➾ Записки из подполья Free ➵ Author Fyodor Dostoyevsky – Tshirtforums.co.uk

Записки из подполья chapter 1 Записки из подполья, meaning Записки из подполья, genre Записки из подполья, book cover Записки из подполья, flies Записки из подполья, Записки из подполья 5ec5a824b826a A Collection Of Powerful Stories By One Of The Masters Of Russian Literature, Illustrating The Author S Thoughts On Political Philosophy, Religion And Above All, Humanity Notes From Underground, White Nights, The Dream Of A Ridiculous Man, And Selections From The House Of The Dead Th Anniversary Edition The Compelling Works Presented In This Volume Were Written At Distinct Periods In Dostoyevsky S Life, At Decisive Moments In His Groping For A Political Philosophy And A Religious Answer From The Primitive Peasant Who Kills Without Understanding That He Is Destroying Life To The Anxious Antihero Of Notes From Underground Who Both Craves And Despises Affection The Writer S Often Tormented Characters Showcase His Evolving Outlook On Our FateThomas Mann Described Dostoyevsky As An Author Whose Christian Sympathy Is Ordinarily Devoted To Human Misery, Sin, Vice, The Depths Of Lust And Crime, Rather Than To Nobility Of Body And Soul And Notes From Underground As An Awe And Terror Inspiring Example Of This Sympathy


10 thoughts on “Записки из подполья

  1. says:

    I did two things after finishing with this book 1 Strengthened my resolve to finish Crime and Punishment and read the rest of Dostoyevsky s works without any inner grumbling 2 Looked up Albert Camus background and profile on the internet.Yes Dostoyevsky was one of Camus influences If you read Notes from Underground right after Camus The Fall, it becomes all the obvious Well anyway here s a word of advice.Do not read this book on a cold, practical day Do not read this on a day when your mind is too painstakingly slow to register the meaning of words Do not read this on a day you re feeling cheerful either.Read this on a day you want to sit in a corner of your room, have a few hours to yourself for contemplation without being interrupted every 2 minutes by a notification on whatsapp or a phone call Better still switch off your phone, or put it off the grid before reading this book Read this on a day when you seek intellectual nourishment.Because most sentences in this book deserve a re read, then another.On a day when anything irrespective of how trifle it is, has the capability of setting you off, you might rubbish Notes from Underground as the ramblings of an unhinged mind, shallow self justification of a social outcast But on a day when your mind is very receptive and free from most forms of negativity the narrator would appear to be a or less balanced individual somewhat conflicted maybe voicing all our innermost thoughts the undignified, blasphemous, befuddling thoughts that are carefully dissembled in the darkest nooks and crevices of our minds The thoughts which are not even trendy enough to be glorified in literature The thoughts which we do not have time enough to entertain because we re always too busy grappling with the great predicament of life The thoughts all of us would even label immoral at certain times.We take refuge behind our busy schedule excuse to never fully confront life or realize its many complexities.We live with a terribly flawed understanding of what we really are, what we really aspire to achieve or what is it towards which we re running We never stop to think of the alternatives believing quite blindly that they do not exist.I would not be able to say anything about the book for philosophical ramblings and anecdotal passages cannot be summarized But what I can say with conviction is that Dostoyevsky s intention has been to make you think and introspect rather than recounting a tale.So that is why read this book on a day you won t denounce or reject without giving the narrator s opinion a second thought And what you must certainly not do, is scoff at its length Trust me it will take some time to actually get through its pages.


  2. says:

    My edition of Notes from Underground includes a magisterial foreword by Richard Pevear that gives an extra dimension to the introspective musings of its sardonic anti hero, bestowing them with the required intellectual authority to reproach the utopian socialism and the aesthetic utilitarianism prevalent in the Russia of the 1860s and offer responses to ideological, philosophical and moral paradoxes of a world in the threshold of progress and modernity.The fact that Dostoevsky s novella constitutes one of the founding pillars of the psychoanalysis theories and the existentialist reasoning didn t come as a surprise The protagonist establishes an inner dialogue with himself and engages the reader in an acerbic and self mocking dialogue in which he reasserts his individual freethinking over the redemptive control imposed by totalitarian principles.But as juicy as Pevear s references and footnotes were, the cavernous voice that crawled from the netherworld and seeped into my conscience seemed atemporal and devoid of indoctrinating intention to me, and therefore, universal I m now asking an idle question of my own which is better cheap happiness, or lofty suffering Well, which is better I listened to a man s introspective self judgement, to the confession of a life dragged away by the currents of his deficiencies, his frustrations, his shame and infectious regrets that fester in the wound of his current existence.Dostoevsky s man from the underground is the embodiment of a decisive juncture that every human being will face at some point in his life the crossroads between ignoble actions taken in the heat of the moment and virtuous resolves that never materialized, the split second when the mask of self deception is dropped and lofty pride and steely detachment dissolve into smothering sadness and remorseful loneliness I listened and nodded in recognition I am alone, I thought, and they are everybody The hypocrisy of denouncing the perversity of the Western civilization, this crystal palace of rationality and hollow idealism and its despicable inhabitants, and the irrepressible craving to belong to it, to be accepted and praised by those who were adamantly ridiculized in order to cover one s own failures and corroding envy.The acrimonious humor and spiteful demeanor, mere rudimentary shields to conceal the resigned acquiescence to one s insignificance and disguise the fear of losing with affected indifference.Does it ring a bell Yes, I know To love is to suffer and there can be no love otherwise Desire makes the man from the underground vulnerable.Feigned hate, rocambolesque plans for revenge and mean spirited humiliation become necessary tools to banish those who might offer unselfish love and the burden of happiness.I listened to the cacophony of the paradoxical selves that give voice to this conflicted narrator who speaks from the underworld, from the fetid gutter in the obscure basement of mankind s subconscious, and I joined him in polyphonic canon.For this cantankerous misfit exposes the turpitudes of our human souls without reservation, sometimes with his head, others with his heart but mostly with a gut instinct that bleeds with the raw honesty only the unrepentant liar possesses There is no light that allows us to discern a clear image of the creature that inhabits the catacombs of our consciences but the man from the underground has learned to see in the dark His voice comes from beyond You just need to close your eyes and listen.


  3. says:

    I am writing this review because I have just finished and writing is the only thing I can do at this moment The book has shaken me where reading any other book in the future has come into question Maybe I should have waited till the heat simmered and collected my thoughts but this too would counter what I have just read, experienced and been shaken by Let s start with the simple and easy and get it out of the way The book is told in first person by a narrator who was not raised by parents or in a loving family He has isolated himself, except for his man servant also his greatest tormentor from others, from what we call life He lives off of little This now being out of the way, the book starts with an unreliable narrator who goes through a world s breadth of feelings about himself This is extreme It is savage This book is savage and meant to be If you have a ,Savage, shelf this is the book to shelve there but alone, apart from others On one level the story is about a man who was not loved, is not capable of love, friendship, and has shut himself away metaphorically underground Who better to see the world through These are not the eyes of an unreliable narrator We are all to some degree unreliable narrators I am He is not Without hesitation he faces within himself the onslaught of,fears, prejudices, envies, hostilities, brutalities,contradictions, the need for love, the need to protect against it, meanness, bitterness, hatred of himself and others He finds safety only within his rooms There he can fantasize himself as nobler and where he can act out his dreams of revenge However, from the vantage point of his underground fortress he sees the dance of the world filled with its trite conventions and honors The pathetic discourse taken for social life sickens him He is no good at the game and has no interest in playing it The problem sets in when he is snubbed, mocked for his poverty, lack of social standing, his poor job At times he is compelled to act out his hostilities with wretched results Outraged that those who threw their lives away at the trite, ridiculous party games could look down at one like himself who read, thought, led a higher, deeper life He held a mirror up from his shabby rooms, not one that could be hung plumb on the back of a door, a wall, but one clearly at a precise angle that reflects the brutality of our species and the creatively refined ways we use to cover this over We all act from a base, he says early on, and from that base,i.e honor, an entire set of behaviors becomes justified He acts from the base of reflection, intellectual perseverance, thought, and reason These too are subject to the use of finery to cover the growls and animal snarls hissed within, underground At the end he acknowledges he is a paradoxical character, too that everything above ground is an attempt to become the average man and in essence is a defense We would all like to be admired for our joinings, our costumes, the proper trainings of accepted behavior, the hopes for status and honors, and to be included Possibly literature for its own sake is an answer Also, he notes, this lover of paradoxes, cannot stop writing here, even though the story must end Hopefully, he will continue from his underground sanctuary for all time to come I am counting on it.


  4. says:

    To all, who would like to read opinion or analysis of Notes from the Underground Stop here The following is something quite different The only thing it has to do with the book itself is that the man I m mentioning is a bit like the protagonist Self loathing and incapable of real love, but much malicious than Dotstoevsky s creature You are supposed to be gone I don t know whether you really are, or you go on being here using again a false identity Even if you are truly gone, maybe your prot g es here tell you what goes on Maybe you will read this or be told about it Maybe not I don t care This might be addressed to you, but it is about me And why am I making it public I m leaving the answer to those who would read it Everybody is free to interpret the following as they please I m not looking for sympathy I have enough of that Here I discovered amazing friends who support me constantly and I am so grateful to them What I m doing is facing my fear I did tell you that I didn t let anything to be stuck in me, didn t I I am brave and sincere in a way you can only dream of, oh mighty reader writer reviewer Once I used to call you like that with a pleasure Now I do so with pity Because I know that this is all you really have That s right I feel pity for you I didn t know what a true psychopath was before having the misfortune fortune to come across you Yet, I feel sorry for you, in a way you have never felt sorry for me Neither for me, nor for anyone else You did not hesitate to use your own family members and their tragedies and your own to seduce me, to gain my sympathy You had no problem to, albeit indirectly, involve the ones you claim to love in your dirty little hobby You prayed on my weakness and misplaced affection I was na ve and paid the price for that But you are way na ve believing that there is some sense in what you re doing You are na ve in your arrogance And so you too paid your price And you will go on paying And so shall I, I suppose I know that, if you come to know about this, you will most likely try to hurt me I have no children for you to threaten, but you still have the means to hurt me Maybe by revealing something of about me Maybe by attacking me virtually in some way Maybe you are crazy enough to come to my country and city hunting for me After all, you take trips to different parts of the world just so you could get laid So why not for revenge as well Am I afraid of you Always I am afraid of you and of the memories of you Every time I remember the intimacy you and I shared, albeit only through internet, I feel not just like taking a shower I feel like getting another skin You were all too happy to tell me about the fantasies you had with my image I feel sick that such a man like you has laid his eyes on me and knows so much about me and has seen so much of me So yes, I am afraid of you Of your past and future self, of what you did and might do to me Yet, I am doing this I was terribly hurt to find out how little I have meant to you and how others of your conquests have meant much to you But I know now that your indifference was one of the best things that could have happened to me Because I came to know what you did to the women you find interesting enough I feel sorry for all of them Once you thought I was interesting too While I was still a challenge But once you got past my defenses, the thrill was gone, wasn t it It s the chase you re after, not the end result Just like a hunter who is interested in his prey only as long as it moves and breathes Once your arrows went through me and I was lying on the ground, defenseless and wholly in your power, you didn t want me any But you didn t walk away instantly You stuck around to make sure that I was no than a corpse before leaving me You broke me You were determined to hurt me as much as possible before letting go of me You even befriended me, pretending to be someone else I will never know for sure why you never got as close to me as you did to your other women Maybe you thought I was not as good as the rest of the list, maybe your conscience if you actually have any has kicked in, maybe something else You told me in the end that I could never be good enough for you Maybe you expect me to say now No, you are the one who s not good enough for me I won t, because I know that this was addressed toward me only on a very superficial level I know that the person you despise the most is you You don t realize it, but none of the women you lure, threaten, blackmail, harass, is half the victim you are You violate mostly yourself You think you re super smart and strong You, who are much older than me, with all your years of experience, education and talents, are as na ve and defenseless as a baby, because you are a victim of your hubris, your lack of self respect and genuine love and compassion You told me, when you were still playing your poisonous game with me, that you felt sad that my self esteem was not high enough You told me that you would like to rebuild it You did I didn t know what a true psychopath was until I met you And when I finally knew, I also came to know how strong I was I didn t know that I was brave, intelligent, creative and passionate before you broke me You broke me, but you also rescued me from myself From the self pity I was drowning in I didn t know what I was capable of before you pushed me off the cliff and I discovered I had wings Maybe you thought my willingness to do so much for you and the fact that you could always count on me, that I was so easy and amiable and ready to agree to almost anything, made me boring and pathetic But this is me I don t need games I would do anything for those I love Once I thought you were one of them I am proud of my generosity I possess love and passion you can only dream of I am even good enough to forgive you, even though you don t feel like you need my forgiveness I asked you once about the nature of forgiveness None of us found the exact answer But whatever forgiveness is, I am bestowing it on you Regardless of whether you feel you need it or not I don t need your attention and affection any, I certainly don t need your lies All I need is myself And I discovered myself I discovered that I am the person I have always dreamed of being I told you once you were my teacher And you were You taught me well Thank you.


  5. says:

    Short, brisk, Scathing and dark as dark can be I hope you experience some of the uplifting depression this book gave me It does pull you out in the end but around the middle of the book, it buries you deeper than you ever thought possible.


  6. says:

    Dostoyesky s anti hero is the the first of a long line of existential anti heroes who followed later in the 20th century Clearly, here is an utterly loathsome man who is alienated from his brethren by virtue of his own worldview and is victimized by it In his sublime genius Dostoyevsky sufficiently respects his readers to challenge them to find something, however dreadful it may be, to connect intellectually with a protagonist who is virtually impossible to admire While so many novelists of his era present protagonists with whom it is hoped that you will connect at deeper levels, Dostoyevsky almost seems to care less whether you find something of yourself in the lonely man living in a wretched room beneath the boards of an apartment on the edge of St Petersburg apropos of wet snow The underground man has squandered his gifts to burrow impossibly deep within his interior life, so much so that he has abandoned all social graces and is unwilling or unable to connect with outsiders above ground This underground man finds himself morbidly developed, as a man of our time ought to be developed Every decent man of our time is and must be a coward and a slave He is trapped by his superior intellect and his heightened consciousness showers him with agony to leave him without a clue as to how to relate to men and women of any social status He is entirely, utterly and hopelessly alone living in a random world the sense of which eludes him with its futility I am now living out my life in my corner, taunting myself with the spiteful and utterly futile consolation that it is even impossible for an intelligent man seriously to become anything, and only fools become something Yes, sir, an intelligent man of the twentieth century must be and is morally obliged to be primarily a characterless being a man of character, an active figure primarily a limited character He foreshadows the players in the dramas of Samuel Beckett and Sartre The final end, gentlemen better to do nothing And so, long live the underground He is Nietszche and Kierkegaard in the ways in which they experienced their lives He is The Stranger of Camus and a being straight out of The Metamorphosis of Kafka I ll tell you solemnly that I wanted many times to become an insect Dostoyevsky anticipates the dreadful and perverse 20th century anti hero Humbert of Nabokov in Lolita and utterly bewildered, shell shocked protagonists like Billy Pilgrim in Dresden after its bombing in World War II in Slaughterhouse Five by Kurt Vonnegut Honest to a fault, brilliant, alienated and articulate, the underground man asks and answers his own question What can a decent man speak about with the most pleasing Answer about himself So then, I, too, will speak about myself He finds it impossible to channel his intellect into positive action he lives in a state of nearly total paralysis Like all good existentialists he is plagued by his own haunting consciousness I am strongly convinced that not only too much consciousness but even any consciousness at all is a sickness What is the result of heightened consciousness it is simply to become a scoundrel He wonders how a man of consciousness can have the slightest respect for himself as every primary cause drags with it another and so it goes infinitely He deems that the express purpose of every intelligent man is babble a deliberate outpouring from empty into void But he blames himself because he is intelligent than everyone around him He scorns the good and lofty and considers such idealism as building a Crystal Palace, which only leads to getting stuck deeper in the mire underground The underground man is highly in agreement with Heine who observed, rightly I suspect, in criticism of Rousseau who lied about his life for his vanity in his Confessions The educated and well developed man of his time challenges the notion of what is profitable in this twopenny bustle and scorns reason itself Gentlemen, why don t we reduce all this reasonableness to dust with one good kick But there s much on this subject which is curious coming, as it does, from an intelligent man Reason, gentlemen, is a fine thing, that is unquestionable, but reason is only reason and satisfies only man s reasoning capacity, while wanting is a manifestation of the whole of life I, for example, quite naturally want to live so as to satisfy my whole capacity for living and not so as to satisfy just my reasoning capacity alone No magnanimity graces his soul as because of it he would be tormented by the consciousness of its utter futility as Nature does not ask your permission and doesn t care about your wishes or if you like its laws He invited you to listen to the moaning of an educated 19th century man suffering from a toothache Point well made and taken Man is an animal damned by ingratitude and in a classical definition of our species he defines man as the ungrateful biped and is further distinguished among all other creatures as the only animal which curses He finds that man is comically arranged and that somewhere in all of existence there is a joke and perhaps existence is simply a grand hoax foisted upon humanity For example, he wonders why he has been so arranged with such desires as he possesses or which possess him utterly When he encounters and seeks relief in a prostitute named Liza, he falls in love, an emotion which betrays and makes a fool of him But he yields to his nature, as he feels he can do no other, and seeks to win her with his intelligent face and to liberate her from the life of the streets with his intellect I ll get you with these pictures He derides Liza by saying, What are you putting in bondage It s your soul, over which you have no power, that you put in bondage along with your bodyAnd for the sake of what, one wonders, have you ruined your life here There is not and never has been any harder or harsher work in the world than this One would think your heart alone would simply pour itself out in tears On the subject of love in his underground dreams he describes it as God s mystery and later as the yielding right to become tyrannized by your lover Most of all, the anti hero is Dostoyesky, the author, penning immortal lines of literature from debtor s prison Our discussion is serious I am not going to bow and scrape before you I have the underground He taunts his readers boldly, as few novelists before him have written, as to be so gullible as to imagine I will publish all this and, what s , give it to you to read I shall never have any readers Ultimately, what does the underground man want most of all I longed for peace, I longed to be left alone in the underground Living life so crushed me, unaccustomed to it as I was, that it even became difficult for me to breathe In the end he insults his readers by advising them that his notes are only his work to carry to an extreme what his readers, you and I, are too cowardly to carry and chides all of us for taking comfort in our morbid and possibly surreal self deception, a major theme later developed by Sartre in Existentialism Is a Humanism But enough I don t want to write any from Underground with a capital U this time However, in another paradox in the last lines his notes continue because the underground man can t help himself and went on scribbling his babble anyway To understand clearly the influence of this Father of Existentialism in 20th century literature, one must first understand this germinal literary classic.


  7. says:

    I first met the Russian on the loading docks Filling trailers with freight out in the weather, in the humid heat and then again in the freezing cold was not a career, not a job anyone especially wanted, it was a job to fill in the gaps, work that paid a wage and filled a need as necessary as the empty trailers that backed into the dock one after the other.I had seen him in the break room, out on the picnic tables always alone He scribbled incessantly in an old thesis book, would pause long moments staring into space, as still as a statue, and then would bend his head and write feverishly.Sometimes he would sit quietly on his break, with a thin old paperback or a tattered library book in his lap Passing once, I could not help glancing over his shoulder and saw that his book was a collection of poems.Another time, in the cold of January, when we all dressed like astronauts in plump suits, or like Eskimos in thick woolen parkas, the Russian was dressed in a thin old ragged coat and cloth gloves with holes in several fingers He looked ill, and little doubt, we still had hours to go on our shift and his only head covering was the sparse patch of thinning hair atop his sallow scalp I remembered having an extra woolen cap in my locker, and fetched it and then offered it to him without a word, just held it out It was a colorful winter toboggan hat with a bright red fluffy ball atop He looked up at me and seemed to almost decline, he looked embarrassed to wear the warm cap, as if its incongruous color atop his sullen head would be a greater hindrance than the warmth it would provide A dirty hand ventured up and took the cap and black eyes beneath scruffy brows looked into me, seeking to discover was this true kindness or a jest at his expense I smiled and he seemed to relax, and a thickly accented thanks drifted up from his stringy mustache and beard.The other dockworkers said of him that when they worked a trailer in tandem, he spoke very little or nothing at all, loading mechanically and only passing information as needed.My first trailer with him was on a cold night in March and the brisk pace of the work kept us warm I tried to spark a conversation, but he only answered in grunts and shrugs.Another time I got him to speak a little, talked some about his origins and his life before this At the end of the load, he smiled shyly, thanked me for the winter cap, reached from his back pocket, returned it and gave me a firm handshake I returned the grip and looked at him and saw again those eyes that seemed to look into me I m Lyn, I said Fyodor After that we slowly began to talk, to share ideas Working together, Fyodor told me about his writing, during breaks, he would read aloud Talking nonsense is the sole privilege mankind possesses over the other organisms It s by talking nonsense that one gets to the truth I talk nonsense, therefore I m human Man only likes to count his troubles he doesn t calculate his happiness I say let the world go to hell, but I should always have my tea To love is to suffer and there can be no love otherwise Fyodor was insane He was inspired, passionate, angry, hurt, a victim, a survivor, a damaged soul that had lived beyond torture and then had been able to describe the journey into hell and the ascent past.There were days that I had to walk away from him, unable to meet the brutal honesty, the too focused intensity, I had to step away I am alone, I thought, and they are everybody And I would scream at him, but also screaming at myself, It doesn t have to be this way, damn you Life is not this black and white, you are not the final judge and jury, you cannot cut down to our souls like a scalpel, it is not your place to examine us, you are ONE OF US And he answered I love, I can only love the one I ve left behind, stained with my blood when, ungrateful wretch that I am, I extinguished myself and shot myself through the heart But never, never have I ceased to love that one, and even on the night I parted from him I loved him perhaps poignantly than ever We can truly love only with suffering and through suffering We know not how to love otherwise We know no other love I want suffering in order to love I want and thirst this very minute to kiss , with tears streaming down my cheeks, this one and only I have left behind I don t want and won t accept any other And I had to get away I quit, I left, and I separated myself from him Who was he to say these things, who was he to judge me, to judge all of us Yet I could not forget, could not stop thinking of his words, could not get away from those eyes that delved into me.


  8. says:

    MadnessThis is madness, I tell you Or worse, it s philosophy, some sound, some twisted in counterintuitive logic In the first part of Notes for Underground the narration reads like the journal of a rambling genius or psychopath It s difficult to decide This section had my mind wandering in a whirl of amazement, boredom and confusion If the entire book went on this way, as slim as it is, I doubt I would ve finished it, or if I had, you d not see a four star rating up there.The second part of Notes takes a standard, first person storytelling approach and felt in the style of Crime and Punishment, only perhaps personal Perhaps too personal for my tastes, because I had the misfortune of hating the narrator He is a coward, a coward who yearns to be courageous, but in all the wrong ways He wishes to strike down those that have wronged him, but after listening to his self absorption, imagined slights, and impossibly high and complicated morals, I myself wished to strike him down with a solid backhand, one I hope would wake him up to his own idiocy Likely it would only get me added to his hate list.Did you notice what happened there I felt the urge to hit a fictional character Well played, Dostoevsky, well played That is the writer s genius, to craft a character I felt was real enough to touch I don t know what he looks like other than being a small man, but I know the man s inner self, and that is knowing about a man than anything I could glean from the outside Ah, if only all characters were created equally well


  9. says:

    I scribbled on my notepad, random words, stared at them, struck them and occasionally, tore the page to reveal a new one The overcast sky was teetering at the rain s behest and the drowning sun was not of much assistance either I was wriggling my fingers between the spaces of the black wrought iron bench on which I had been sitting for over three hours now My patience was about to surrender and I was in no mood to cajole it any further I snapped shut my notepad, freed my fingers and was about to leave when.I Did you come from there D Did you not expect that I Ah well, I was kind of D You see, you ask questions for which you already know the answer.I Actually, it s called confirmation.D No, it is deeper It s called consciousness.I What does that mean D You are clearly conscious of a thing and yet you keep it groggy under the limp veils of confirmation and validity and other fancy words.I Consciousness comes with a lot of digging consistent digging It is not everyone s cup of tea.D mildly chortles I What D Nothing I C mon You cannot smirk like that and shut up without explaining D Okay Let me ask you something Why have you been waiting here for three hours I Because I had a meeting with you.D That was timed three hours ago and you should have been long gone.I Well, yes But I thought you might have gotten stuck somewhere and would be probably on your way.D Really Think again.I Well, may be I wanted to meet you.D And waiting made you feel good I Certainly not D Oh very much, my lady The waiting was a pain which during the first hour was scratching at your consciousness But once it seeped in, you began enjoying it Suffering is the sole origin of consciousness I Rubbish How can someone enjoy suffering D Have you ever dabbed your nail over a dry cut on your skin And with every dab, a shrill of pain running through your nerves bringing you a sense of enjoyment after a while So much that you continue the activity I Perhaps some moments were D There The enjoyment was just from too intense consciousness of one s own degradation it was from feeling oneself that one has reached the last barrier I You might be right in some distorted way But your fixation with darkness renders everything fair, meaningless.D You interpret wrong again, my lady The darkness I talk about is already ingrained in you You choose to be aware of it and pursue it too You just stop short of accepting it I I pursue darkness D Your dark side, to be precise.I How can you say that D Let us just take today s instance You could have easily walked at the strike of 3pm and kept your upright sense breathing with principle But you chose to hover Not for 1, 2, 3 but freaking 190 minutes There was fun in waiting for the unknown visitor since that window gave you the independence to create the story the way you wished to You could make me tall or short, contort my face to suit your image, sway the discussion to merge with your thoughts But the moment I appeared, you had to banish your independence and cede the power in my favour So, you see, you enjoyed the waiting, the suffering if you so choose to call it That is the reason you waited to appease your dark side, not to fulfill my flair in the slightest I in a low voice What you say might have some truth in it But it may not be the entire truth I think.D Ah.And in a swoosh, he rose in thin air, flung towards the adjacent underground and disappeared into it before I could blink twice I kept sitting on the bench, at the risk of proving him right, hoping for another rendezvous with the mysterious D who made sense and muddled it, all the same I looked up The sky had turned dark after all.


  10. says:

    Original ReviewNotes from Underground is a small but influential work.In particular, it is the inspiration for the Howard Devoto of Magazine fame song A Song from under the Floorboards from The Correct Use of Soap later covered by the solo artist Steven Patrick Morrissey.The song begins, I am angry, I am ill and I m as ugly as sin , which is partly based on the first paragraph of the novel.The name of the novel takes a bit of a liberty with the original Russian title.In the English, it conveys the meaning of The Underground as in the counterculture of the 60 s.Apparently, the original Russian is closer to Notes from under the Floorboards.Devoto, one of my favourite songwriters, would also rhyme Raskolnikov with ripped me off in the song Philadelphia which he rhymed with healthier.As far as I can tell, he never managed to rhyme anything with Dostoyevsky.Neither have I March 7, 2011Review after Re ReadingSee my review after a re read


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