Absolutely brilliant and penetrating analysis of human nature in all its vainglorious ridiculousness. Dostoyevsky is especially insightful in taking down what I'll loosely call "rationalism"--the belief (somewhat popular then and surprisingly popular now) that people act in a rationally self-interested way, especially if they're made aware of where their self-interest lies. This book should be required reading for nearly every economics department in the US, where such fantasies still rule the day! The character of the Underground Man is like a child yelling "the emperor has no clothes!," except that he's also an emperor and is talking about himself and making the point that nobody else has any clothes either.

By the way, I read this in the Pevear and Volokhonsky translation, and while I've had my quibbles with their work in the past, this is terrifically well-done and captures more of the humor than I've seen in other translations.

خوشبختی ارزان یا رنج متعالی؟ کدام بهتر است؟
برای من بهترین و ملموس ترین اثر داستایفسکی فقید است.

كم هو وحيد وبائس ذلك الذي يختبئ في قبو، في قبو روحه، ذلك الذ�� لم يتكيف يوماً مع واقع ولا أستطاع أن يعرف كيف يعيش مع الناس، كان يمل أسرع مما كان يفقد فيه حاسة الثقة بالنفس، كان مجروحاً، ثم غدا آثما، ثم عصبياً، هائجاً، ناقماً على كل شيء، تسلل داء الوحدة والعزلة إلى روحه، كان أشبه بمن أستفاق في سجن، كان يرى أن الحياة سجن سخيفة، سجن مليء بأناس فوضويون، بقساة القلوب، ظل بطلنا في قبوه لمدة عشرين عاماً، منعزلاً عن الحياة والبشر، أصبح يرى الواقع مثل كومة هباء، لم يجبر نفسه يوماً فعل ما يجعله يعتقد خلاف ذلك، ما من أمر أجبره على الخروج من ذلك القبو العفن، بالوحدة والخطايا، والتأنيب ، وكما عبر نابكوف مرةً :



‏" لقد أخذت الوحدة تفسدني، وأخذت أحتاج إلى من يُلازمني ويعتني بي، وأصبح قلبي جهازاً هستيرياً لا يوثق به."



مر بطل قبونا - إن شئنا أن نسميه - بمرحلة الإنسحاب، ثم التكور على الذات، ثم النقمة على المجتمع، ثم الغضب، ثم التعب، وبعد ذلك الهذيان في الكتابة، كان شريراً بحق، لاذعاً، غير عابئ حتى بكرامته، أصبح يلقي بالخطب والمواعظ، تعب من إنتقاد ذاته، يعلم أنه تصرف في مرات عديدة ببلاهة، يلتقي بأصدقاء قدماء، لا يرونه سوى حشرة تداس، وفي أفضل الحالات تحول إلى موضع للسخرية في جلسة خمر، يا إلهي كم يفقد الإنسان نفسه حين لا يعود يتعرف على واقعه، يصبح ضحلاً، يُسمي أتفه الت��اصيل التي يعملها إنتصاراً، يضخم من ذاته ثم ينكمش، فيتحطم في نهاية المطاف، ثم يلتقي بمن هو أدنى منه، فالويل لذلك الأدنى، الذي سيصب عليه جام غضبه ومواعظه الأخلاقية ورؤيته للإنسان الفاضل، من هو؟ مجرد هارب يبحث عمن يكون أدنى منه، مجرد خائف من مواجهة ذاته، القبو عبارة عن أرض يرقد فيها بطلنا بلا حياة، ولكنه أصبح يعرف كيف يحكي ويعبر عن ذاته أيما تعبير، أصبح موقناً بأن لا شيء أفضل من أن يحكي ويسخر ويغرق الورق بخموله النفسي ولا-واقعيته، مرارة حياته هو، صار يندب ماضية، وواقعه والمجتمع المادي الجامد الذي يعيش فيه، صار يعي أن حياته قد أنتهت في ذلك القبو المعتم، حياته ، شروده، غموضه تجاه الأشياء، أحلامه التي لم تكن يوماً سوى أحلاماً بسيطة، صارت توخزه، تجعله غاضباً على الدوام ..



هذه الرواية ربما تكون من أعمق ما كتب دوستويفسكي في مجال النفس البشرية وإزالة الموانع أمام التعرف على روح الإنسان الداخلية بمسحة شديدة من السوداوية، والرؤى المحطمة، والأسلوب اللاذع والتهكمي من مصير الإنسان وحياته وبواعثه، تحكي عن الهروب البشع أمام الحضارة والمادة، أمام المجتمع والواقع ، إما أن ينكمش الإنسان أو يتمادى في واقعيته، لا حل آخر، يظهر دوستويفسكي متعصباً، غاضباً من مجتمعه، غير آبهاً لسخرية الآخرين، ولا متطلعاً لترف الاعجابات، رواية صريحة، عميقة، مدهشة، ومرعبة أيضاً في تحليلها وواقعيتها ..



ذكرني بطل هذه الرواية ببطل رواية (الليالي البيضاء) ، اللذين يتجسدان بلا أسم ولا أوصاف، يخرجان من جحريهما نحو فضاء لا يعرفانه، يتخبطان في الواقع، يحكيان مثل ساذجين، خرجا من كتاب وظلا يثرثران، هناك ربط عجيب بين الروايتين، ومشاعر متشابهة لدى قراءة كليهما، هل يمكن أن يكون الشخص ذاته، راودتني هذه الأفكار فعلاً، هل هذا هو مصير الذي كتبه دوستويفسكي لصاحبنا في رواية (الليالي البيضاء)، هل وصل به الحال أن يرمي بطله في حفرة مثل هذا القبو وهو يشاهده يغضب ويثور، ويتخبط، لا أستبعد ذلك خصوصاً وأن كلاهما كان حالماً، حساساً، غريب الأطوار، وحيدين مثل سلحفاة، عاطفيين مثل أبطال الحكايات الغابرة، ربما تكون مذكرات القبو هذه هي الجزء التالي لحكاية العاشق، العاشق المخرّب، الذي خسر الحب ، خسر حياته، واقعه، وظل يكتب ويكتب، يكتب مثل من يحلم بالنجاة ..




*******



" أيها السادة، سأخبركم حول الكيفية التي أضعتُ فيها فرصة النجاح في حياتي ...... بفعل الفساد الروحي والأخلاقي الذي أعاني منه، وبفعل الوقاحة الصلفة التي أتصف بها، وبفعل عدم تعودي على الحياة المُعاشة، وبفعل تراكم الغيظ والحقد اللذين نميتُهما في قبوي "

داستایفسکی، خداوندگار ذهن و روان بشری.

من واقعا در حیرتم چطور یک نویسنده انقدر تونسته به ذهنیات آدما دست پیدا کنه. چطور یه نویسنده تونسته شخصیت هایی مثل این مرد زیرزمینی رو خلق کنه. چطور این حجم از لخت کردن شخصیت ها ممکنه. اما خب داستایفسکی تونسته!

شاید بهترین توصیف رو از حالی که با شناختن مرد زیرزمینی پیدا کردم رو تو یکی از تفسیرهای اخر کتاب بشه جستجو کرد (البته با کمی تغییر) : مرد زیرزمینی «غریبه‌ی آشنای ناخودآگاه ذهن» من بود. به نظر من فرق من (و شاید خیلی از ماها) و مرد زیرزمینی، توی تاب و توانمون در مقابل دنیا و شیوه و روند زندگانی بوده. در واقع، من مرد زیرزمینی رو کسی میدونم که به بیش آگاهی و بیش هوشیاری رسید اما، در مقابل دنیا و زندگی کردن شکست خورده. مرد زیرزمینی نسخه ای شکست خورده از کساییه که ��عی میکنن به آگاه ترین شیوه زندگی کنند اما، در نهایت یادشون میره انسان هستند و انسان، برای زندگی نیاز به فکر نکردن و چیزای سطحی تر و مبتذل تر هم داره. زندگی همش هنرهای والا و زیبا نیست یا اگاهی و قضاوت بی رحمانه و منطقیِ تمامی کنش ها و واکنش های خودمون. یا اینکه به سادومازوخیستی ترین حالات به ویژگی های ضد و نقیض خودمون و دیگران بتازیم و بالا و پایینشون کنیم و در نهایت، به زیرزمین (به عنوان نمادی از انزوا از انسان و زندگی) پناه ببریم.
ولی باید بلند شد و یک بند برای داستایفسکی دست زد؛ آن هم برای خلق شخصیت و نوشته ای تا به این حد پارادوکسیکال.

مرد زیرزمینی عصیانی در برابر خیلی چیزهاس. اما این عصیانگر، ضعیفه و محکوم به شکست. شاید از نظر داستایفسکی ایمان مسیحی جواب معمای ضعف و شکست مرد زیرزمینی باشه. اما به نظر من، مرد زیرزمینی (یا نمونه ای از انسان مدرنی که از سطح زندگی فاصله گرفته) نیاز به فکر نکردن، گذشت، عشق و محبت داره. تو این اثر داستایفسکی دو مرحله پوچی و عصیانی که کامو ازش گفته و نوشته رو برای شخصیت اولش طی میکنه اما، مقوله‌ی عشق انسانیِ کامو رو با عشق مسیحی جایگزین میکنه که به نظر من اولی جوابه فقط. (البته گویا قسمت عشق مسیحی داستان توسط حکومت روسیه سانسور شده و مترجم و مفسرها، مفصل بهش پرداختن)

*البته منی که این حرفارو زدم هم خیلی موقع ها چاره رو زیرزمین و دوری دیدم و میبینم. اما من سعی میکنم زیرزمین رو در نهایت یک راه حل موقت بدونم و ازش، در مواقع درست استفاده کنم. زیرزمین ایده وسوسه کننده ایه، مخصوصا تو دنیای یک سر کثافت و مبتذل ما...

من باید تنها نکته ای که منو اذیت میکنه در قبال چنین متن هایی بگم. قسمت دوم کتاب روایتی نسبتا سانتیمانتالی و رمانتیسمی داره که البته توی تفسیرها هم ازش به عنوان «رمانتیسم زشت» (البته نه به معنی بد و ضعیف) یاد میشه. درسته نویسنده اگاهانه و با دلیل این سبک نوشته رو انتخاب کرده اما برای مخاطبی مثل من، تداعی کننده متن هایی همچون شب های روشن و خانم صاحبخانه بود و من، از متن های این چنینی خوشم نمیاد. از این اغراق حس ها و کنش ها و واکنش ها...

در نهایت هم باید بگم تعداد تفسیرها بسیار زیاد بود و خسته کننده. به نظرم بجای 14 تفسیر که حداقل نصفشون انقدر خواندنی نبودن و بیشتر شاید مناسب مخاطب متخصص تر بودن، 5 تا 7 تفسیر خوبی که وجود داشت رو گلچین میکردن و همونارو فقط میاوردن.

O svjetskoj istoriji se može reći sve što čovjeku bolesne uobrazilje može pasti na pamet. Samo jedno se ne može reći - da je razumna.

Po Platonu podzemlje bi bilo Had, gdje se nalazi prava, čista istina. Da li to govori da je Dostojevski iz svog podzemlja pisao o istini? Hladnoća njegovog podzemlja oslikava razoboritost njegovih misli koje su neprikosnovene. Ona čini da sve ono što je suviše ljudsko, ublaži, a sve njegove bolove pretvori u prijatnu nadraženost. Šta je bolje - jevtina sreća ili uzvišene patnje; biće jedno od nekih važnih pitanja u ovoj knjizi. Dostojevski na patnju gleda kao na nešto što čovjeka čini živim i sočnijim u njegovom postojanju. Dok sreću vidi samo u zadovoljstvu kada se govori samo o sebi. Ovaj roman je u vidu monologa, tako da konkretna radnja i ne postoji, što posebno daje draž s obzirom da postoji raskalašnost misli i njihovo otvoreno iskazivanje. Dostojevski najviše pridaje važnost jedinki i kakav uticaj civilizacija ima na nju; psihološki ponori koje je čine otvoriće mnoga pitanja. Tako on primjećuje da čovjek voli nešto da gradi i stvara ali istovremeno voli i da ruši; te dolazi do konstatacije da ono što čovjeka razlikuje od životinje jeste to što on proklinje ovaj svijet, dok se životinja samo prilagođava tom svijetu. Dakle, on ne poznaje svoje prave interese i kao takav srlja i drugome čini pakosti. Ovdje Dostojevski zapaža da je neophodno takvog čovjeka usmjeriti ka njegovim normalnim i istinskim interesima te bi tako on shvatajući svoju korist, upravo u dobru vidio svoju ličnu korist, a pošto niko ne radi protiv svojih interesa, tako bi on po neophodnosti počeo činiti dobro.

Imagine 19th century Russian literature as a loud boisterous party. Here's Pushkin, basking in the center of attention, charming up all the ladies. Here are Chekhov and Gogol at the heart of a passionate intellectual argument. Here's Count Tolstoy, busily serving canapés while rejoicing in the pleasure of work, stopping only to chat about the pleasures of countryside with Turgenev.

But where's Dostoyevsky? Oh, there he is, sitting by himself in a dark corner, dead broke after a high-stakes cards game, giving you the unsettling intense heavy glare that easily penetrates right into the darkest best-guarded secrets of your soul, the glare that clearly says 'been there, done that, been repulsed by what I saw.' And if he looks like he's judging you, it's because he is. And you deserve it, probably.

Fyodor Mikhailovich, you don't make liking you easy, do you?


----------

This book is brilliant. Unpleasant and hard to read, disturbing and unsettling, and really brilliant. But before I go into my long-winded discussion, let me get this off my chest, for the honesty purposes and full disclosure:

I finally can admit - I don't "get" Dostoyevsky. Perhaps my mind is a tad too shallow for his literary depths; perhaps my inner ball of sunshine deep deep inside refuses to see the world through Dostoyevsky's disillusioned glare.

But I don't need to "get" him to know the greatness when I see it, to respect his sharp writing, his keenly observant eye that does not let anything slip away, and his scarily clear perceptions of people and the layers in which they dress up their otherwise petty and pathetic selves.

In this short and strange book, Dostoyevsky manages to create perhaps the most disturbing image of a human being in the entire 19th century literature. Let me jot down just a few of the epithets that came pouring into my head with every page I read: petty, bitter, miserly, resentful, selfish, pitiful, entitled, cruel, deeply unpleasant and frankly miserable. The person who finds disgusting satisfaction in little acts of petty nastiness. The person who perversely enjoys stewing in self-imposed misery and figurative self-flagellation over every perceived slight, building exquisite mountains out of molehills. The person who would thrive on humiliating others, but if unable to achieve that would just as happily thrive on self-humiliation and self-loathing. The person who in the confines of his little mind hides a true despot, but gets his sense of self-worth by assuming that everyone else is beneath his miserable but clearly enlightened and misunderstood self - despite the world pointing to the contrary. The person who'd quietly spit into your bowl if you haven't offered to share it with him - and then will internally torment himself for years over the act, feeling that the act of torment is enough to elevate him out of the mud.
The person who, in ramblings about how rotten society is helps it rot a little bit more.

In short, he created a character the sheer mention of whom makes me want to take a shower and wash all of the above off me.

He created a character that with all of the above scarily reminds you of so many people you know - and maybe sometimes even yourself.

And that's what really disturbing about it.



And this disturbing part is exactly what makes me from time to time abandon the fun bits of the Russian literature party and instead join Fyodor Mikhailovich in his dark gloomy corner for a minute or so. Because he makes me, unpleasant as it is, take a long critical look at myself, so that I can try to keep myself out of this "underground". Because he "gets" to me even if I don't quite "get" him.

Because it's not a story, it's a mirror, and you have to work hard to make it not be so.

I don't know how to rate this book. I did not enjoy it (how can you?) but it made a sizeable imprint on my soul. Stars are irrelevant here, so I'll randomly pick something. 4?

------
Written in Munich airport, stuck on an unscheduled 20hr layover, with almost no sleep and beginnings of jet lag.

خوشبختی ارزان یا رنج متعالی؟
بدون لحظه ای تردید و سانتی مانتال بازی
خوشبختی ارزان رو باید دودستی چسبید.
دوستای خوشگلم، هیچ چیز قشنگ و متعالی در رنج وجود نداره. اینو برای گول زدن ادمهای رنج کشیده و بدبخت درست کردن تا امیدشون رو از دست ندن و بشه بیشتر استثمارشون کرد.
انسان یکبار به دنیا میاد و بعد از مرگ هم هیچی وجود نداره. پس دلتون به چیزی که توی دستتون نیست خوش نکنید.

Sumergido en la primera parte de la novela, pensé muchas veces que la obra llegaría a encabezar la lista de mi personal Olimpo literario cuya etiqueta bien podría ser la de literatura a martillazos, con permiso de Nietzsche, pensador que se paseaba por mi mente bastante a menudo mientras duró su lectura. Me refiero a ese tipo de literatura nada complaciente ni con el lector en la forma ni con el retrato del ser humano en el fondo. La literatura que azota conciencias, que remueve subsuelos, que no deja títere con cabeza, y que además lo hace de forma nada sutil ni soterrada, vomitando golpes, desde la pasión o la rabia o la desesperación.

Sentía respeto por su atormentado y contradictorio protagonista, capaz de reírse de sí mismo, de no tomarse en serio; ese individuo que, tras expresar su frustración con toda la pasión de un hombre desesperado, podía finalizar su discurso con un “bah, y qué importa en el fondo todo esto”. Podía empatizar con su infelicidad, con ese, que dijo George Steiner, que es "El hombre de las grandes profundidades (que) posee la inteligencia sin la potencia, el deseo sin los medios."... y, quizás lo peor de todo, la conciencia de todo ello.

Esa conciencia que nos hace reflexionar sobre nosotros, sobre el mundo, que nos hace indagar sobre lo bueno y lo malo, esa conciencia que, como nos dice Dostoievski, si está hipertrofiada como la del hombre inteligente, no nos lleva sino a un callejón sin salida, al absurdo de la vida, a la ausencia de "principios fundamentales, bases con las que asentarse" y, por consiguiente, a la inacción y al aburrimiento existencial.

Es imposible no esbozar una sonrisa triste y cómplice ante la postura de este funcionario que desgarra sus ropajes ante nosotros. ¿Que tenemos conciencia? Pues asumámoslo hasta las últimas consecuencias: que se imponga nuestra voluntad, nuestro afán de independencia, el poder que confiere estar por encima de todo y de todos. Si nos da porque 2+2 son cinco, pues cinco serán. Hay que desterrar la razón. Asumamos la mayor rebeldía posible ante la naturaleza que se nos impone, vayamos contra nosotros mismos, seamos malos con los que podemos, humillémonos con los que nos pueden y suframos por lo uno y por lo otro, y, lo que todavía es aun más revolucionario, disfrutemos de ese sufrimiento, sintamos placer en sumergirnos en el fango, aunque sea el placer de la autocompasión, y volvamos a despreciarnos por ese placer y volvamos a disfrutar de ese mismo desprecio.


Pero llegó la segunda parte, donde todo lo dicho hasta ahora se vuelve parodia, donde alcanzamos a comprender todo el patetismo de este ser que quiere ser él sin serlo, que llena su desprecio del mundo con unas fantasías delirantes e hilarantes. Su rebeldía contra la naturaleza, esa voluntad que todo lo puede, no era más que la imposibilidad de alcanzar lo que anhela y que solo consigue en sus fantasías. Es el retrato de un cobarde que se desprecia despreciándonos a todos.

Del respeto por el personaje pasé a la solidaridad con este ser desdichado e impotente, a la compasión ante su debilidad, ante el sufrimiento que comporta su exacerbado egoísmo; ante su imposibilidad de amar o de vivir en el amor. Cómo no apiadarse de esa necesidad de castigo, de humillación por parte de los otros que redima aunque sea infinitesimalmente la culpa que arrastra, culpa que reconoce como suya sin ser suya. Quien puede no justificar ese rencor y deseo de venganza contra todos, pero, sobre todo, contra sí mismo que le impide aprovechar las pocas oportunidades que se le presentan y que el único pecado que cometió es no saber vivir.

تراژدی زیرزمین، در آگاهی از وضعیت بهتر و در عین حال ، عدم امکان دستیابی به آن نهفته است.
راوی پارادوکسالیستِ ما زندگی درونی را بر زندگی اجتماعی ترجیح داده است.ما شاهد گوشه گیری او از مردم و قطع ارتباطات اجتماعی، به منظور حفظِ (من) ِ خود از فشار تاثیر محیطِ اطرافش هستیم...اما در ادامه میبینیم که او در زیرزمینِ آگاهی فردی که برای خویش ساخته، حبس شده و راه فراری ندارد!
درونگرایی و تأملات مرد زیرزمینی، آن قدر نسبی بودن هرچیز را در دیدگاهش گسترش میدهد که ایمانش را به قوانین عمومی کاملا از دست می دهد و به تبع آن، برایش مطلقا هیچ چیز گرامی و با قداستی باقی نمی ماند.
اگر در درونگراییِ دیگران، انکار تِز به وسیله ی آنتی تِز میتوانست آنان را به سنتز برساند، اینجا در درونگراییِ راوی، چنین امکانی اساسا وجود ندارد چون خود وجود سنتز ، از آغاز انکار شده است...در یادداشت ها میبینیم که چطور انزوای کامل خود، در خلوت شخصی ، مفهومی انتزاعی پیدا میکند و در عمل امکان پذیر نیست و شاهدیم که او چطور تمایلی راستین به حفظ تماسی هرچند گذرا و تحقیرآمیز با دیگران دارد و آنرا برای خود نوعی دستیابی به موفقیت میشمارد....
راوی به پستی و فرومایگیِ رفتارش آگاه است و از این آگاهی، لذت هم میبَرد ، چون این دوگانگیِ شخصیتش را به عنوان نشانی از روشنفکریِ ناب و خالص ، دوست دارد و فکر میکند که این خصیصه اورا بالاتر و برتر از دیگران قرار می دهد...

تعاملِ امر روانشناختی، امر اجتماعی و امر اخلاقی، ساختار دراماتیکِ یادداشتها را می آفریند.
در سطح فلسفی نیز با پارادوکس مسأله ی اختیار، و رفتار جبرمدار روبرو میشویم.کنج دیوار زیرزمین که راوی در آن حبس شده، مظهر قوانین طبیعت، ریاضیات و هرچیز مرتبط با نظریه های استدلال محور است که هر اِمکانی را در انسان برای نشان دادنِ فردیت و اراده ی آزادانه اش ، از بین میبَرَد.او میگوید که خواستِ شخصی و آزاد و ارادی ، هرچند وحشیانه ترین و بدوی ترین هوس، همان منفعتِ اصلیِ از قلم افتاده یِ بشر است که در هیچ طبقه بندی نمی گنجد و هر سیستم و قانون و تئوری را میفرستد به دَرَک! و معتقد است عقل، فقط عقل است و فقط هم جوابگویِ توانایی فکری بشر، اما میل، جلوه ی کل زندگی و کل حیات بشری است، هم عقل و هم باقیِ دغدغه هایش....
بحث سر این است که انسان به خودش ثابت کند که انسان است..نه ابزار!...

راوی میگوید:من نه طرف رنج را میگیرم و نه هواخواه سعادت و رفاهم. من طرفدار میلم.میل شخصی!
از نظر او، صرفا خیر و سعادت را دوست داشتن، حتی به نوعی بی شخصیتی و بی لیاقتی هم هست! اصلا شاید انسان مثل یک شطرنج باز ، تنها جریان حرکتهایی را دوست داشته باشد که او را به هدف میرسانَد و نه خودِ هدف را...شاید تمامی اهداف روی زمین، که بشر دارد برای رسیدن به آن تلاش میکند، فقط روند قطع نشدنیِ حرکت باشد، نه مقصد خاصی که چیزی نیست جز یک مشت فرمول ریاضی...رسیدن که همه چیز نیست!آخر این کار به شکل مضحکی تمام میشود!

داستایفسکی در این اثر به ضرورت پی ریزی اخلاقی نوین که نه فقط بر پایه ی عقل، بلکه بر اساس کل ذات و فطرت بشر استوار باشد، تاکید میکند.اخلاق نوینی که خود در طول عمر ادبی اش، برای آن تلاش میکند...

ژانر این اثر، ژانری مرکب است.خود نویسنده در نامه هایی که طی کار روی اثرش نوشته، بخش نخستِ این اثرِ دوپاره را مقاله و بخش دوم را رمانِ کوتاه نامیده است.ترجمه و مقدمه ی بسیار عالی جناب آتش برآب و تفسیرهای ارزشمندی که از اساتید مختلف در پیوست این کتاب گنجانده شده نیز، این کتاب را خواستنی تر و ارزشمندتر کرده است.

so I came across this guy at a party that I had known in college, many years ago. I remembered him clearly: that brilliant, pretentious guy with his stories and his sarcasm and his nihilism. our classmates mocked him and so did I, but I enjoyed him too. he was a funny fellow, entirely self-absorbed, smart and well-read and amusingly melodramatic in his comments about the world and his life; he wore his pathos blatantly, like some kind of robe or badge or shield. I always thought that was brave of him, that naked vulnerability so openly displayed. and here he was, many years later, pretty much the same guy except the years had not been so kind to him. we struck up a conversation and talked about the old days. he asked if I wanted to leave the party and go back to his place, do some drugs; I agreed.

his place was a dump but my place is little better (just cleaner). he had piles of books stacked everywhere (mine are kept neatly, in bookshelves). the place had a goaty smell, and a musty one too, smelling like dust and old food and socks and sweat and semen (I keep my windows wide open all the time to avoid those scents). we sat on his ratty couch, side by side, and began to do line after line. he talked and talked and talked. it was amusing at first; his spiteful and malicious commentary made me smile. such an odd fellow, so energetic in his negative way, and yet surprisingly self-aware. he talked about how low he was, but that at least he recognized what he was, unlike everyone else, how he was such a worm, an insect, really that's how he described himself, his life so meaningless and his job so mundane and the only things he gained pleasure from were books, people were nothing to him, he was nothing to himself. at one point I asked him: but what do you do with your time besides reading? he sneered and said not a lot, he's online a lot, he likes the anonymity, the ability to speak his mind and tell people exactly what he thinks about them and their world views and their fake happiness and their stupid families and their stupid beliefs and opinions and their stupid way of ignoring how shitty everything really is, they live their fake lives just pretending they are happy, how we are all divorced from life, we are all cripples, every one of us, more or less, we are so divorced from it that we immediately feel a sort of loathing for actual "real life," and so cannot even stand to be reminded of it, at least he knows the real score, at least he knows how the world works even as he rejects it. he opened up his laptop to show me some of his favorite posts and I have to admit that they were sort of funny. he had a way with words for sure. he also had an enviable collection of porn on his laptop and we enjoyed that for a while, doing more lines and laughing about all of the stupid whores in the world and weren't they just pathetic and wasn't everyone just pathetic. we stripped down to our boxers because the room was stifling and a person can feel pretty hot when they are doing a lot of drugs and watching a lot of porn. at some point I passed out to the sound of his miserable ricocheting laughter, like sad little toy gun bullets popping pitifully.

I woke up early; the sun wasn't even out. I had fallen asleep on his couch sitting up and he had fallen asleep sideways: two things creating one perpendicular shape. I noticed a part of his leg touching my own leg; his naked flesh touching my own bare skin. I looked at that connection and recoiled, appalled. I jumped up from the couch and he moaned fitfully in his sleep, like a child or someone being tortured. I grabbed his laptop and smashed it into his head, again and again, making a red pulp. still feeling out of sorts, I went to his bathroom to shower. out of the showerhead poured mud, all over me. I bathed in the mud like it was water, rubbing it all over my face and body until I couldn't see any more of me. LOL what a night!




7 of 16 in Sixteen Short Novels

oh, dear. this is not a character that it is healthy to relate to, is it?? he is a scootch more pathetic than me, and more articulate, but his pettinesses are mine; his misanthropy is mine, his contradictions and weaknesses... i have to go hide now, i feel dirty and exposed...

come to my blog!

More than anything, this book should make you think. And not about trivial shit either, but about big, important conditions of life and how best to view and react to them. I have "should" italicized in that first sentence for a reason: If you don't give yourself time to think -- if just skim through the book quickly -- then you won't get anything out of it.

It's narrated by a guy living underground, in poverty. You are reading his notes. The first half, his ramblings, thoughts and philosophies of life, via monologue. The second half, humiliating stories from when he was 24 (he is now 40). He is a fascinating character. A paranoid, ridiculous, introspective, analytical, abrasive, laughable, vengeful, antisocial, extreme, hypersensitive, pathological, delicate, hilarious, bottom-dwelling, pathetic, indecisive, crazy, loner of a man. He is an educated and intelligent man.

Both his thoughts and actions are paradoxical. He is emotionally tough, then emotionally sensitive and fragile. He stands for great unequivocal moral virtue, then cowers further in his morally rotten state. At one moment he has what seems to be great conviction and inner strength. At the next moment, wavering doubt and uncertainty. He is an individual, unaffected by people, choosing to live by himself -- He is hypersensitive to what others think, to the point of being paranoid. He lives in great poverty; he has manic spurts, dreams, and visions of megalomania. You want to feel sorry for him, because he's pitiful and full of pain. You want to hate him, because he is hateful and a burden on humanity. He is a contrarian against everything, even himself.

As previously mentioned, the beauty of this novel comes from the many various thoughts it can give birth to. It doesn't offer any easy answers or an obvious paradigm. There are no gifts in this book. New thoughts must be earned, but the opportunities are plenty. Below I’ve listed out some of the random-ass thoughts I had while reading, just to give you an idea of what I’m talking about. Those of you who read the book will probably disagree with some of them, and trust me, I don’t claim to be good with literary analysis, so you could probably convince me against some… after all they’re just thoughts. And don’t feel like you need to read them; maybe one or two to get the main thinkin’ point:


- The narrator is an angry man with strongly violent speech, reveries, and threats. Yet we never see him act in violence. Is he, or is he not, physically dangerous?

- What a shame it is that someone who has the capability of making great impact -- such as this man -- ends up being so insignificant. If anything, the world would be a better place without this guy. He uses his intelligence and intuition in all the wrong ways, bringing others down, including himself (or often, just himself) through his actions.

- Our underground man wavered too much. He had trouble making up his mind and once having made a decision, he'd change it. In regards to making difficult decisions, Yogi Berra once said, "When you come to the fork in the road, take it!" Sometimes, most -- or even all -- of the options available are better than not taking any, or changing your mind midway through. Our narrator even wavered or made stupid decisions when faced with simple situations – common sense scenarios that 99% of the population would respond to in a better fashion than the ridiculous, silly ways that he did. How can such a smart man be such a poor decision maker?

- I wonder how successful would he would be if his chemical imbalance where fixed (I guess it would have to be through pills) and he saw a good shrink. I wonder how much of his inner turmoil and unhappiness is caused by not being chemically stable. I wonder how much of his pathological condition is “fixable".

- He seems to be incapable of love, and even says so. Yet, he shows dashes of deep understanding of it, and so you think he can't be right about that (himself not being able to love)… but, wouldn't he know? Is he bullshitting? Maybe he’s serious, but just wrong about himself: perhaps he's capable of love but hasn’t yet, perhaps because nobody has ever loved him. He seems to want to love at times, but then he'll completely shun it: glorifying it at one moment and then spitting upon it the next. Could he have opened his heart to the innocent whore that he meets? Given their compliments in character, could they have provided one another with support, understanding, and love, had he just given it a chance? Or, perhaps he doesn't need those things -- ultimately he retreats from such opportunities and returns to his spite. Are things like support, human understanding, and love things that we all need? Maybe if he would just open up once, he would get the love he needs and change into a much better person in all aspects of his life.

- At one point in the book, our narrator states, "she is the cause of it all." Perhaps this one quote sums up a large portion of his problem: Instead of taking life by the horns and making the most of it, he's bitter and blames other people for his problems. He needs to take charge of the things he can control, instead of freezing himself with contempt.

- In the second half of the book the narrator seems to be completely honest about his ridiculous past actions, and his various shortcomings. There's something to be said for that kind of honesty. It goes hand-in-hand with his anti-social, anti-establishment persona. He doesn't feel a need to present himself as more acceptable to society than he really is (which is to say, not at all). I like this about him.

- If the narrator didn’t live in such poverty, could he gave gotten himself out of his figurative hole? If he had the basic necessities, would he have then had the level of conformability needed to start improving himself? If so, would he he then chose to improve himself?

- He states, “the most intense pleasures occur in despair” Is he actually enjoying his situation? Oh man, there are just so many ways to look at that…. That sentence alone describes the paradox of this book in so many ways. Go ahead, think about it some..
- This guy is a great example of how common sense and emotional stability are often more important than IQ. But he would probably make a semi-strong argument to the contrary.

- The stories of his foolishness (part 2 of the novel) took place 16 years before his writing about them. Was he wiser at the time of writing than he was when the actions took place? He articulates some recognition of shame and regret. Does he still behave ridiculously? We don’t have a strong idea of what his philosophies were 16 years ago (during part 2), and we don't know what his behavior was like at the time part 1 was written (at his "current" age of 40).

- "Real life oppressed me with its novel so much that I could hardly breathe.” Is his problem that he’s too introspective? Is his heavily introspective nature a reason he's such a mess? Perhaps his problem is that he's just too analytical, too much of a thinker, too caught inside his own head. Perhaps he's not in touch with his feelings enough, and that by avoiding them, when they inevitably come out (to live is to feel), they are so foreign to him that he doesn't know how to deal with them.

- He is known as a great anti-hero. Perhaps one can learn how to live by not being like this guy. But he does have some positive qualities: he's introspective, and prone to the kind of independent, critical analysis that leads to innovation. A great hero wouldn’t necessarily be the opposite of this guy… or would he? And what constitutes a "hero" anyway?


And so you see, after reading this, I feel a bit like the narrator: conflicting, contrary and paradoxical thoughts running in different directions, often without conclusions. It's frustrating, but there's an energizing element to taking on such thoughts. These listed contemplations probably differ from yours, but that's part of what makes this novel of paradox so good. Despite it being short, it's the kind of book I could read over and over again and still find it thought provoking and satisfying each time.

Society is persistent about filling our brains with the largely mindless: celebrity gossip, mtv, the newest trends, sitcoms, etc. -- hell just look around, examples are everywhere. Good books can bring us to our thinking place, which puts us in an opposite state. Getting to the thinking place, and staying there for a while, is not easy. It takes effort, but it's rewarding. The thinking place is were we grow as individuals and as a society.

This book can take you to your thinking place.