Chapter: Come, can a man who attempts to find enjoyment in the very feeling of
his own degradation possibly have a spark of respect for himself?  I am
not saying this now from any mawkish kind of remorse.  And, indeed, I
could never endure saying, "Forgive me, Papa, I won't do it again," not
because I am incapable of saying that--on the contrary, perhaps just
because I have been too capable of it, and in what a way, too.  As
though of design I used to get into trouble in cases when I was not to
blame in any way.  That was the nastiest part of it.  At the same time
I was genuinely touched and penitent, I used to shed tears and, of
course, deceived myself, though I was not acting in the least and there
was a sick feeling in my heart at the time....  For that one could not
blame even the laws of nature, though the laws of nature have
continually all my life offended me more than anything.  It is
loathsome to remember it all, but it was loathsome even then.  Of
course, a minute or so later I would realise wrathfully that it was all
a lie, a revolting lie, an affected lie, that is, all this penitence,
this emotion, these vows of reform.  You will ask why did I worry
myself with such antics: answer, because it was very dull to sit with
one's hands folded, and so one began cutting capers.  That is really
it.  Observe yourselves more carefully, gentlemen, then you will
understand that it is so. I invented adventures for myself and made up
a life, so as at least to live in some way.  How many times it has
happened to me--well, for instance, to take offence simply on purpose,
for nothing; and one knows oneself, of course, that one is offended at
nothing; that one is putting it on, but yet one brings oneself at last
to the point of being really offended. All my life I have had an
impulse to play such pranks, so that in the end I could not control it
in myself.  Another time, twice, in fact, I tried hard to be in love.
I suffered, too, gentlemen, I assure you.  In the depth of my heart
there was no faith in my suffering, only a faint stir of mockery, but
yet I did suffer, and in the real, orthodox way; I was jealous, beside
myself ... and it was all from ENNUI, gentlemen, all from ENNUI;
inertia overcame me.  You know the direct, legitimate fruit of
consciousness is inertia, that is, conscious
sitting-with-the-hands-folded.  I have referred to this already.  I
repeat, I repeat with emphasis: all "direct" persons and men of action
are active just because they are stupid and limited.  How explain that?
I will tell you: in consequence of their limitation they take immediate
and secondary causes for primary ones, and in that way persuade
themselves more quickly and easily than other people do that they have
found an infallible foundation for their activity, and their minds are
at ease and you know that is the chief thing.  To begin to act, you
know, you must first have your mind completely at ease and no trace of
doubt left in it.  Why, how am I, for example, to set my mind at rest?
Where are the primary causes on which I am to build?  Where are my
foundations?  Where am I to get them from?  I exercise myself in
reflection, and consequently with me every primary cause at once draws
after itself another still more primary, and so on to infinity.  That
is just the essence of every sort of consciousness and reflection.  It
must be a case of the laws of nature again.  What is the result of it
in the end?  Why, just the same.  Remember I spoke just now of
vengeance.  (I am sure you did not take it in.)  I said that a man
revenges himself because he sees justice in it. Therefore he has found
a primary cause, that is, justice.  And so he is at rest on all sides,
and consequently he carries out his revenge calmly and successfully,
being persuaded that he is doing a just and honest thing.  But I see no
justice in it, I find no sort of virtue in it either, and consequently
if I attempt to revenge myself, it is only out of spite.  Spite, of
course, might overcome everything, all my doubts, and so might serve
quite successfully in place of a primary cause, precisely because it is
not a cause.  But what is to be done if I have not even spite (I began
with that just now, you know).  In consequence again of those accursed
laws of consciousness, anger in me is subject to chemical
disintegration.  You look into it, the object flies off into air, your
reasons evaporate, the criminal is not to be found, the wrong becomes
not a wrong but a phantom, something like the toothache, for which no
one is to blame, and consequently there is only the same outlet left
again--that is, to beat the wall as hard as you can.  So you give it up
with a wave of the hand because you have not found a fundamental cause.
And try letting yourself be carried away by your feelings, blindly,
without reflection, without a primary cause, repelling consciousness at
least for a time; hate or love, if only not to sit with your hands
folded.  The day after tomorrow, at the latest, you will begin
despising yourself for having knowingly deceived yourself.  Result: a
soap-bubble and inertia.  Oh, gentlemen, do you know, perhaps I
consider myself an intelligent man, only because all my life I have
been able neither to begin nor to finish anything.  Granted I am a
babbler, a harmless vexatious babbler, like all of us.  But what is to
be done if the direct and sole vocation of every intelligent man is
babble, that is, the intentional pouring of water through a sieve?

 Glad you asked! Once again, the question is, can a man who is hyper-conscious, who takes pleasure in his own degradation, possibly respect himself? Before answering this question, the Underground Man assures us that he is not asking this out of remorse. In fact, he has never been one to ask for forgiveness at all, not because he's not capable, but because he's too capable. So what he used to do, say, when he was a child, was shed tears and feel genuinely guilty - for a minute or two. But then he would stop and curse himself and realize that his feelings of remorse were all a lie. Why, we may be inclined to ask, did the Underground Man do such a thing? To amuse himself, he explains. Because "sitting with one's hands folded" is an incredibly boring task. His solution was to "invent adventures" for himself, to make up a life so he could live it. For example, he could pretend to take offense at someone. If you pretend long enough, you really DO take offense. For a second example, he could pretend to be in love. He tried very hard, he says - twice - to be in love. He even suffered, though he could tell his heart was mocking his own suffering. And what drove him to pretend this way? Ennui and inertia . What about the people who do manage to live genuine lives? The Underground Man says that these "men of action" are only able to function because...they're stupid. He says they take secondary causes to be primary ones, and this allows them to establish a basis for their actions. Because to begin to act at all, he explains, you have to remove all doubt from your mind. The problem with the Underground Man is that every time he tries to find a primary cause for his actions, he finds some other motive lurking behind it, and yet another, continuing on ad infinitum, which means no cause he identifies is actually primary and therefore can't be used as a basis for action. The Underground Man says that, since he can't act based on primary causes, maybe he could act on spite. Unfortunately, as you remember from Chapter One, he's not even spiteful. He only lies about his being spiteful. In short: he's screwed. He can't act, at all, ever. If he does try to act as a "normal, stupid man" does, by not over-analyzing and simply doing, he ends up hating himself later, knowing that his action rose out of self-deception. In fact, the reason he knows he's so intelligent is the fact that, for his whole life, he has never been able to start or finish anything. He then asks "what is to be done" if the only real occupation for an intelligent man is this sort of babbling. Good question. Also, keep a look out for the phrase "what is to be done"; it's probably a veiled nod to Nikolai Chernyshevsky's novel, What Is to Be Done?, to which Dostoevsky will refer later when he talks about a "Crystal Palace." But hold your horses, we'll get there.

