No More Learning

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 to-morrow, 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?


VI

Oh, if I had done nothing simply from laziness! Heavens, how I should
have respected myself, then. I should have respected myself because I
should at least have been capable of being lazy; there would at least
have been one quality, as it were, positive in me, in which I could have
believed myself. Question: What is he? Answer: A sluggard; how very
pleasant it would have been to hear that of oneself! It would mean that
I was positively defined, it would mean that there was something to say
about me. "Sluggard"--why, it is a calling and vocation, it is a career.
Do not jest, it is so. I should then be a member of the best club by
right, and should find my occupation in continually respecting myself. I
knew a gentleman who prided himself all his life on being a connoisseur
of Lafitte. He considered this as his positive virtue, and never doubted
himself. He died, not simply with a tranquil, but with a triumphant,
conscience, and he was quite right, too. Then I should have chosen a
career for myself, I should have been a sluggard and a glutton, not a
simple one, but, for instance, one with sympathies for everything good
and beautiful. How do you like that? I have long had visions of it. That
"good and beautiful" weighs heavily on my mind at forty. But that is at
forty; then--oh, then it would have been different! I should have found
for myself a form of activity in keeping with it, to be precise,
drinking to the health of everything "good and beautiful. " I should have
snatched at every opportunity to drop a tear into my glass and then to
drain it to all that is "good and beautiful. " I should then have turned
everything into the good and the beautiful; in the nastiest,
unquestionable trash, I should have sought out the good and the
beautiful. I should have exuded tears like a wet sponge. An artist, for
instance, paints a picture worthy of Gay. At once I drink to the health
of the artist who painted the picture worthy of Gay, because I love all
that is "good and beautiful. " An author has written _As you will_: at
once I drink to the health of "any one you will" because I love all that
is "good and beautiful. "

I should claim respect for doing so. I should persecute any one who
would not show me respect. I should live at ease, I should die with
dignity, why, it is charming, perfectly charming! And what a good round
belly I should have grown, what a treble chin I should have established,
what a ruby nose I should have coloured for myself, so that every one
would have said, looking at me: "Here is an asset! Here is something
real and solid! " And, say what you like, it is very agreeable to hear
such remarks about oneself in this negative age.


VII

But these are all golden dreams. Oh, tell me, who was it first
announced, who was it first proclaimed, that man only does nasty things
because he does not know his own interests; and that if he were
enlightened, if his eyes were opened to his real normal interests, man
would at once cease to do nasty things, would at once become good and
noble because, being enlightened and understanding his real advantage,
he would see his own advantage in the good and nothing else, and we all
know that not one man can, consciously, act against his own interests,
consequently, so to say, through necessity, he would begin doing good?
Oh, the babe! Oh, the pure, innocent child! Why, in the first place,
when in all these thousands of years has there been a time when man has
acted only from his own interest? What is to be done with the millions
of facts that bear witness that men, _consciously_, that is fully
understanding their real interests, have left them in the background and
have rushed headlong on another path, to meet peril and danger,
compelled to this course by nobody and by nothing, but, as it were,
simply disliking the beaten track, and have obstinately, wilfully,
struck out another difficult, absurd way, seeking it almost in the
darkness. So, I suppose, this obstinacy and perversity were pleasanter
to them than any advantage. . . . Advantage! What is advantage? And will
you take it upon yourself to define with perfect accuracy in what the
advantage of man consists? And what if it so happens that a man's
advantage, _sometimes_, not only may, but even must, consist in his
desiring in certain cases what is harmful to himself and not
advantageous? And if so, if there can be such a case, the whole
principle falls into dust. What do you think--are there such cases? You
laugh; laugh away, gentlemen, but only answer me: have man's advantages
been reckoned up with perfect certainty? Are there not some which not
only have not been included but cannot possibly be included under any
classification? You see, you gentlemen have, to the best of my
knowledge, taken your whole register of human advantages from the
averages of statistical figures and politico-economical formulas. Your
advantages are prosperity, wealth, freedom, peace--and so on, and so on.
So that the man who should, for instance, go openly and knowingly in
opposition to all that list would, to your thinking, and indeed mine,
too, of course, be an obscurantist or an absolute madman: would not he?
But, you know, this is what is surprising: why does it so happen that
all these statisticians, sages and lovers of humanity, when they reckon
up human advantages invariably leave out one? They don't even take it
into their reckoning in the form in which it should be taken, and the
whole reckoning depends upon that. It would be no great matter, they
would simply have to take it, this advantage, and add it to the list.
But the trouble is, that this strange advantage does not fall under any
classification and is not in place in any list. I have a friend for
instance. . . . Ech! gentlemen, but of course he is your friend, too; and
indeed there is no one, no one, to whom he is not a friend! When he
prepares for any undertaking this gentleman immediately explains to you,
elegantly and clearly, exactly how he must act in accordance with the
laws of reason and truth. What is more, he will talk to you with
excitement and passion of the true normal interests of man; with irony
he will upbraid the shortsighted fools who do not understand their own
interests, nor the true significance of virtue; and, within a quarter of
an hour, without any sudden outside provocation, but simply through
something inside him which is stronger than all his interests, he will
go off on quite a different tack--that is, act in direct opposition to
what he has just been saying about himself, in opposition to the laws of
reason, in opposition to his own advantage, in fact in opposition to
everything. . . . I warn you that my friend is a compound personality, and
therefore it is difficult to blame him as an individual. The fact is,
gentlemen, it seems there must really exist something that is dearer to
almost every man than his greatest advantages, or (not to be illogical)
there is a most advantageous advantage (the very one omitted of which we
spoke just now) which is more important and more advantageous than all
other advantages, for the sake of which a man if necessary is ready to
act in opposition to all laws; that is, in opposition to reason, honour,
peace, prosperity--in fact, in opposition to all those excellent and
useful things if only he can attain that fundamental, most advantageous
advantage which is dearer to him than all. "Yes, but it's advantage all
the same" you will retort. But excuse me, I'll make the point clear, and
it is not a case of playing upon words. What matters is, that this
advantage is remarkable from the very fact that it breaks down all our
classifications, and continually shatters every system constructed by
lovers of mankind for the benefit of mankind. In fact, it upsets
everything. But before I mention this advantage to you, I want to
compromise myself personally, and therefore I boldly declare that all
these fine systems, all these theories for explaining to mankind their
real normal interests, in order that inevitably striving to pursue these
interests they may at once become good and noble--are, in my opinion, so
far, mere logical exercises! Yes, logical exercises. Why, to maintain
this theory of the regeneration of mankind by means of the pursuit of
his own advantage is to my mind almost the same thing as . . . as to
affirm, for instance, following Buckle, that through civilization
mankind becomes softer, and consequently less bloodthirsty and less
fitted for warfare. Logically it does seem to follow from his arguments.
But man has such a predilection for systems and abstract deductions that
he is ready to distort the truth intentionally, he is ready to deny the
evidence of his senses only to justify his logic. I take this example
because it is the most glaring instance of it. Only look about you:
blood is being spilt in streams, and in the merriest way, as though it
were champagne. Take the whole of the nineteenth century in which Buckle
lived. Take Napoleon--the Great and also the present one. Take North
America--the eternal union. Take the farce of Schleswig-Holstein. . . . And
what is it that civilization softens in us? The only gain of
civilization for mankind is the greater capacity for variety of
sensations--and absolutely nothing more. And through the development of
this many-sidedness man may come to finding enjoyment in bloodshed. In
fact, this has already happened to him. Have you noticed that it is the
most civilized gentlemen who have been the subtlest slaughterers, to
whom the Attilas and Stenka Razins could not hold a candle, and if they
are not so conspicuous as the Attilas and Stenka Razins it is simply
because they are so often met with, are so ordinary and have become so
familiar to us. In any case civilization has made mankind if not more
bloodthirsty, at least more vilely, more loathsomely bloodthirsty. In
old days he saw justice in bloodshed and with his conscience at peace
exterminated those he thought proper. Now we do think bloodshed
abominable and yet we engage in this abomination, and with more energy
than ever. Which is worse? Decide that for yourselves. They say that
Cleopatra (excuse an instance from Roman history) was fond of sticking
gold pins into her slave-girls' breasts and derived gratification from
their screams and writhings. You will say that that was in the
comparatively barbarous times; that these are barbarous times too,
because also, comparatively speaking, pins are stuck in even now; that
though man has now learned to see more clearly than in barbarous ages,
he is still far from having learnt to act as reason and science would
dictate. But yet you are fully convinced that he will be sure to learn
when he gets rid of certain old bad habits, and when common sense and
science have completely re-educated human nature and turned it in a
normal direction. You are confident that then man will cease from
_intentional_ error and will, so to say, be compelled not to want to set
his will against his normal interests. That is not all; then, you say,
science itself will teach man (though to my mind it's a superfluous
luxury) that he never has really had any caprice or will of his own, and
that he himself is something of the nature of a piano-key or the stop of
an organ, and that there are, besides, things called the laws of nature;
so that everything he does is not done by his willing it, but is done of
itself, by the laws of nature. Consequently we have only to discover
these laws of nature, and man will no longer have to answer for his
actions and life will become exceedingly easy for him. All human actions
will then, of course, be tabulated according to these laws,
mathematically, like tables of logarithms up to 108,000, and entered in
an index; or, better still, there would be published certain edifying
works of the nature of encyclopædic lexicons, in which everything will
be so clearly calculated and explained that there will be no more
incidents or adventures in the world.

Then--this is all what you say--new economic relations will be
established, all ready-made and worked out with mathematical exactitude,
so that every possible question will vanish in the twinkling of an eye,
simply because every possible answer to it will be provided. Then the
"Palace of Crystal" will be built. Then. . . . In fact, those will be
halcyon days. Of course there is no guaranteeing (this is my comment)
that it will not be, for instance, frightfully dull then (for what will
one have to do when everything will be calculated and tabulated? ), but on
the other hand everything will be extraordinarily rational. Of course
boredom may lead you to anything. It is boredom sets one sticking golden
pins into people, but all that would not matter. What is bad (this is my
comment again) is that I dare say people will be thankful for the gold
pins then. Man is stupid, you know, phenomenally stupid; or rather he is
not at all stupid, but he is so ungrateful that you could not find
another like him in all creation. I, for instance, would not be in the
least surprised if all of a sudden, _à propos_ of nothing, in the midst
of general prosperity a gentleman with an ignoble, or rather with a
reactionary and ironical, countenance were to arise and, putting his
arms akimbo, say to us all: "I say, gentlemen, hadn't we better kick
over the whole show and scatter rationalism to the winds, simply to send
these logarithms to the devil, and to enable us to live once more at our
own sweet foolish will! " That again would not matter; but what is
annoying is that he would be sure to find followers--such is the nature
of man. And all that for the most foolish reason, which, one would
think, was hardly worth mentioning: that is, that man everywhere and at
all times, whoever he may be, has preferred to act as he chose and not
in the least as his reason and advantage dictated. And one may choose
what is contrary to one's own interests, and sometimes one _positively
ought_ (that is my idea). One's own free unfettered choice, one's own
caprice, however wild it may be, one's own fancy worked up at times to
frenzy--is that very "most advantageous advantage" which we have
overlooked, which comes under no classification and against which all
systems and theories are continually being shattered to atoms. And how
do these wiseacres know that man wants a normal, a virtuous choice? What
has made them conceive that man must want a rationally advantageous
choice? What man wants is simply _independent_ choice, whatever that
independence may cost and wherever it may lead. And choice, of course,
the devil only knows what choice. . . .


VIII

"Ha! ha! ha! But you know there is no such thing as choice in reality,
say what you like," you will interpose with a chuckle. "Science has
succeeded in so far analysing man that we know already that choice and
what is called freedom of will is nothing else than----"

Stay, gentlemen, I meant to begin with that myself. I confess, I was
rather frightened. I was just going to say that the devil only knows
what choice depends on, and that perhaps that was a very good thing, but
I remembered the teaching of science . . . and pulled myself up. And here
you have begun upon it. Indeed, if there really is some day discovered a
formula for all our desires and caprices--that is, an explanation of
what they depend upon, by what laws they arise, how they develop, what
they are aiming at in one case and in another and so on, that is a real
mathematical formula--then, most likely, man will at once cease to feel
desire, indeed, he will be certain to. For who would want to choose by
rule? Besides, he will at once be transformed from a human being into an
organ-stop or something of the sort; for what is a man without desires,
without free will and without choice, if not a stop in an organ? What do
you think? Let us reckon the chances--can such a thing happen or not?

"H'm! " you decide. "Our choice is usually mistaken from a false view of
our advantage. We sometimes choose absolute nonsense because in our
foolishness we see in that nonsense the easiest means for attaining a
supposed advantage. But when all that is explained and worked out on
paper (which is perfectly possible, for it is contemptible and senseless
to suppose that some laws of nature man will never understand), then
certainly so-called desires will no longer exist. For if a desire should
come into conflict with reason we shall then reason and not desire,
because it will be impossible retaining our reason to be _senseless_ in
our desires, and in that way knowingly act against reason and desire to
injure ourselves. And as all choice and reasoning can be really
calculated--because there will some day be discovered the laws of our
so-called free will--so, joking apart, there may one day be something
like a table constructed of them, so that we really shall choose in
accordance with it. If, for instance, some day they calculate and prove
to me that I made a long nose at some one because I could not help
making a long nose at him and that I had to do it in that particular
way, what _freedom_ is left me, especially if I am a learned man and
have taken my degree somewhere? Then I should be able to calculate my
whole life for thirty years beforehand. In short, if this could be
arranged there would be nothing left for us to do; anyway, we should
have to understand that. And, in fact, we ought unwearyingly to repeat
to ourselves that at such and such a time and in such and such
circumstances nature does not ask our leave; that we have got to take
her as she is and not fashion her to suit our fancy, and if we really
aspire to formulas and tables of rules, and well, even . . . to the
chemical retort, there's no help for it, we must accept the retort too,
or else it will be accepted without our consent. . . . "

Yes, but here I come to a stop! Gentlemen, you must excuse me for being
over-philosophical; it's the result of forty years underground! Allow me
to indulge my fancy. You see, gentlemen, reason is an excellent thing,
there's no disputing that, but reason is nothing but reason and
satisfies only the rational side of man's nature, while will is a
manifestation of the whole life, that is, of the whole human life
including reason and all the impulses. And although our life, in this
manifestation of it, is often worthless, yet it is life and not simply
extracting square roots. Here I, for instance, quite naturally want to
live, in order to satisfy all my capacities for life, and not simply my
capacity for reasoning, that is, not simply one twentieth of my capacity
for life. What does reason know? Reason only knows what it has succeeded
in learning (some things, perhaps, it will never learn; this is a poor
comfort, but why not say so frankly? ) and human nature acts as a whole,
with everything that is in it, consciously or unconsciously, and, even
if it goes wrong, it lives. I suspect, gentlemen, that you are looking
at me with compassion; you tell me again that an enlightened and
developed man, such, in short, as the future man will be, cannot
consciously desire anything disadvantageous to himself, that that can be
proved mathematically. I thoroughly agree, it can--by mathematics. But I
repeat for the hundredth time, there is one case, one only, when man may
consciously, purposely, desire what is injurious to himself, what is
stupid, very stupid--simply in order to have the right to desire for
himself even what is very stupid and not to be bound by an obligation to
desire only what is sensible. Of course, this very stupid thing, this
caprice of ours, may be in reality, gentlemen, more advantageous for us
than anything else on earth, especially in certain cases. And in
particular it may be more advantageous than any advantage even when it
does us obvious harm, and contradicts the soundest conclusions of our
reason concerning our advantage--for in any circumstances it preserves
for us what is most precious and most important--that is, our
personality, our individuality. Some, you see, maintain that this really
is the most precious thing for mankind; choice can, of course, if it
chooses, be in agreement with reason; and especially if this be not
abused but kept within bounds. It is profitable and sometimes even
praiseworthy. But very often, and even most often, choice is utterly and
stubbornly opposed to reason . . . and . . . and . . . do you know that that,
too, is profitable, sometimes even praiseworthy? Gentlemen, let us
suppose that man is not stupid. (Indeed one cannot refuse to suppose
that, if only from the one consideration, that, if man is stupid, then
who is wise?
) But if he is not stupid, he is monstrously ungrateful!
Phenomenally ungrateful. In fact, I believe that the best definition of
man is the ungrateful biped. But that is not all, that is not his worst
defect; his worst defect is his perpetual moral obliquity,
perpetual--from the days of the Flood to the Schleswig-Holstein period.
Moral obliquity and consequently lack of good sense; for it has long
been accepted that lack of good sense is due to no other cause than
moral obliquity. Put it to the test and cast your eyes upon the history
of mankind. What will you see? Is it a grand spectacle? Grand, if you
like. Take the Colossus of Rhodes, for instance, that's worth something.
With good reason Mr. Anaevsky testifies of it that some say that it is
the work of man's hands, while others maintain that it has been created
by nature herself. Is it many-coloured? May be it is many-coloured, too:
if one takes the dress uniforms, military and civilian, of all peoples
in all ages--that alone is worth something, and if you take the undress
uniforms you will never get to the end of it; no historian would be
equal to the job. Is it monotonous? May be it's monotonous too: it's
fighting and fighting; they are fighting now, they fought first and they
fought last--you will admit, that it is almost too monotonous. In short,
one may say anything about the history of the world--anything that might
enter the most disordered imagination. The only thing one can't say is
that it's rational. The very word sticks in one's throat. And, indeed,
this is the odd thing that is continually happening: there are
continually turning up in life moral and rational persons, sages and
lovers of humanity who make it their object to live all their lives as
morally and rationally as possible, to be, so to speak, a light to their
neighbours simply in order to show them that it is possible to live
morally and rationally in this world. And yet we all know that those
very people sooner or later have been false to themselves, playing some
queer trick, often a most unseemly one. Now I ask you: what can be
expected of man since he is a being endowed with such strange qualities?
Shower upon him every earthly blessing, drown him in a sea of happiness,
so that nothing but bubbles of bliss can be seen on the surface; give
him economic prosperity, such that he should have nothing else to do but
sleep, eat cakes and busy himself with the continuation of his species,
and even then out of sheer ingratitude, sheer spite, man would play you
some nasty trick. He would even risk his cakes and would deliberately
desire the most fatal rubbish, the most uneconomical absurdity, simply
to introduce into all this positive good sense his fatal fantastic
element. It is just his fantastic dreams, his vulgar folly that he will
desire to retain, simply in order to prove to himself--as though that
were so necessary--that men still are men and not the keys of a piano,
which the laws of nature threaten to control so completely that soon one
will be able to desire nothing but by the calendar. And that is not all:
even if man really were nothing but a piano-key, even if this were
proved to him by natural science and mathematics, even then he would not
become reasonable, but would purposely do something perverse out of
simple ingratitude, simply to gain his point. And if he does not find
means he will contrive destruction and chaos, will contrive sufferings
of all sorts, only to gain his point! 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), may be by his curse alone he
will attain his object--that is, convince himself that he is a man and
not a piano-key! If you say that all this, too, can be calculated and
tabulated--chaos and darkness and curses, so that the mere possibility
of calculating it all beforehand would stop it all, and reason would
reassert itself, then man would purposely go mad in order to be rid of
reason and gain his point! I believe in it, I answer for it, for the
whole work of man really seems to consist in nothing but proving to
himself every minute that he is a man and not a piano-key! It may be at
the cost of his skin, it may be by cannibalism! And this being so, can
one help being tempted to rejoice that it has not yet come off, and that
desire still depends on something we don't know?

You will scream at me (that is, if you condescend to do so) that no one
is touching my free will, that all they are concerned with is that my
will should of itself, of its own free will, coincide with my own normal
interests, with the laws of nature and arithmetic.

Good Heavens, gentlemen, what sort of free will is left when we come to
tabulation and arithmetic, when it will all be a case of twice two make
four? Twice two makes four without my will. As if free will meant that!


IX

Gentlemen, I am joking, and I know myself that my jokes are not
brilliant, but you know one can't take everything as a joke. I am,
perhaps, jesting against the grain. Gentlemen, I am tormented by
questions; answer them for me. You, for instance, want to cure men of
their old habits and reform their will in accordance with science and
good sense. But how do you know, not only that it is possible, but also
that it is _desirable_, to reform man in that way? And what leads you to
the conclusion that man's inclinations _need_ reforming? In short, how
do you know that such a reformation will be a benefit to man? And to go
to the root of the matter, why are you so positively convinced that not
to act against his real normal interests guaranteed by the conclusions
of reason and arithmetic is certainly always advantageous for man and
must always be a law for mankind? So far, you know, this is only your
supposition. It may be the law of logic, but not the law of humanity.
You think, gentlemen, perhaps that I am mad? Allow me to defend myself.
I agree that man is pre-eminently a creative animal, predestined to
strive consciously for an object and to engage in engineering--that is,
incessantly and eternally to make new roads, _wherever they may lead_.
But the reason why he wants sometimes to go off at a tangent may just be
that he is _predestined_ to make the road, and perhaps, too, that
however stupid the "direct" practical man may be, the thought sometimes
will occur to him that the road almost always does lead _somewhere_, and
that the destination it leads to is less important than the process of
making it, and that the chief thing is to save the well-conducted child
from despising engineering, and so giving way to the fatal idleness,
which, as we all know, is the mother of all the vices. Man likes to make
roads and to create, that is a fact beyond dispute. But why has he such
a passionate love for destruction and chaos also? Tell me that! But on
that point I want to say a couple of words myself. May it not be that he
loves chaos and destruction (there can be no disputing that he does
sometimes love it) because he is instinctively afraid of attaining his
object and completing the edifice he is constructing? Who knows, perhaps
he only loves that edifice from a distance, and is by no means in love
with it at close quarters; perhaps he only loves building it and does
not want to live in it, but will leave it, when completed, for the use
of _les animaux domestiques_--such as the ants, the sheep, and so on.
Now the ants have quite a different taste. They have a marvellous
edifice of that pattern which endures for ever--the ant-heap.

With the ant-heap the respectable race of ants began and with the
ant-heap they will probably end, which does the greatest credit to their
perseverance and good sense. But man is a frivolous and incongruous
creature, and perhaps, like a chess player, loves the process of the
game, not the end of it. And who knows (there is no saying with
certainty), perhaps the only goal on earth to which mankind is striving
lies in this incessant process of attaining, in other words, in life
itself, and not in the thing to be attained, which must always be
expressed as a formula, as positive as twice two makes four, and such
positiveness is not life, gentlemen, but is the beginning of death.
Anyway, man has always been afraid of this mathematical certainty, and I
am afraid of it now. Granted that man does nothing but seek that
mathematical certainty, he traverses oceans, sacrifices his life in the
quest, but to succeed, really to find it, he dreads, I assure you. He
feels that when he has found it there will be nothing for him to look
for. When workmen have finished their work they do at least receive
their pay, they go to the tavern, then they are taken to the
police-station--and there is occupation for a week. But where can man
go? Anyway, one can observe a certain awkwardness about him when he has
attained such objects. He loves the process of attaining, but does not
quite like to have attained, and that, of course, is very absurd. In
fact, man is a comical creature; there seems to be a kind of jest in it
all. But yet mathematical certainty is, after all, something
insufferable. Twice two makes four seems to me simply a piece of
insolence. Twice two makes four is a pert coxcomb who stands with arms
akimbo barring your path and spitting. I admit that twice two makes four
is an excellent thing, but if we are to give everything its due, twice
two makes five is sometimes a very charming thing too.

And why are you so firmly, so triumphantly, convinced that only the
normal and the positive--in other words, only what is conducive to
welfare--is for the advantage of man? Is not reason in error as regards
advantage? Does not man, perhaps, love something besides well-being?
Perhaps he is just as fond of suffering? Perhaps suffering is just as
great a benefit to him as well-being? Man is sometimes extraordinarily,
passionately, in love with suffering, and that is a fact. There is no
need to appeal to universal history to prove that; only ask yourself, if
you are a man and have lived at all. As far as my personal opinion is
concerned, to care only for well-being seems to me positively ill-bred.
Whether it's good or bad, it is sometimes very pleasant, too, to smash
things. I hold no brief for suffering nor for well-being either. I am
standing for . . . my caprice, and for its being guaranteed to me when
necessary. Suffering would be out of place in vaudevilles, for instance;
I know that. In the "Palace of Crystal" it is unthinkable; suffering
means doubt, negation, and what would be the good of a "palace of
crystal" if there could be any doubt about it? And yet I think man will
never renounce real suffering, that is, destruction and chaos. Why,
suffering is the sole origin of consciousness. Though I did lay it down
at the beginning that consciousness is the greatest misfortune for man,
yet I know man prizes it and would not give it up for any satisfaction.
Consciousness, for instance, is infinitely superior to twice two makes
four. Once you have mathematical certainty there is nothing left to do
or to understand. There will be nothing left but to bottle up your five
senses and plunge into contemplation. While if you stick to
consciousness, even though the same result is attained, you can at least
flog yourself at times, and that will, at any rate, liven you up.
Reactionary as it is, corporal punishment is better than nothing.


X

You believe in a palace of crystal that can never be destroyed--a palace
at which one will not be able to put out one's tongue or make a long
nose on the sly. And perhaps that is just why I am afraid of this
edifice, that it is of crystal and can never be destroyed and that one
cannot put one's tongue out at it even on the sly.

You see, if it were not a palace, but a hen-house, I might creep into it
to avoid getting wet, and yet I would not call the hen-house a palace
out of gratitude to it for keeping me dry. You laugh and say that in
such circumstances a hen-house is as good as a mansion. Yes, I answer,
if one had to live simply to keep out of the rain.

But what is to be done if I have taken it into my head that that is not
the only object in life, and that if one must live one had better live
in a mansion. That is my choice, my desire. You will only eradicate it
when you have changed my preference. Well, do change it, allure me with
something else, give me another ideal. But meanwhile I will not take a
hen-house for a mansion. The palace of crystal may be an idle dream, it
may be that it is inconsistent with the laws of nature and that I have
invented it only through my own stupidity, through the old-fashioned
irrational habits of my generation. But what does it matter to me that
it is inconsistent? That makes no difference since it exists in my
desires, or rather exists as long as my desires exist. Perhaps you are
laughing again? Laugh away; I will put up with any mockery rather than
pretend that I am satisfied when I am hungry. I know, anyway, that I
will not be put off with a compromise, with a recurring zero, simply
because it is consistent with the laws of nature and actually exists. I
will not accept as the crown of my desires a block of buildings with
tenements for the poor on a lease of a thousand years, and perhaps with
a sign-board of a dentist hanging out. Destroy my desires, eradicate my
ideals, show me something better, and I will follow you. You will say,
perhaps, that it is not worth your trouble; but in that case I can give
you the same answer. We are discussing things seriously; but if you
won't deign to give me your attention, I will drop your acquaintance. I
can retreat into my underground hole.

But while I am alive and have desires I would rather my hand were
withered off than bring one brick to such a building! Don't remind me
that I have just rejected the palace of crystal for the sole reason that
one cannot put out one's tongue at it. I did not say because I am so
fond of putting my tongue out. Perhaps the thing I resented was, that of
all your edifices there has not been one at which one could not put out
one's tongue. On the contrary, I would let my tongue be cut off out of
gratitude if things could be so arranged that I should lose all desire
to put it out. It is not my fault that things cannot be so arranged, and
that one must be satisfied with model flats. Then why am I made with
such desires? Can I have been constructed simply in order to come to the
conclusion that all my construction is a cheat? Can this be my whole
purpose? I do not believe it.

But do you know what: I am convinced that we underground folk ought to
be kept on a curb. Though we may sit forty years underground without
speaking, when we do come out into the light of day and break out we
talk and talk and talk. . . .


XI

The long and the short of it is, gentlemen, that it is better to do
nothing! Better conscious inertia! And so hurrah for underground! Though
I have said that I envy the normal man to the last drop of my bile, yet
I should not care to be in his place such as he is now (though I shall
not cease envying him). No, no; anyway the underground life is more
advantageous. There, at any rate, one can. . . . Oh, but even now I am
lying! I am lying because I know myself that it is not underground that
is better, but something different, quite different, for which I am
thirsting, but which I cannot find! Damn underground!

I will tell you another thing that would be better, and that is, if I
myself believed in anything of what I have just written. I swear to you,
gentlemen, there is not one thing, not one word of what I have written
that I really believe. That is, I believe it, perhaps, but at the same
time I feel and suspect that I am lying like a cobbler.

"Then why have you written all this? " you will say to me.

"I ought to put you underground for forty years without anything to do
and then come to you in your cellar, to find out what stage you have
reached! How can a man be left with nothing to do for forty years? "

"Isn't that shameful, isn't that humiliating? " you will say, perhaps,
wagging your heads contemptuously. "You thirst for life and try to
settle the problems of life by a logical tangle. And how persistent, how
insolent are your sallies, and at the same time what a scare you are in!
You talk nonsense and are pleased with it; you say impudent things and
are in continual alarm and apologizing for them. You declare that you
are afraid of nothing and at the same time try to ingratiate yourself in
our good opinion. You declare that you are gnashing your teeth and at
the same time you try to be witty so as to amuse us. You know that your
witticisms are not witty, but you are evidently well satisfied with
their literary value. You may, perhaps, have really suffered, but you
have no respect for your own suffering. You may have sincerity, but you
have no modesty; out of the pettiest vanity you expose your sincerity to
publicity and ignominy. You doubtlessly mean to say something, but hide
your last word through fear, because you have not the resolution to
utter it, and only have a cowardly impudence. You boast of
consciousness, but you are not sure of your ground, for though your mind
works, yet your heart is darkened and corrupt, and you cannot have a
full, genuine consciousness without a pure heart. And how intrusive you
are, how you insist and grimace! Lies, lies, lies! "

Of course I have myself made up all the things you say. That, too, is
from underground. I have been for forty years listening to you through a
crack under the floor. I have invented them myself, there was nothing
else I could invent. It is no wonder that I have learned it by heart and
it has taken a literary form. . . .

But can you really be so credulous as to think that I will print all
this and give it to you to read too? And another problem: why do I call
you "gentlemen," why do I address you as though you really were my
readers? Such confessions as I intend to make are never printed nor
given to other people to read. Anyway, I am not strong-minded enough for
that, and I don't see why I should be. But you see a fancy has occurred
to me and I want to realize it at all costs. Let me explain.

Every man has reminiscences which he would not tell to every one, but
only to his friends. He has other matters in his mind which he would not
reveal even to his friends, but only to himself, and that in secret. But
there are other things which a man is afraid to tell even to himself,
and every decent man has a number of such things stored away in his
mind. The more decent he is, the greater the number of such things in
his mind. Anyway, I have only lately determined to remember some of my
early adventures. Till now I have always avoided them, even with a
certain uneasiness. Now, when I am not only recalling them, but have
actually decided to write an account of them, I want to try the
experiment whether one can, even with oneself, be perfectly open and not
take fright at the whole truth. I will observe, in parenthesis, that
Heine says that a true autobiography is almost an impossibility, and
that man is bound to lie about himself. He considers that Rousseau
certainly told lies about himself in his confessions, and even
intentionally lied, out of vanity. I am convinced that Heine is right; I
quite understand how sometimes one may, out of sheer vanity, attribute
regular crimes to oneself, and indeed I can very well conceive that kind
of vanity. But Heine judged of people who made their confessions to the
public. I write only for myself, and I wish to declare once and for all
that if I write as though I were addressing readers, that is simply
because it is easier for me to write in that form. It is a form, an
empty form--I shall never have readers. I have made this plain
already. . . .

I don't wish to be hampered by any restrictions in the compilation of my
notes. I shall not attempt any system or method. I will jot things down
as I remember them.

But here, perhaps, some one will catch at the word and ask me: if you
really don't reckon on readers, why do you make such compacts with
yourself--and on paper too--that is, that you won't attempt any system
or method, that you jot things down as you remember them, and so on, and
so on?