This the alleged hero hates the world and himself even more, they seem indifferent though, an unknown anti-hero no I take that back the term should be a stupid man who does everything to sabotage his life a masochist maybe ? As examples : the only woman silly enough to love him, Liza a prostitute needing a friend and savior, pours her emotional feelings seeking love but rejected... Can you imagine, the loathsome creature... his childhood a loose word which is quite inaccurate, the orphan's sufferings , loneliness a better one, the "friends" from old school days he annoys greatly they despise him to the fullest degree at a strained dinner party, drunk and out of control doing all to cause anger . His servant Apollon, an older gentleman with a mutual society of high emotions both intensely feel pain and uneasiness when together an absurd concept still, the poverty stricken man with a lackey, the narrator deliberately took a lower paying government job...acts insane in rages, his self -hate causing the inevitable downfall , punishment for the simple reason he doesn't deserve to be happy, his early years with no parents brings so many agonies to mind. An unbelievably strange human however, likes to hurt his soul for some perceived transgression committed in the distant past. Russian literature is full of the dark sufferings yet there can be nothing besides it on earth as good; The emotional ever changing but always negative in results like the cynical bureaucrat living in filth the apartment so small the poor are amazed, the man's pathetic notes are really memoirs of a life not well spent or worth living. Dostoyevsky novella a mixture of the bizarre and the weird can a person exist alone in this wide Earth turning his back to people wanting no love he says yet on the contrary needs it desperately we almost feel sorry for the almost man , the sad narrative of the human spirit going bad and very wrong. Some readers if not a majority will ask what is this? Others reading between the lines thinking there must be something there or else a hidden meaning the great writer is trying to convey the simple notion ...people are not individuals but a tribe. They thrive in a group as history shows, civilization began because of this, together everything is possible even contentment. A case of what if he had chosen another path things would've been a lot brighter ...

im trying to become more of a classics person and ive found that foreign classics, especially russian, is the easiest way to do that. not only do i feel cultured, but the writing style and themes are so interesting - particularly with this book.

if i could rename this book, it would be ‘the impossible rant of a cranky recluse.’ lol. the narrator spends part one of this book rambling about the shortcomings of humanity, how he despises modern society as it is, and his contempt for just about everything. most of the time, i just wanted to shout ‘preach, sis!’ but there were moments where i thought ‘wow, who hurt you!?!’ which leads us to part two, where the narrator shares various stories of his youth which showcase just how alienated he actually is from the world. the narrator himself is very dislikable and bitter and selfish and lonely. but wow, its shockingly easy to relate to him! its also one of the best representations of anxiety i have ever seen portrayed in a character. hes one of those characters where you are glad to get finally rid of him at the end of the story, but are somehow glad you got to know him.

this was such a wildly insane and exhaustively weird book, but its also brutally honest. you definitely have to be in the right sort of mindset to read this because this will take everything out of you, but its worth it!

side note - i might bump this up to 4 stars after i have a think, because 3 stars feels a little too harsh at the moment.

↠ 3.5 stars

"Kompleksli insanların komplekslerini ya körelten ya artıran, kompleksli olmadığını düşünen insanları ise kompleksli yapan, muhteşem ve acayip roman."

demişim, ilk okuduğumda. 2011 senesiydi o zamanlar ve ne ben bendim, ne de ben bendim. Geçenlerde Nadir Sarıbacak'ın harika bir şekilde canlandırdığı karakteri bir kez de sahnede izledikten sonra, yeniden okudum kitabı. Pek değişmemiş. Kitap yani. Ama hissettiklerim farklılaşmış. Onlar bana kalsın.

Bu metnin hakiki gücü, 150 yıl önce bile, günümüzde hâlâ yaşayan insanı, belki de bir çeşit disconnectus erectus'u bu kadar başarılı şekilde anlatabilmesidir. Kibiri, onun getirdiği sosyal fobiyi; sevilme isteğini ve sevilemedikçe gelen öfkeyi, kişileştirebilmesidir. Dostoyevski'nin büyük romanlarının habercisi olmasıdır.

Metnin eksiği ise, nedenlerine hiç girmemesi. Evet, bunlar var, böyle insanlar var, ama bunlar neden böyle? Çocukluğa inmek gerekiyor. O da Freud'a kalmış.

"..bırakmıyorlar, iyi olamıyorum..." bir haykırış ve çözümsüz, zira yeraltına bu kadar indikten sonra çıkmak bir hayli zor.

Girmeyin o kadar derine. Yaşamakla ilgili düşünmek yerine, direkt yaşamak gerekir; "büyük ve yüksek şeyler"e ancak o şekilde ulaşılabilir.

n  … gente che pensa e che perciò non agisce …n
Ivan, il protagonista del racconto, è un uomo che ormai da tempo si è posto ai margini della società, incapace di instaurare un dialogo con gli altri, siano essi colleghi d’ufficio o ex compagni di scuola. Vivendo sempre più isolato e trascorrendo, come cantava qualcuno, notti insonni vegliate al lume del rancore.
Nel marzo del 1864, Dostoevskij avvia la pubblicazione a puntate della sua personalissima e irreversibile Recherche nel Lato Oscuro dell’animo umano, traendone però una sua originalissima conclusione. Conclusione che forse renderà in maniera più strutturata ne Il grande inquisitore, racconto che Dostoevskij mette in bocca ad Ivan, ne I Fratelli Karamazov. Unica parte che, grazie ad un’amica, ho letto; perché i Fratelli ancora mi intimoriscono …
Pacini, nella sua introduzione, scrive: «E per Dostoevskij è appunto questa l’unica soluzione autentica e possibile del dramma dell’uomo del sottosuolo e di ogni uomo: l’amore, quell’amore di cui egli vede il simbolo e la realizzazione in Cristo, quel Cristo di cui egli scrive nella lettera alla Fonvizina: “… se qualcuno mi provasse che Cristo è fuori della verità, e se la verità fosse realmente fuori di Cristo, ebbene io preferirei restare con Cristo pittosto che con la verità …»
E’ un saggio filosofico sulla contrapposizione tra pensiero e azione, che genera individui alienati, i primi, e individui socialmente integrati, i secondi. E forse l’esito di questa lacerante ricerca, si concretizza, esagero un po’ eh?, nel rovesciamento della riflessione cartesiana, che diventa Cogito ergo … non sum. Un po’ come cantava il bombarolo di Faber: intellettuali d'oggi, idioti di domani, ridatemi il cervello che basta alle mie mani. Con buona pace delle categorie di punti esclamativi e interrogativi del professor Bellavista …
«Per quanto mi riguarda personalmente io altro non ho fatto nella mia vita se non portare all’estremo ciò che voi avete osato portare soltanto fino a metà; voi, per giunta, avete preso la vostra viltà per buonsenso, e con ciò vi siete consolati ingannando voi stessi.»
Buonsenso uguale viltà? In fede mia, c’è del vero. Ad ogni buon conto, io ho deciso; resto nel mio sottoscala e cerco di pensare il meno possibile. E’ più sicuro … poiché dov’è molta sapienza v’è molto affanno, e chi accresce la sua scienza accresce il suo dolore.

Bravo, Dostoyevsky! This is the perfect, absolutely accurate and universal portrait of the insecure, self-conscious egomaniac - pitiful and dangerous, on a negative quixotic rampage against himself, society and the laws of nature he despises but cannot change.

There are so many of these angry men (and women), and they don’t speak from the underground anymore. With modern technology, they have conquered the virtual world, spewing out their self-pity and hatred in long, inconsistent, frustrated tirades, contradicting themselves at each moment, without thinking.

“I am this or that … or no, wait, I was lying, … I am that or the other… I am going to show them all, slap them in the face …“

Dostoyevsky’s misfit is far more eloquent than his modern alter egos, quite similar to authors like August Strindberg, darkly misanthropic and full of self-loathing, but with a sharp intellect and deep understanding of the world of the 19th century, which is undergoing deep and irreversible change.

The man from the underground is seriously shaken by the new scientific era, which he intellectually recognises, but hates because it leaves it to his own responsibility to define meaning in life. The new individual initiative which is required for success in the modern world is scary and diametrically opposed to the old structure, which gave him an unshakable place and aim:

“What stone wall? Why of course, the laws of nature, the deductions of natural science, mathematics. As soon as they prove to you, for instance, that you are descended from a monkey, then it is no use scowling, accept it for a fact … [...] … for twice two is a law of mathematics. Just try refuting it.”

It would take Orwellian dictatorship to put 2+2=4 in doubt again, but the man in the underground doesn’t, as a rule, stick to his own advice, and he curses and rants against the laws he cannot change, claiming that will give him a distinctive identity:

“He will launch a curse upon the world, and as only man can curse (it is his privilege, the primary distinction between him and other animals), maybe by his curse alone he will attain his object - that is, convince himself that he is a man and not a piano-key!”

He might of course just have proven that he is a piano-key that is capable of cursing, and he knows about the inconsistencies of his arguments. They follow him like a thread through all his interactions with other human beings.

He craves a distinguished position in society, but only manages to show superiority by humiliating and despising the company he seeks, and by subsequently falling into passionate remorse and emotional crisis. He can’t be part of a group on equal terms because he wants to rise above it intellectually while feeling inferior to it on a psychological level.

His relationship to women builds on the same oxymoron of romantic idealisation and disgust for reality. He despises women for giving the pleasure he craves. With the prostitute Liza, he has his final breakdown, losing all inhibitions and all sense of shame, pride and dignity. While seeing her helpless situation, her position as a victim of the patriarchal, sexually repressed and morally bigoted society, he still abhors the fact that she has been “used” like an object by other men, and he can’t consider her a subject, an individual, a human with a future anymore, once she has been sexually active with other men.

This is so common, so universal, so deeply felt in most sexually repressive, patriarchal societies: men force women to be sexually dependent, either within marriage or outside it, and then they blame them for not being pure anymore. As if purity and chastity have to be virtues. Once that ancient oxymoron is erased from sexual and religious education, we might see some real change. Consent between grown-ups would be a good commandment for sexual behaviour, but it would seriously shake the foundation of many marriages. It would force many men to be considering ways beyond physical and societal power to attract and keep the devotion of a woman. That sounds like work, and like having to leave the egomaniac bubble. Our man from the underground wouldn’t be up to it. So he will fail, and continue to ensnare himself in a frustrating grey zone between desire and shame.

Just like natural laws stay natural laws, whether you like them or not, sexuality will be there, whether you can deal with it or not.

Our protagonist can’t obviously, like so many other young men brought up in a confused state of mind, with pride and honour as a guideline, and sexual repression and misogyny taught from early childhood, caught in a modern world that offers too many different lifestyles for them to be able to choose, and too few dogmatic guidelines to stick to. Being instinctively egomaniac, their antisocial behaviour falls flat in a group and in a democratic environment, and they compensate the vacuum in their mind with illogical, yet powerful rants!

Don’t underestimate the danger of the voices from the underground. Dostoyevsky masterfully depicts the scary profile of a lost person, overlooked and ridiculed for his deficiencies, yet with enough anger in his heart to lash out, seemingly randomly and spontaneously. We need to have pity, and show respect, and care for those young people caught between modernity and patriarchy, to open our arms and integrate them as best we can. We can’t afford to let them rant in shame and frustration. There must be a place for them to fill “over the ground”, but they won’t take the first step to integrate - being emotionally too unstable.

Give those misfits a place at the table, and they won’t have to shout from the underground, they won’t have to insult women, they won’t have to engage in meaningless, yet deadly duels to save their face.

Give them a face. Like Dostoyevsky gave them a voice -from the underground.

I feel completely drained.

Finalmente io e Dosto abbiamo trovato un comune accordo....

“Ogni uomo ha dei ricordi che racconterebbe solo agli amici. Ha anche cose nella mente che non rivelerebbe neanche agli amici, ma solo a se stesso, e in segreto. Ma ci sono altre cose che un uomo ha paura di rivelare persino a se stesso, e ogni uomo perbene ha un certo numero di cose del genere accantonate nella mente.”

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 more 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.

ومن غير الكبير دوستويفسكي يستطيع تعرية النفس الإنسانية وإظهارها علی شكلها الحقيقي سواءً أكان خيرأ إلی أبعد حد أم منحطا في أسفل درك!
هذيان مرعب وأفكار مقيتة لشخص حقود ومريض ومليء بمراكب النقص والشر.

Μικρό στο μέγεθος αλλά τεράστιο στην ουσία του το συγκεκριμένο βιβλίο. Ιδιαίτερα το πρώτο μέρος του, θυμίζει περισσότερο φιλοσοφικό δοκίμιο παρά οτιδήποτε άλλο. Ωδή στην ελεύθερη βούληση και στην ατομικότητα του ανθρώπου και κριτική στην επικράτηση του απόλυτου ορθολογισμού, της λογικής και των καθιερωμένων κοινωνικών νορμών, όπως υποδεικνύει ο δυτικός ευρωπαϊκός πολιτισμός.

Η λογική από μόνη της, λέει ο Ντοστογιέφσκι, δεν μπορεί να ορίσει τι είναι ηθικό και τι ανήθικο. Η λογική και η κρίση δεν είναι το παν, είναι ένα μέρος του παντός, ένα μέρος του συνόλου αυτού του πολυσύνθετου και πολύπλοκου οργανισμού που ονομάζουμε άνθρωπο, και είναι η ατομικότητά του και η ελευθερία του ο πυρήνας της ηθικής του. Και αλήθεια ποιος μπορεί να διαφωνήσει πως ένα τέτοιο θαυμαστό ον, όπως ο άνθρωπος, δεν γίνεται να αποτελείται μόνο από μια ουσία, και δη από κάτι τόσο στεγνό και κατηγορηματικό όσο η απόλυτη λογική;

Γράφει στο Υπόγειο: ‘’Η κρίση, κύριοι, είναι καλό πράγμα, αυτό είναι αναμφισβήτητο, μα η κρίση είναι μονάχα κρίση κι ικανοποιεί μονάχα τις λογικές ιδιότητες του ανθρώπου, ενώ η βούληση είναι εκδήλωση ολόκληρης ζωής, δηλαδή ολόκληρης της ανθρώπινης ζωής μαζί με την κρίση, τη λογική και όλα τα άλλα. Και μολονότι η ζωή μας, στην εκδήλωση αυτή καταντάει μια μικροαθλιότητα, πάντα ζωή είναι και όχι μονάχα το εξαγόμενο τετραγωνικής ρίζας. Είναι απόλυτα φυσικό πχ να θέλω να ζήσω για να ικανοποιήσω όλες μου τις ικανότητες και όχι μονάχα για να ικανοποιώ μια μόνο, την ικανότητα της κρίσης, δηλαδή κάπου το ένα εικοστό της συνολικής ικανότητάς μου της ζωής. Τι ξέρει η κρίση; Η κρίση ξέρει μονάχα εκείνο που πρόφτασε να μάθει’’.

Δεν υπάρχει μια μαθηματική εξίσωση όπου βάζοντας κάποιους μαγικούς συντελεστές θα πάρουμε σαν αποτέλεσμα την ηθική. Δεν υπάρχουν φυσικοί νόμοι που να υπαγορεύουν το καλό και το κακό. Διότι δεν υπάρχει αμιγώς καλό και αμιγώς κακό. Το καλό και το κακό συνυπάρχουν και είναι η ελεύθερή μας βούληση που μας επιτρέπει να επιλέξουμε σε κάθε περίσταση της ζωής μας αν θα πράξουμε το σωστό ή το λάθος.

"Ο άνθρωπος μπορεί εξεπίτηδες, συνειδητά να θέλει κάτι ακόμα και βλαβερό γι' αυτόν, κάτι πολύ ανόητο μάλιστα, και τούτο για να' χει το δικαίωμα να θέλει για τον εαυτό του κάτι, έστω κι εντελώς ανόητο, και να μην είναι δεσμευμένος με την υποχρέωση να θέλει μονάχα τα σωστά και λογικά. Αυτό το εντελώς ανόητο, αυτό το καπρίτσιο, μπορεί να είναι για μας το σημαντικότερο στον κόσμο, σ' ορισμένες μάλιστα περιπτώσεις. Και τελικά μπορεί να 'ναι η πιο ωφέλιμη απ' όλες τις ωφέλειες, ακόμα και στην περίπτωση που φανερά μας βλάπτει κι αντιβαίνει στα πιο γερά συμπεράσματα της κρίσης μας για τα συμφέροντά μας -γιατί εν πάση περιπτώσει διατηρεί για μας το κυριότερο και το προσφιλέστερο, δηλαδή την προσωπικότητα και την ατομικότητά μας."

Με τον ίδιο ακριβώς τρόπο συνυπάρχει η αγάπη με το μίσος, δεν υπάρχει σαφής διαχωρισμός, μπερδεύονται το ένα με το άλλο, αλληλοεπικαλύπτονται και το ένα περιλούζει το άλλο.

Γράφει στο δεύτερο μέρος του βιβλίου:
"Έφτασα σε σημείο, που τώρα κάποτε σκέφτομαι πως ο έρωτας ακριβώς έγκειται στο δικαίωμα που εκούσια δίνεται απ'το αγαπώμενο πρόσωπο να το δυναστεύσεις".

Ό άνθρωπος έχει συνεχώς ανάγκη να αποδεικνύει την ατομικότητα και την ελευθερία του, να αποδεικνύει δηλαδή πως είναι άνθρωπος και όχι ''ένα πλήκτρο σε ένα παγκόσμιο πιάνο που λειτουργεί υπό τους απόλυτους νόμους της φυσικής και των μαθηματικών''. Ακόμα και αν του τα δίνανε όλα και δεν υπήρχε τίποτα παραπάνω να αποζητάει, θα τα τίναζε όλα στον αέρα, θα αυτοκαταστρεφόταν απλά και μόνο για να τιμήσει το ύψιστο ιδανικό της ελευθερίας.

Για το Ντοστογιέφσκι, όπως χαρακτηριστικά γράφει: Το ‘’ Δυο και δυο κάνουν τέσσερα, μοιάζει με κάποιον αυθάδη που στέκεται στη μέση του δρόμου, με τα χέρια στη μέση και σου τον φράζει, σε προκαλεί. Συμφωνώ, δυο και δυο κάνουν τέσσερα, είναι έξοχο πράγμα. Όμως καμιά φορά, δυο και δυο κάνουν πέντε και αυτό είναι πιο χαριτωμένο."

Στη δεύτερη ενότητα περιγράφονται κάποια συμβάντα της ζωής του ανθρώπου που στην πρώτη ενότητα κάνει μια σκληρή αυτοκριτική. Οι δύο ενότητες συμπληρώνουν η μία την άλλη και συνδέονται με μια σχέση αιτίου - αποτελέσματος.

Πολλά, πάρα πολλά ακόμα μπορώ να γράψω για το τι αισθήματα και σκέψεις μου προκάλεσε αυτό το βιβλίο! Όμως θα κλείσω εδώ και θα παραθέσω ένα καταπληκτικό βιντεάκι, για αυτούς που έχουν θέληση και χρόνο, που νομίζω πως βοηθάει πολύ στην κατανόηση της φιλοσοφίας του Ντοστογιέφσκι και του Ντοστογιεφσκικού υπαρξισμού.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zgpGN...

From a dingy basement apartment in 19th century St. Petersburg, our unnamed narrator regales us with his views of life and of humanity. His opinions are born of bitterness and despair, and from a curious mix of vanity and self-loathing. He is a former Government official who has come into a small inheritance, enough to allow him to give up work, and, in the apt terminology of this translation, to “settle” into his flat. In Part I of the book he outlines his philosophy, a nihilistic rejection of 19th century civilisation and conformity. Most of all it is a rejection of reason. The narrator lauds the unthinking man of action - “the bull” - and rejects the rational, thinking man - “the mouse”. In Part II he tells us of incidents from his younger life, stories replete with humiliation, where he charted a path of wilful self-destructiveness. His vanity is expressed in the way he considers himself intellectually superior to those around him, and from his exaggerated sensitivity to slights, real or imagined. His self-loathing derives from his own knowledge of just how far his real life varies from the fantasy world he inhabits.

If you had outlined the above synopsis to me beforehand, my first reaction would have been “That sounds awful”. In the event I found it compelling. I listened to an audio version, and before the current crisis I found myself looking forward to taking the car out, thinking “Oh good, I’ll be able to listen to more of my book.” I’d not read anything by Dostoyevsky before, but I can see why he is considered one of the greats. I’m no expert on 19th century literature, but in the 1860s was anyone else writing anything even remotely like this?

Voi ridete, vi vedo!
Grazie al mio superiore intelletto vi odio. Chiuso nella mia tetra camera di un condominio da quattro soldi, da quarant' anni non vedo la luce, sempre in procinto di uscire e rivelarmi, alla fine rinuncio e solo come un cane rifletto e scrivo, si perché la libertà di poter dire tutto quello che mi passa per la testa non può negarmela nessuno, qui nel buio, nel sottosuolo, sono libero. Trionfo su ogni cosa!

"Escogitavo lo stesso delle avventure e mi inventavo la vita, pur di vivere almeno un po', comunque fosse."

Questo è il pensiero del protagonista di "Memorie dal sottosuolo": un inno alla libertà di espressione. Il delirio dolce amaro di un'anima sola e tormentata, orgogliosa ma incapace di comunicare, malata di vita, infelice, accumula nel suo lato interiore tutte le metastasi del suo sentirsi inferiore e inadeguata, incapace anche di guardarsi allo specchio e bramosa di rivalsa.
Come un cancro la corrode da dentro e poi esplode nel delirio delle parole. Il sottosuolo unico vero posto dove essere liberi.

"Precipitarmi in società significava per me andare a trovare il mio capo ufficio."

Ci si può ritrovare o meno con il protagonista tormentato, rancoroso e pessimo, ma in fondo poco importa, la straordinaria, vera bellezza di queste duecento pagine sta nell' abilità di Dostoevskij nel saper entrare fin nel profondo della sua mente, una vera analisi interiore. Un modo di scrivere che ha fatto scuola. Un'abilità che è propria solo dei grandi scrittori e Dostoevskij è senza alcun dubbio uno dei più grandi in questo. Non rimane che applaudire stupefatti da tanta bravura.

-----------------------------
You laugh, I see you!
Thanks to my superior intellect I hate you. Locked in my gloomy room in a cheap apartment building, I haven't seen the light for forty years, always on the verge of coming out and revealing myself, in the end I give up and alone like a dog I reflect and write, yes because the freedom to be able to say everything that comes to mind cannot be denied to me by anyone, here in the darkness, underground, I am free. I triumph over everything!

"I still thought up adventures and invented life, just to live at least a little, no matter what."

This is the thought of the protagonist of "Notes from the Underground": a hymn to freedom of expression. The bittersweet delirium of a lonely and tormented soul, proud but incapable of communicating, sick of life, unhappy, accumulates in its interior all the metastases of its feeling inferior and inadequate, incapable even of looking at itself in the mirror and eager for revenge.
Like a cancer it eats away at her from the inside and then explodes in the delirium of words. The underground is the only true place to be free.

"For me, rushing into society meant going to see my boss."

You may or may not find yourself with the tormented, resentful and awful protagonist, but ultimately it doesn't matter, the extraordinary, true beauty of these two hundred pages lies in Dostoevsky's ability to penetrate deep into his mind, a true interior analysis. A way of writing that has made history. An ability that is only proper to great writers and Dostoevsky is without a doubt one of the greatest in this. All that remains is to applaud, amazed by such skill.