect for medicine and doctors. Besides, I am extremely superstitious, sufficiently so to respect medicine, anyway (I am well-educated enough not to be superstitious, but I am superstitious). No, I refuse to consult a doctor from spite. That you probably will not understand. Well, I understand it, though. Of course, I can’t explain who it is precisely that I am mortifying in this case by my spite: I am perfectly well aware that I cannot pay out the doctors by not consulting them; I know better than anyone that by all this I am only injuring myself and no one else. But still, if I don’t consult a doctor it is from spite. My liver is bad, 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 government service, but am no longer. I was a spiteful official. I was rude and took pleasure in being so. I did not take bribes, you see, so I was bound to find a recompense in that, at least. (A poor jest, but I will not scratch it out. I wrote it thinking it would sound very witty; but now that I have seen myself that I only wanted to show off in a despicable way, I will not scratch it out on purpose!)

    When petitioners used to come for information to the table at which I sat, I used to grind my teeth at them, and felt intense enjoyment when I succeeded in making anybody unhappy. I almost did succeed. For the most part they were all timid people—of course, they were petitioners. But of the uppish ones there was one officer in particular I could not endure. He simply would not be humble, and clanked his sword in a disgusting way. I carried on a feud with him for eighteen months over that sword. At last I got the better of him. He left off clanking it. That happened in my youth, though. But do you know, gentlemen, what was the chief point about my spite? Why, the whole point, the real sting of it lay in the fact that continually, even in the moment of the acutest spleen, I was inwardly conscious with shame that I was not only not a spiteful but not even an embittered man, that I was simply scaring sparrows at random and amusing myself by it. I might foam at the mouth, but bring me a doll to play with, give me a cup of tea with sugar in it, and maybe I should be appeased. I might even be genuinely touched, though probably I should grind my teeth at myself afterwards and lie awake at night with shame for months after. That was my way.

    I was lying when I said just now that I was a spiteful official. I was lying from spite. I was simply amusing myself with the petitioners and with the officer, and in reality I never could become spiteful. I was conscious every moment in myself of many, very many elements absolutely opposite to that. I felt them positively swarming in me, these opposite elements. I knew that they had been swarming in me all my life and craving some outlet from me, but I would not let them, would not let them, purposely would not let them come out. They tormented me till I was ashamed: they drove me to convulsions and—sickened me, at last, how they sickened me! Now, are not you fancying, gentlemen, that I am expressing remorse for something now, that I am asking your forgiveness 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, I did 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 the spiteful and useless consolation that an intelligent man cannot become anything seriously, and it is only the fool who becomes anything. Yes, a man in the nineteenth century must and morally ought to be pre-eminently a characterless creature; a man of character, an active man is pre-eminently a limited creature. That is my conviction of forty years. I am forty years old now, and you know forty years is a whole lifetime; you know it is extreme old age. To live longer than forty years is bad manners, is vulgar, immoral. Who does live beyond forty? Answer that, sincerely and honestly I will tell you who do: fools and worthless fellows. I tell all old men that to their face, all these venerable old men, all these silver-haired and reverend seniors! I tell the whole world that to its face! I have a right to say so, for I shall go on living to sixty myself. To seventy! To eighty! ... Stay, let me take breath ...

    You imagine no doubt, gentlemen, that I want to amuse you. You are mistaken in that, too. I am by no means such a mirthful 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 a collegiate assessor. I was in the service that I might have something to eat (and solely for that reason), and when last year a distant relation left me six thousand roubles in his will I immediately retired from the service and settled down in my corner. I used to live in this corner before, but now I have settled down in it. My room is a wretched, horrid one in the outskirts of the town. My servant is an old country- woman, ill-natured from stupidity, and, moreover, there is always a nasty smell about her. I am told that the Petersburg climate is bad for me, and that with my small means it is very expensive to live in Petersburg. I know all that better than all these sage and experienced counsellors and monitors. ... But I am remaining in Petersburg; I am not going away from Petersburg! I am not going away because ... ech! Why, it is absolutely no matter whether I am going away or not going away.

    But what can a decent man speak of with most pleasure?

    Answer: Of himself.

    Well, so I will talk about myself.

    II

    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?

    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.

    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. ...

    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

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