I am a sick man.... I am a spiteful man. I am an unattractive man. I believe my liver is diseased. However, I know nothing at all about my disease, and do not know for certain what ails1 me. I don't consult a doctor for it, and never have, though I have a respect for medicine and doctors. Besides, I am extremely superstitious2, sufficiently3 so to respect medicine, anyway (I am well-educated enough not to be superstitious, but I am superstitious). No, I refuse to consult a doctor from spite. That you probably will not understand. Well, I understand it, though. Of course, I can't explain who it is precisely4 that I am mortifying5 in this case by my spite: I am perfectly6 well aware that I cannot "pay out" the doctors by not consulting them; I know better than any one that by all this I am only injuring myself and no one else. But still, if I don't consult a doctor it is from spite. My liver is bad, well—let it get worse!
[1] The author of the diary and the diary itself are, of course, imaginary. Nevertheless it is clear that such persons as the writer of these notes not only may, but positively7 must, exist in our society, when we consider the circumstances in the midst of which our society is formed. I have tried to expose to the view of the public more distinctly than is commonly done, one of the characters of the recent past. He is one of the representatives of a generation still living. In this fragment, entitled "Underground," this person introduces himself and his views, and, as it were, tries to explain the causes owing to which he has made his appearance and was bound to make his appearance in our midst. In the second fragment there are added the actual notes of this person concerning certain events in his life.—Author's Note.
I have been going on like that for a long time—twenty years. Now I am forty. I used to be in the government service, but am no longer. I was a spiteful official. I was rude and took pleasure in being so. I did not take bribes9, you see, so I was bound to find a recompense in that, at least. (A poor jest, but I will not scratch it out. I wrote it thinking it would sound very witty10; but now that I have seen myself that I only wanted to show off in a despicable way, I will not scratch it out on purpose!)
When petitioners11 used to come for information to the table at which I sat, I used to grind my teeth at them, and felt intense enjoyment12 when I succeeded in making anybody unhappy. I almost always did succeed. For the most part they were all timid people—of course, they were petitioners. But of the uppish ones there was one officer in particular I could not endure. He simply would not be humble13, and clanked his sword in a disgusting way. I carried on a feud14 with him for eighteen months over that sword. At last I got the better of him. He left off clanking it. That happened in my youth, though.
But do you know, gentlemen, what was the chief point about my spite? Why, the whole point, the real sting of it lay in the fact that continually, even in the moment of the acutest spleen, I was inwardly conscious with shame that I was not only not a spiteful but not even an embittered15 man, that I was simply scaring sparrows at random16 and amusing myself by it. I might foam17 at the mouth, but bring me a doll to play with, give me a cup of tea with sugar in it, and maybe I should be appeased18. I might even be genuinely touched, though probably I should grind my teeth at myself afterwards and lie awake at night with shame for months after. That was my way.
I was lying when I said just now that I was a spiteful official. I was lying from spite. I was simply amusing myself with the petitioners and with the officer, and in reality I never could become spiteful. I was conscious every moment in myself of many, very many elements absolutely opposite to that. I felt them positively swarming19 in me, these opposite elements. I knew that they had been swarming in me all my life and craving20 some outlet21 from me, but I would not let them, would not let them, purposely would not let them come out. They tormented22 me till I was ashamed: they drove me to convulsions and—sickened me, at last, how they sickened me! Now, are not you fancying, gentlemen, that I am expressing remorse23 for something now, that I am asking your forgiveness for something? I am sure you are fancying that.... However, I assure you I do not care if you are....
It was not only that I could not become spiteful, I did not know how to become anything: neither spiteful nor kind, neither a rascal24 nor an honest man, neither a hero nor an insect. Now, I am living out my life in my corner, taunting25 myself with the spiteful and useless consolation26 that an intelligent man cannot become anything seriously, and it is only the fool who becomes anything. Yes, a man in the nineteenth century must and morally ought to be pre-eminently a characterless creature; a man of character, an active man is pre-eminently a limited creature. That is my conviction of forty years. I am forty years old now, and you know forty years is a whole life-time; you know it is extreme old age. To live longer than forty years is bad manners, is vulgar, immoral27. Who does live beyond forty? Answer that, sincerely and honestly. I will tell you who do: fools and worthless fellows. I tell all old men that to their face, all these venerable old men, all these silver-haired and reverend seniors! I tell the whole world that to its face! I have a right to say so, for I shall go on living to sixty myself. To seventy! To eighty!... Stay, let me take breath....
You imagine no doubt, gentlemen, that I want to amuse you. You are mistaken in that, too. I am by no means such a mirthful person as you imagine, or as you may imagine; however, irritated by all this babble28 (and I feel that you are irritated) you think fit to ask me who am I—then my answer is, I am a collegiate assessor. I was in the service that I might have something to eat (and solely29 for that reason), and when last year a distant relation left me six thousand roubles in his will I immediately retired31 from the service and settled down in my corner. I used to live in this corner before, but now I have settled down in it. My room is a wretched, horrid32 one in the outskirts33 of the town. My servant is an old country-woman, ill-natured from stupidity, and, moreover, there is always a nasty smell about her. I am told that the Petersburg climate is bad for me, and that with my small means it is very expensive to live in Petersburg. I know all that better than all these sage34 and experienced counsellors and monitors.... But I am remaining in Petersburg; I am not going away from Petersburg! I am not going away because ... ech! Why, it is absolutely no matter whether I am going away or not going away.
But what can a decent man speak of with most pleasure?
Answer: Of himself.
Well, so I will talk about myself.
II
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 intentional35 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, every one does do that; people do pride themselves on their diseases, and I do, may be, more than any one. We will not dispute it; my contention36 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 refinement37 of all that is "good 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 "good and beautiful," the more deeply I sank into my mire38 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 loathsome39 action again, that what was done could never be undone40, and secretly, inwardly gnawing41, gnawing at myself for it, tearing and consuming myself till at last the bitterness turned into a sort of shameful42 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 degradation44; 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 inertia45 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 realize 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 prone46 to take offence as a humpback or a dwarf47. 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 peculiar48 sort of enjoyment—the enjoyment, of course, of despair; but in despair there are the most intense enjoyments49, 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 pulp50 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.
III
With people who know how to revenge themselves and to stand up for themselves in general, how is it done? Why, when they are possessed51, let us suppose, by the feeling of revenge, then for the time there is nothing else but that feeling left in their whole being. Such a gentleman simply dashes straight for his object like an infuriated bull with its horns down, and nothing but a wall will stop him. (By the way: facing the wall, such gentlemen—that is, the "direct" persons and men of action—are genuinely nonplussed52. For them a wall is not an evasion53, as for us people who think and consequently do nothing; it is not an excuse for turning aside, an excuse for which we are always very glad, though we scarcely believe in it ourselves, as a rule. No, they are nonplussed in all sincerity54. The wall has for them something tranquillizing, morally soothing56, final—maybe even something mysterious ... but of the wall later.)
Well, such a direct person I regard as the real normal man, as his tender mother nature wished to see him when she graciously brought him into being on the earth. I envy such a man till I am green in the face. He is stupid. I am not disputing that, but perhaps the normal man should be stupid, how do you know? Perhaps it is very beautiful, in fact. And I am the more persuaded of that suspicion, if one can call it so, by the fact that if you take, for instance, the antithesis57 of the normal man, that is, the man of acute consciousness, who has come, of course, not out of the lap of nature but out of a retort (this is almost mysticism, gentlemen, but I suspect this, too), this retort-made man is sometimes so nonplussed in the presence of his antithesis that with all his exaggerated consciousness he genuinely thinks of himself as a mouse and not a man. It may be an acutely conscious mouse, yet it is a mouse, while the other is a man, and therefore, et c?tera, et c?tera. And the worst of it is, he himself, his very own self, looks on himself as a mouse; no one asks him to do so; and that is an important point. Now let us look at this mouse in action. Let us suppose, for instance, that it feels insulted, too (and it almost always does feel insulted), and wants to revenge itself, too. There may even be a greater accumulation of spite in it than in l'homme de la nature et de la vérité. The base and nasty desire to vent8 that spite on its assailant rankles58 perhaps even more nastily in it than in l'homme de la nature et de la vérité. For through his innate59 stupidity the latter looks upon his revenge as justice pure and simple; while in consequence of his acute consciousness the mouse does not believe in the justice of it. To come at last to the deed itself, to the very act of revenge. Apart from the one fundamental nastiness the luckless mouse succeeds in creating around it so many other nastinesses in the form of doubts and questions, adds to the one question so many unsettled questions that there inevitably60 works up around it a sort of fatal brew61, a stinking62 mess, made up of its doubts, emotions, and of the contempt spat63 upon it by the direct men of action who stand solemnly about it as judges and arbitrators, laughing at it till their healthy sides ache. Of course the only thing left for it is to dismiss all that with a wave of its paw, and, with a smile of assumed contempt in which it does not even itself believe, creep ignominiously65 into its mouse-hole. There in its nasty, stinking, underground home our insulted, crushed and ridiculed66 mouse promptly67 becomes absorbed in cold, malignant68 and, above all, everlasting69 spite. For forty years together it will remember its injury down to the smallest, most ignominious64 details, and every time will add, of itself, details still more ignominious, spitefully teasing and tormenting71 itself with its own imagination. It will itself be ashamed of its imaginings, but yet it will recall it all, it will go over and over every detail, it will invent unheard of things against itself, pretending that those things might happen, and will forgive nothing. Maybe it will begin to revenge itself, too, but, as it were, piecemeal72, in trivial ways, from behind the stove, incognito73, without believing either in its own right to vengeance74, or in the success of its revenge, knowing that from all its efforts at revenge it will suffer a hundred times more than he on whom it revenges itself, while he, I daresay, will not even scratch himself. On its deathbed it will recall it all over again, with interest accumulated over all the years and....
But it is just in that cold, abominable75 half despair, half belief, in that conscious burying oneself alive for grief in the underworld for forty years, in that acutely recognized and yet partly doubtful hopelessness of one's position, in that hell of unsatisfied desires turned inward, in that fever of oscillations, of resolutions determined76 for ever and repented77 of again a minute later—that the savour of that strange enjoyment of which I have spoken lies. It is so subtle, so difficult of analysis, that persons who are a little limited, or even simply persons of strong nerves, will not understand a single atom of it. "Possibly," you will add on your own account with a grin, "people will not understand it either who have never received a slap in the face," and in that way you will politely hint to me that I, too, perhaps, have had the experience of a slap in the face in my life, and so I speak as one who knows. I bet that you are thinking that. But set your minds at rest, gentlemen, I have not received a slap in the face, though it is absolutely a matter of indifference78 to me what you may think about it. Possibly, I even regret, myself, that I have given so few slaps in the face during my life. But enough ... not another word on that subject of such extreme interest to you.
I will continue calmly concerning persons with strong nerves who do not understand a certain refinement of enjoyment. Though in certain circumstances these gentlemen bellow79 their loudest like bulls, though this, let us suppose, does them the greatest credit, yet, as I have said already, confronted with the impossible they subside80 at once. The impossible means the stone wall! What stone wall? Why, of course, the laws of nature, the deductions81 of natural science, mathematics. As soon as they prove to you, for instance, that you are descended82 from a monkey, then it is no use scowling83, accept it for a fact. When they prove to you that in reality one drop of your own fat must be dearer to you than a hundred thousand of your fellow creatures, and that this conclusion is the final solution of all so-called virtues84 and duties and all such prejudices and fancies, then you have just to accept it, there is no help for it, for twice two is a law of mathematics. Just try refuting it.
"Upon my word, they will shout at you, it is no use protesting: it is a case of twice two makes four! Nature does not ask your permission, she has nothing to do with your wishes, and whether you like her laws or dislike them, you are bound to accept her as she is, and consequently all her conclusions. A wall, you see, is a wall ... and so on, and so on."
Merciful Heavens! but what do I care for the laws of nature and arithmetic, when, for some reason I dislike those laws and the fact that twice two makes four? Of course I cannot break through the wall by battering86 my head against it if I really have not the strength to knock it down, but I am not going to be reconciled to it simply because it is a stone wall and I have not the strength.
As though such a stone wall really were a consolation, and really did contain some word of conciliation87, simply because it is as true as twice two makes four. Oh, absurdity88 of absurdities89! How much better it is to understand it all, to recognize it all, all the impossibilities and the stone wall; not to be reconciled to one of those impossibilities and stone walls if it disgusts you to be reconciled to it; by the way of the most inevitable90, logical combinations to reach the most revolting conclusions on the everlasting theme, that even for the stone wall you are yourself somehow to blame, though again it is as clear as day you are not to blame in the least, and therefore grinding your teeth in silent impotence to sink into luxurious92 inertia, brooding on the fact that there is no one even for you to feel vindictive93 against, that you have not, and perhaps never will have, an object for your spite, that it is a sleight94 of hand, a bit of juggling95, a card-sharper's trick, that it is simply a mess, no knowing what and no knowing who, but in spite of all these uncertainties96 and jugglings, still there is an ache in you, and the more you do not know, the worse the ache.
IV
"Ha, ha, ha! You will be finding enjoyment in toothache next," you cry, with a laugh.
"Well? Even in toothache there is enjoyment," I answer. I had toothache for a whole month and I know there is. In that case, of course, people are not spiteful in silence, but moan; but they are not candid97 moans, they are malignant moans, and the malignancy is the whole point. The enjoyment of the sufferer finds expression in those moans; if he did not feel enjoyment in them he would not moan. It is a good example, gentlemen, and I will develop it. Those moans express in the first place all the aimlessness of your pain, which is so humiliating to your consciousness; the whole legal system of nature on which you spit disdainfully, of course, but from which you suffer all the same while she does not. They express the consciousness that you have no enemy to punish, but that you have pain; the consciousness that in spite of all possible Vagenheims you are in complete slavery to your teeth; that if some one wishes it, your teeth will leave off aching, and if he does not, they will go on aching another three months; and that finally if you are still contumacious98 and still protest, all that is left you for your own gratification is to thrash yourself or beat your wall with your fist as hard as you can, and absolutely nothing more. Well, these mortal insults, these jeers99 on the part of some one unknown, end at last in an enjoyment which sometimes reaches the highest degree of voluptuousness101. I ask you, gentlemen, listen sometimes to the moans of an educated man of the nineteenth century suffering from toothache, on the second or third day of the attack, when he is beginning to moan, not as he moaned on the first day, that is, not simply because he has toothache, not just as any coarse peasant, but as a man affected102 by progress and European civilization, a man who is "divorced from the soil and the national elements," as they express it now-a-days. His moans become nasty, disgustingly malignant, and go on for whole days and nights. And of course he knows himself that he is doing himself no sort of good with his moans; he knows better than any one that he is only lacerating and harassing103 himself and others for nothing; he knows that even the audience before whom he is making his efforts, and his whole family, listen to him with loathing104, do not put a ha'porth of faith in him, and inwardly understand that he might moan differently, more simply, without trills and flourishes, and that he is only amusing himself like that from ill-humour, from malignancy. Well, in all these recognitions and disgraces it is that there lies a voluptuous100 pleasure. As though he would say: "I am worrying you, I am lacerating your hearts, I am keeping every one in the house awake. Well, stay awake then, you, too, feel every minute that I have toothache. I am not a hero to you now, as I tried to seem before, but simply a nasty person, an impostor. Well, so be it, then! I am very glad that you see through me. It is nasty for you to hear my despicable moans: well, let it be nasty; here I will let you have a nastier flourish in a minute...." You do not understand even now, gentlemen? No, it seems our development and our consciousness must go further to understand all the intricacies of this pleasure. You laugh? Delighted. My jests, gentlemen, are of course in bad taste, jerky, involved, lacking self-confidence. But of course that is because I do not respect myself. Can a man of perception respect himself at all?
V
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 mawkish105 kind of remorse. And, indeed, I could never endure saying, "Forgive me, Papa, I won't do it again," not because I am incapable106 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 penitent107, I used to shed tears and, of course, deceived myself, though I was not acting108 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 realize wrathfully that it was all a lie, a revolting lie, an affected lie, that is, all this penitence109, this emotion, these vows110 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 capers111. 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 pranks112, 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 ennui113, gentlemen, all from ennui; inertia overcame me. You know the direct, legitimate114 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 immediate30 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 infinity115. 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 spoke43 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 virtue85 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 disintegration116. 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 phantom117, 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, repelling118 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 vocation119 of every intelligent man is babble, that is, the intentional pouring of water through a sieve120?
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 sluggard121; 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 connoisseur122 of Lafitte. He considered this as his positive virtue, and never doubted himself. He died, not simply with a tranquil55, but with a triumphant123, conscience, and he was quite right, too. Then I should have chosen a career for myself, I should have been a sluggard and a glutton124, 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 exuded125 tears like a wet sponge. An artist, for instance, paints a picture worthy126 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 persecute127 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 belly128 I should have grown, what a treble chin I should have established, what a ruby129 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 fully70 understanding their real interests, have left them in the background and have rushed headlong on another path, to meet peril131 and danger, compelled to this course by nobody and by nothing, but, as it were, simply disliking the beaten track, and have obstinately132, wilfully133, struck out another difficult, absurd way, seeking it almost in the darkness. So, I suppose, this obstinacy134 and perversity135 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 advantageous136? 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 statistical137 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 opposition138 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, sages139 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 undertaking140 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 irony141 he will upbraid142 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 provocation143, 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 attain144 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 remarkable145 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, mere146 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 Buckle147, that through civilization mankind becomes softer, and consequently less bloodthirsty and less fitted for warfare148. Logically it does seem to follow from his arguments. But man has such a predilection149 for systems and abstract deductions that he is ready to distort the truth intentionally150, he is ready to deny the evidence of his senses only to justify151 his logic91. 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 champagne152. 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 farce153 of Schleswig-Holstein.... And what is it that civilization softens154 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 civilized155 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 conspicuous156 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 vilely157, more loathsomely158 bloodthirsty. In old days he saw justice in bloodshed and with his conscience at peace exterminated159 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 derived160 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 dictate161. 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 superfluous162 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 tabulated163 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 edifying164 works of the nature of encyclop?dic lexicons165, 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 halcyon166 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 extraordinarily167 rational. Of course boredom168 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 ignoble169, or rather with a reactionary170 and ironical171, countenance172 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 scatter173 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 dictated174. 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 virtuous175 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 chuckle176. "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 attaining177 a supposed advantage. But when all that is explained and worked out on paper (which is perfectly possible, for it is contemptible178 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 aspire179 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 manifestation180 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 frankly181?) 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 compassion182; 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 thoroughly183 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 utterly184 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 monstrously185 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 obliquity186, 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 civilian187, 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 monotonous188? 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 blessing189, drown him in a sea of happiness, so that nothing but bubbles of bliss190 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 ingratitude191, sheer spite, man would play you some nasty trick. He would even risk his cakes and would deliberately193 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 folly194 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 perverse195 out of simple ingratitude, simply to gain his point. And if he does not find means he will contrive196 destruction and chaos197, 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 cannibalism198! And this being so, can one help being tempted199 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 condescend200 to do so) that no one is touching201 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 tabulation202 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 inclinations203 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, incessantly205 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 vices206. Man likes to make roads and to create, that is a fact beyond dispute. But why has he such a passionate207 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 instinctively208 afraid of attaining his object and completing the edifice209 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 perseverance210 and good sense. But man is a frivolous211 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 incessant204 process of attaining, in other words, in life itself, and not in the thing to be attained212, 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 dreads213, 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 tavern214, 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 insolence215. Twice two makes four is a pert coxcomb216 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 triumphantly217, convinced that only the normal and the positive—in other words, only what is conducive218 to welfare—is for the advantage of man? Is not reason in error as regards advantage? Does not man, perhaps, love something besides well-being219? 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, passionately220, 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 standing130 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, negation221, 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 renounce222 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 infinitely224 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 plunge225 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 gratitude192 to it for keeping me dry. You laugh and say that in such circumstances a hen-house is as good as a mansion226. 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 eradicate227 it when you have changed my preference. Well, do change it, allure228 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 irrational229 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 recurring230 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 tenements231 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 deign232 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 withered233 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 edifices234 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 curb235. 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 hurrah236 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 tangle237. And how persistent238, how insolent239 are your sallies, and at the same time what a scare you are in! You talk nonsense and are pleased with it; you say impudent240 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 witticisms241 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 modesty242; out of the pettiest vanity you expose your sincerity to publicity243 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 impudence244. You boast of consciousness, but you are not sure of your ground, for though your mind works, yet your heart is darkened and corrupt245, and you cannot have a full, genuine consciousness without a pure heart. And how intrusive246 you are, how you insist and grimace247! 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 credulous248 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 confessions249 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 decided250 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 parenthesis251, that Heine says that a true autobiography252 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 hampered253 by any restrictions254 in the compilation255 of my notes. I shall not attempt any system or method. I will jot256 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? Why are you explaining? Why do you apologize?
Well, there it is, I answer.
There is a whole psychology257 in all this, though. Perhaps it is simply that I am a coward. And perhaps that I purposely imagine an audience before me in order that I may be more dignified258 while I write. There are perhaps thousands of reasons. Again, what is my object precisely in writing? If it is not for the benefit of the public why should I not simply recall these incidents in my own mind without putting them on paper?
Quite so; but yet it is more imposing259 on paper. There is something more impressive in it; I shall be better able to criticize myself and improve my style. Besides, I shall perhaps obtain actual relief from writing. To-day, for instance, I am particularly oppressed by one memory of a distant past. It came back vividly260 to my mind a few days ago, and has remained haunting me like an annoying tune223 that one cannot get rid of. And yet I must get rid of it somehow. I have hundreds of such reminiscences; but at times some one stands out from the hundred and oppresses me. For some reason I believe that if I write it down I should get rid of it. Why not try?
Besides, I am bored, and I never have anything to do. Writing will be a sort of work. They say work makes man kind-hearted and honest. Well, here is a chance for me, anyway.
Snow is falling to-day, yellow and dingy261. It fell yesterday, too, and a few days ago. I fancy it is the wet snow that has reminded me of that incident which I cannot shake off now. And so let it be a story à propos of the falling snow.
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1
ails
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| v.生病( ail的第三人称单数 )；感到不舒服；处境困难；境况不佳 | |
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superstitious
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| adj.迷信的 | |
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3
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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5
mortifying
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| adj.抑制的，苦修的v.使受辱( mortify的现在分词 )；伤害（人的感情）；克制；抑制（肉体、情感等） | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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vent
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| n.通风口，排放口；开衩；vt.表达，发泄 | |
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bribes
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| n.贿赂( bribe的名词复数 )；向（某人）行贿，贿赂v.贿赂( bribe的第三人称单数 )；向（某人）行贿，贿赂 | |
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witty
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| adj.机智的，风趣的 | |
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petitioners
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| n.请求人，请愿人( petitioner的名词复数 )；离婚案原告 | |
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enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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13
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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feud
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| n.长期不和；世仇；v.长期争斗；世代结仇 | |
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embittered
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| v.使怨恨，激怒( embitter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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random
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| adj.随机的；任意的；n.偶然的(或随便的)行动 | |
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foam
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| v./n.泡沫，起泡沫 | |
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appeased
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| 安抚，抚慰( appease的过去式和过去分词 )； 绥靖（满足另一国的要求以避免战争） | |
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19
swarming
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| 密集( swarm的现在分词 )； 云集； 成群地移动； 蜜蜂或其他飞行昆虫成群地飞来飞去 | |
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20
craving
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| n.渴望,热望 | |
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outlet
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| n.出口/路；销路；批发商店；通风口；发泄 | |
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tormented
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| 饱受折磨的 | |
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remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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24
rascal
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| n.流氓；不诚实的人 | |
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taunting
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| 嘲讽( taunt的现在分词 )； 嘲弄； 辱骂； 奚落 | |
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consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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immoral
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| adj.不道德的，淫荡的，荒淫的，有伤风化的 | |
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28
babble
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| v.含糊不清地说，胡言乱语地说，儿语 | |
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solely
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| adv.仅仅，唯一地 | |
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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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32
horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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outskirts
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| n.郊外，郊区 | |
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sage
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| n.圣人，哲人；adj.贤明的，明智的 | |
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35
intentional
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| adj.故意的，有意（识）的 | |
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contention
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| n.争论，争辩，论战；论点，主张 | |
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37
refinement
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| n.文雅；高尚；精美；精制；精炼 | |
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38
mire
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| n.泥沼，泥泞；v.使...陷于泥泞，使...陷入困境 | |
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39
loathsome
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| adj.讨厌的，令人厌恶的 | |
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40
undone
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| a.未做完的，未完成的 | |
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41
gnawing
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| a.痛苦的，折磨人的 | |
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42
shameful
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| adj.可耻的，不道德的 | |
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43
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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44
degradation
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| n.降级；低落；退化；陵削；降解；衰变 | |
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45
inertia
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| adj.惰性，惯性，懒惰，迟钝 | |
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46
prone
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| adj.(to)易于…的，很可能…的；俯卧的 | |
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47
dwarf
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| n.矮子，侏儒，矮小的动植物；vt.使…矮小 | |
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48
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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49
enjoyments
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| 愉快( enjoyment的名词复数 )； 令人愉快的事物； 享有； 享受 | |
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50
pulp
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| n.果肉，纸浆；v.化成纸浆，除去...果肉，制成纸浆 | |
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51
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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52
nonplussed
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| adj.不知所措的，陷于窘境的v.使迷惑( nonplus的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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53
evasion
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| n.逃避，偷漏(税) | |
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54
sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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55
tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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56
soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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57
antithesis
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| n.对立；相对 | |
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58
rankles
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| v.（使）痛苦不已，（使）怨恨不已( rankle的第三人称单数 ) | |
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59
innate
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| adj.天生的，固有的，天赋的 | |
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60
inevitably
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| adv.不可避免地；必然发生地 | |
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61
brew
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| v.酿造，调制 | |
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62
stinking
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| adj.臭的，烂醉的，讨厌的v.散发出恶臭( stink的现在分词 )；发臭味；名声臭；糟透 | |
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63
spat
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| n.口角，掌击；v.发出呼噜呼噜声 | |
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64
ignominious
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| adj.可鄙的，不光彩的，耻辱的 | |
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65
ignominiously
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| adv.耻辱地，屈辱地，丢脸地 | |
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66
ridiculed
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| v.嘲笑，嘲弄，奚落( ridicule的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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67
promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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68
malignant
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| adj.恶性的，致命的；恶意的，恶毒的 | |
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69
everlasting
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| adj.永恒的，持久的，无止境的 | |
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70
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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71
tormenting
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| 使痛苦的，使苦恼的 | |
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72
piecemeal
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| adj.零碎的；n.片，块；adv.逐渐地；v.弄成碎块 | |
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73
incognito
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| adv.匿名地；n.隐姓埋名；adj.化装的，用假名的，隐匿姓名身份的 | |
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74
vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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75
abominable
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| adj.可厌的，令人憎恶的 | |
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76
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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77
repented
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| 对（自己的所为）感到懊悔或忏悔( repent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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78
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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79
bellow
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| v.吼叫，怒吼；大声发出，大声喝道 | |
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80
subside
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| vi.平静，平息；下沉，塌陷，沉降 | |
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81
deductions
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| 扣除( deduction的名词复数 )； 结论； 扣除的量； 推演 | |
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82
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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83
scowling
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| 怒视，生气地皱眉( scowl的现在分词 ) | |
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84
virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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85
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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86
battering
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| n.用坏，损坏v.连续猛击( batter的现在分词 ) | |
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87
conciliation
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| n.调解，调停 | |
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88
absurdity
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| n.荒谬，愚蠢；谬论 | |
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89
absurdities
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| n.极端无理性( absurdity的名词复数 )；荒谬；谬论；荒谬的行为 | |
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90
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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91
logic
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| n.逻辑(学)；逻辑性 | |
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92
luxurious
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| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
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93
vindictive
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| adj.有报仇心的，怀恨的，惩罚的 | |
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94
sleight
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| n.技巧，花招 | |
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95
juggling
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| n. 欺骗, 杂耍(=jugglery) adj. 欺骗的, 欺诈的 动词juggle的现在分词 | |
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96
uncertainties
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| 无把握( uncertainty的名词复数 )； 不确定； 变化不定； 无把握、不确定的事物 | |
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97
candid
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| adj.公正的，正直的；坦率的 | |
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98
contumacious
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| adj.拒不服从的，违抗的 | |
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99
jeers
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| n.操纵帆桁下部（使其上下的）索具；嘲讽( jeer的名词复数 )v.嘲笑( jeer的第三人称单数 ) | |
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100
voluptuous
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| adj.肉欲的，骄奢淫逸的 | |
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101
voluptuousness
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| n.风骚，体态丰满 | |
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102
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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103
harassing
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| v.侵扰，骚扰( harass的现在分词 )；不断攻击（敌人） | |
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104
loathing
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| n.厌恶，憎恨v.憎恨，厌恶( loathe的现在分词)；极不喜欢 | |
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105
mawkish
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| adj.多愁善感的的；无味的 | |
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106
incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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107
penitent
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| adj.后悔的；n.后悔者；忏悔者 | |
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108
acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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109
penitence
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| n.忏悔，赎罪；悔过 | |
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110
vows
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| 誓言( vow的名词复数 )； 郑重宣布，许愿 | |
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111
capers
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| n.开玩笑( caper的名词复数 )；刺山柑v.跳跃，雀跃( caper的第三人称单数 ) | |
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112
pranks
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| n.玩笑，恶作剧( prank的名词复数 ) | |
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113
ennui
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| n.怠倦，无聊 | |
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114
legitimate
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| adj.合法的，合理的，合乎逻辑的；v.使合法 | |
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115
infinity
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| n.无限，无穷，大量 | |
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116
disintegration
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| n.分散，解体 | |
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117
phantom
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| n.幻影，虚位，幽灵；adj.错觉的，幻影的，幽灵的 | |
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118
repelling
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| v.击退( repel的现在分词 )；使厌恶；排斥；推开 | |
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119
vocation
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| n.职业，行业 | |
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120
sieve
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| n.筛，滤器，漏勺 | |
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121
sluggard
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| n.懒人；adj.懒惰的 | |
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122
connoisseur
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| n.鉴赏家，行家，内行 | |
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123
triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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124
glutton
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| n.贪食者，好食者 | |
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125
exuded
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| v.缓慢流出，渗出，分泌出( exude的过去式和过去分词 )；流露出对（某物）的神态或感情 | |
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126
worthy
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|
| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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127
persecute
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| vt.迫害，虐待；纠缠，骚扰 | |
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128
belly
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| n.肚子，腹部；(像肚子一样)鼓起的部分，膛 | |
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129
ruby
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| n.红宝石，红宝石色 | |
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130
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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131
peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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132
obstinately
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| ad.固执地，顽固地 | |
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133
wilfully
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| adv.任性固执地；蓄意地 | |
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134
obstinacy
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| n.顽固；（病痛等）难治 | |
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135
perversity
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| n.任性；刚愎自用 | |
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136
advantageous
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|
| adj.有利的；有帮助的 | |
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137
statistical
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| adj.统计的，统计学的 | |
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138
opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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139
sages
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| n.圣人( sage的名词复数 )；智者；哲人；鼠尾草（可用作调料） | |
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140
undertaking
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| n.保证，许诺，事业 | |
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141
irony
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| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
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142
upbraid
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| v.斥责，责骂，责备 | |
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143
provocation
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| n.激怒，刺激，挑拨，挑衅的事物，激怒的原因 | |
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144
attain
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| vt.达到，获得，完成 | |
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145
remarkable
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|
| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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146
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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147
buckle
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| n.扣子，带扣；v.把...扣住，由于压力而弯曲 | |
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148
warfare
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| n.战争(状态)；斗争；冲突 | |
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149
predilection
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| n.偏好 | |
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150
intentionally
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| ad.故意地，有意地 | |
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151
justify
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| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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152
champagne
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| n.香槟酒；微黄色 | |
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153
farce
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| n.闹剧，笑剧，滑稽戏；胡闹 | |
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154
softens
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| （使）变软( soften的第三人称单数 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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155
civilized
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| a.有教养的，文雅的 | |
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156
conspicuous
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|
| adj.明眼的，惹人注目的；炫耀的，摆阔气的 | |
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157
vilely
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| adv.讨厌地，卑劣地 | |
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158
loathsomely
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| adv.令人讨厌地，可厌地 | |
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159
exterminated
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| v.消灭，根绝( exterminate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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160
derived
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|
| vi.起源；由来；衍生；导出v.得到( derive的过去式和过去分词 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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161
dictate
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| v.口授；(使)听写；指令，指示，命令 | |
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162
superfluous
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|
| adj.过多的，过剩的，多余的 | |
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163
tabulated
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| 把（数字、事实）列成表( tabulate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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164
edifying
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|
| adj.有教训意味的，教训性的，有益的v.开导，启发( edify的现在分词 ) | |
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165
lexicons
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| n.词典( lexicon的名词复数 )；专门词汇 | |
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166
halcyon
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| n.平静的，愉快的 | |
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167
extraordinarily
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|
| adv.格外地；极端地 | |
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168
boredom
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|
| n.厌烦，厌倦，乏味，无聊 | |
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169
ignoble
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|
| adj.不光彩的，卑鄙的；可耻的 | |
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170
reactionary
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|
| n.反动者，反动主义者；adj.反动的，反动主义的，反对改革的 | |
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171
ironical
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|
| adj.讽刺的，冷嘲的 | |
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172
countenance
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|
| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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173
scatter
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|
| vt.撒，驱散，散开；散布/播；vi.分散，消散 | |
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174
dictated
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| v.大声讲或读( dictate的过去式和过去分词 )；口授；支配；摆布 | |
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175
virtuous
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|
| adj.有品德的，善良的，贞洁的，有效力的 | |
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176
chuckle
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|
| vi.／n.轻声笑，咯咯笑 | |
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177
attaining
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|
| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的现在分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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178
contemptible
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|
| adj.可鄙的，可轻视的，卑劣的 | |
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179
aspire
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|
| vi.(to，after)渴望，追求，有志于 | |
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180
manifestation
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|
| n.表现形式；表明；现象 | |
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181
frankly
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|
| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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182
compassion
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|
| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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183
thoroughly
|
|
| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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184
utterly
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|
| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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185
monstrously
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186
obliquity
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| n.倾斜度 | |
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187
civilian
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|
| adj.平民的，民用的，民众的 | |
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188
monotonous
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|
| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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189
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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190
bliss
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| n.狂喜，福佑，天赐的福 | |
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191
ingratitude
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| n.忘恩负义 | |
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192
gratitude
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|
| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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193
deliberately
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|
| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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194
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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195
perverse
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|
| adj.刚愎的；坚持错误的，行为反常的 | |
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196
contrive
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| vt.谋划，策划；设法做到；设计，想出 | |
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197
chaos
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| n.混乱，无秩序 | |
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198
cannibalism
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| n.同类相食；吃人肉 | |
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199
tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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200
condescend
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|
| v.俯就，屈尊；堕落，丢丑 | |
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201
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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202
tabulation
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| 作表，表格； 表列结果； 列表； 造表 | |
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203
inclinations
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| 倾向( inclination的名词复数 )； 倾斜； 爱好； 斜坡 | |
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204
incessant
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| adj.不停的，连续的 | |
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205
incessantly
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| ad.不停地 | |
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206
vices
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|
| 缺陷( vice的名词复数 )； 恶习； 不道德行为； 台钳 | |
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207
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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208
instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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209
edifice
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| n.宏伟的建筑物(如宫殿，教室) | |
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210
perseverance
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| n.坚持不懈，不屈不挠 | |
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211
frivolous
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| adj.轻薄的；轻率的 | |
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212
attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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213
dreads
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| n.恐惧，畏惧( dread的名词复数 )；令人恐惧的事物v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的第三人称单数 ) | |
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214
tavern
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| n.小旅馆，客栈；小酒店 | |
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215
insolence
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| n.傲慢；无礼；厚颜；傲慢的态度 | |
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216
coxcomb
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| n.花花公子 | |
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217
triumphantly
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| ad.得意洋洋地；得胜地；成功地 | |
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218
conducive
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| adj.有益的，有助的 | |
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219
well-being
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| n.安康，安乐，幸福 | |
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220
passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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221
negation
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| n.否定；否认 | |
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222
renounce
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| v.放弃；拒绝承认，宣布与…断绝关系 | |
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223
tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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224
infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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225
plunge
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| v.跳入，(使)投入，(使)陷入；猛冲 | |
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226
mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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227
eradicate
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| v.根除，消灭，杜绝 | |
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228
allure
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| n.诱惑力，魅力；vt.诱惑，引诱，吸引 | |
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229
irrational
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| adj.无理性的，失去理性的 | |
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230
recurring
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| adj.往复的，再次发生的 | |
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231
tenements
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| n.房屋，住户，租房子( tenement的名词复数 ) | |
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232
deign
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| v. 屈尊, 惠允 ( 做某事) | |
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233
withered
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|
| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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234
edifices
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| n.大建筑物( edifice的名词复数 ) | |
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235
curb
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| n.场外证券市场，场外交易；vt.制止，抑制 | |
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236
hurrah
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| int.好哇，万岁，乌拉 | |
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237
tangle
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| n.纠缠；缠结；混乱；v.(使)缠绕；变乱 | |
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238
persistent
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|
| adj.坚持不懈的，执意的；持续的 | |
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insolent
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| adj.傲慢的，无理的 | |
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240
impudent
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| adj.鲁莽的，卑鄙的，厚颜无耻的 | |
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241
witticisms
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| n.妙语，俏皮话( witticism的名词复数 ) | |
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242
modesty
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| n.谦逊，虚心，端庄，稳重，羞怯，朴素 | |
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243
publicity
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| n.众所周知，闻名；宣传，广告 | |
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244
impudence
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| n.厚颜无耻；冒失；无礼 | |
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corrupt
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| v.贿赂，收买；adj.腐败的，贪污的 | |
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intrusive
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| adj.打搅的；侵扰的 | |
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247
grimace
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| v.做鬼脸，面部歪扭 | |
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248
credulous
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| adj.轻信的，易信的 | |
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249
confessions
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| n.承认( confession的名词复数 )；自首；声明；（向神父的）忏悔 | |
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250
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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251
parenthesis
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| n.圆括号，插入语，插曲，间歇，停歇 | |
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252
autobiography
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| n.自传 | |
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253
hampered
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| 妨碍，束缚，限制( hamper的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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restrictions
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| 约束( restriction的名词复数 )； 管制； 制约因素； 带限制性的条件（或规则） | |
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compilation
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| n.编译，编辑 | |
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256
jot
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| n.少量；vi.草草记下；vt.匆匆写下 | |
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257
psychology
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| n.心理，心理学，心理状态 | |
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258
dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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259
imposing
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| adj.使人难忘的，壮丽的，堂皇的，雄伟的 | |
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vividly
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| adv.清楚地，鲜明地，生动地 | |
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dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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