Chapter: I want now to tell you, gentlemen, whether you care to hear it or not,
why I could not even become an insect.  I tell you solemnly, that I
have many times tried to become an insect.  But I was not equal even to
that.  I swear, gentlemen, that to be too conscious is an illness--a
real thorough-going illness.  For man's everyday needs, it would have
been quite enough to have the ordinary human consciousness, that is,
half or a quarter of the amount which falls to the lot of a cultivated
man of our unhappy nineteenth century, especially one who has the fatal
ill-luck to inhabit Petersburg, the most theoretical and intentional
town on the whole terrestrial globe.  (There are intentional and
unintentional towns.)  It would have been quite enough, for instance,
to have the consciousness by which all so-called direct persons and men
of action live.  I bet you think I am writing all this from
affectation, to be witty at the expense of men of action; and what is
more, that from ill-bred affectation, I am clanking a sword like my
officer.  But, gentlemen, whoever can pride himself on his diseases and
even swagger over them?

Though, after all, everyone does do that; people do pride themselves on
their diseases, and I do, may be, more than anyone.  We will not
dispute it; my contention was absurd.  But yet I am firmly persuaded
that a great deal of consciousness, every sort of consciousness, in
fact, is a disease.  I stick to that.  Let us leave that, too, for a
minute.  Tell me this: why does it happen that at the very, yes, at the
very moments when I am most capable of feeling every refinement of all
that is "sublime and beautiful," as they used to say at one time, it
would, as though of design, happen to me not only to feel but to do
such ugly things, such that ... Well, in short, actions that all,
perhaps, commit; but which, as though purposely, occurred to me at the
very time when I was most conscious that they ought not to be
committed.  The more conscious I was of goodness and of all that was
"sublime and beautiful," the more deeply I sank into my mire and the
more ready I was to sink in it altogether.  But the chief point was
that all this was, as it were, not accidental in me, but as though it
were bound to be so.  It was as though it were my most normal
condition, and not in the least disease or depravity, so that at last
all desire in me to struggle against this depravity passed.  It ended
by my almost believing (perhaps actually believing) that this was
perhaps my normal condition.  But at first, in the beginning, what
agonies I endured in that struggle!  I did not believe it was the same
with other people, and all my life I hid this fact about myself as a
secret.  I was ashamed (even now, perhaps, I am ashamed): I got to the
point of feeling a sort of secret abnormal, despicable enjoyment in
returning home to my corner on some disgusting Petersburg night,
acutely conscious that that day I had committed a loathsome action
again, that what was done could never be undone, and secretly, inwardly
gnawing, gnawing at myself for it, tearing and consuming myself till at
last the bitterness turned into a sort of shameful accursed sweetness,
and at last--into positive real enjoyment! Yes, into enjoyment, into
enjoyment!  I insist upon that.  I have spoken of this because I keep
wanting to know for a fact whether other people feel such enjoyment?  I
will explain; the enjoyment was just from the too intense consciousness
of one's own degradation; it was from feeling oneself that one had
reached the last barrier, that it was horrible, but that it could not
be otherwise; that there was no escape for you; that you never could
become a different man; that even if time and faith were still left you
to change into something different you would most likely not wish to
change; or if you did wish to, even then you would do nothing; because
perhaps in reality there was nothing for you to change into.

And the worst of it was, and the root of it all, that it was all in
accord with the normal fundamental laws of over-acute consciousness,
and with the inertia that was the direct result of those laws, and that
consequently one was not only unable to change but could do absolutely
nothing.  Thus it would follow, as the result of acute consciousness,
that one is not to blame in being a scoundrel; as though that were any
consolation to the scoundrel once he has come to realise that he
actually is a scoundrel.  But enough....  Ech, I have talked a lot of
nonsense, but what have I explained?  How is enjoyment in this to be
explained?  But I will explain it.  I will get to the bottom of it!
That is why I have taken up my pen....

I, for instance, have a great deal of AMOUR PROPRE.  I am as suspicious
and prone to take offence as a humpback or a dwarf.  But upon my word I
sometimes have had moments when if I had happened to be slapped in the
face I should, perhaps, have been positively glad of it.  I say, in
earnest, that I should probably have been able to discover even in that
a peculiar sort of enjoyment--the enjoyment, of course, of despair; but
in despair there are the most intense enjoyments, especially when one
is very acutely conscious of the hopelessness of one's position.  And
when one is slapped in the face--why then the consciousness of being
rubbed into a pulp would positively overwhelm one.  The worst of it is,
look at it which way one will, it still turns out that I was always the
most to blame in everything.  And what is most humiliating of all, to
blame for no fault of my own but, so to say, through the laws of
nature.  In the first place, to blame because I am cleverer than any of
the people surrounding me.  (I have always considered myself cleverer
than any of the people surrounding me, and sometimes, would you believe
it, have been positively ashamed of it.  At any rate, I have all my
life, as it were, turned my eyes away and never could look people
straight in the face.)  To blame, finally, because even if I had had
magnanimity, I should only have had more suffering from the sense of
its uselessness.  I should certainly have never been able to do
anything from being magnanimous--neither to forgive, for my assailant
would perhaps have slapped me from the laws of nature, and one cannot
forgive the laws of nature; nor to forget, for even if it were owing to
the laws of nature, it is insulting all the same.  Finally, even if I
had wanted to be anything but magnanimous, had desired on the contrary
to revenge myself on my assailant, I could not have revenged myself on
any one for anything because I should certainly never have made up my
mind to do anything, even if I had been able to.  Why should I not have
made up my mind?  About that in particular I want to say a few words.

 Remember back when the Underground Man said he couldn't become anything? He elaborates: he couldn't even become an insect if he wanted to. Why? He is too conscious. Not only is he cursed with hyper-consciousness, but he's cursed with having to live in St. Petersburg, which is "the most theoretical and intentional town" in the world. It was also 'theoretical' in the sense that it was stuffed to the brim with romantic intellectuals, who would talk about silly abstract things.) He adds that he is not writing this to be witty; after all, his hyper-consciousness is a disease, and who can take pride in his disease? Well, come to think of it...everyone. In fact, the Underground Man adds, any kind of consciousness is a disease. For example: at moments, the Underground Man can come close to feeling and appreciating "the sublime and beautiful." Unfortunately, at these moments, the Underground Man starts doing ugly things. The more aware he becomes of goodness, he explains, the more he "sinks into mire." It got so bad he stopped struggling against his own depravity. This was pretty agonizing for a while , especially since he figured he was the only one going through this. But then, gradually, somehow, the horrible agony turned into sweet, sweet enjoyment. What? Fortunately, the Underground Man explains this a bit more: the enjoyment came with him knowing that he was being degraded, from knowing that he had hit rock bottom, that there was no escape, that things were so bad, he could never, ever be a different man. Besides, even if he could change himself and fix things, he wouldn't want to. Besides, even if he wanted to, there isn't anything for him to change into. And to realize all this is enjoyable to him. This next part might seem a little tricky, so bear with us: the Underground Man has been talking about his hyper-consciousness, meaning he's aware of and has to analyze every little impulse, feeling, desire, emotion, and thought that he has. Now he refers to "fundamental laws of over-acute consciousness," and he says they result in "inertia." What he means by "laws" is that his hyper-consciousness governs the way he behaves. And these laws cause inertia, which is a tendency for things to stay as they are. So in a nutshell: because he's hyper-conscious, he can't change. He'll keep using these terms so we'll chill out for a minute while you make sure you're good to go with those definitions. And we're going. Fortunately, the Underground Man is able to conclude from all this that he can't be blamed for being a jerk; it's not his fault, it's the fault of his over-acute consciousness. The Underground Man explains that he also has a good deal of amour propre. This means "love of one's self," but with the connotation of the same over-acute awareness and self-consciousness that we've already been talking about. Still, despite this love for the self, he would probably be happy to get slapped in the face, because then he would find the enjoyment of despair that you can only experience when you are very aware of your own crumby position. He adds that, actually, he is to blame for all this, but NOT because of his own faults, rather because of "the laws of nature." He clarifies: he is to blame because he's cleverer than most people, but that isn't his fault. And even if he were magnanimous , he would suffer from the understanding that magnanimity is useless, which would render him unable to act on his feelings of good-will. Let's go back to the slap-in-the-face scenario. If he had been slapped in the face, he's smart enough to know that his assailant only slapped him because of the laws of nature. Since you can't forgive the laws of nature, he wouldn't be able to forgive the assailant. Besides, he says, even if he wanted to act on his fuzzy happy feelings of magnanimity, he wouldn't be able to, because he can never make up his mind to do anything, like slap the assailant back. Why is that? Read on.

