Notes from Underground (Vintage Classics)

Reread for some reason.

I last read this in high school. It seemed brilliant at the time.

An insane man changes his personality every few minutes. He overthinks everything, but that somehow has the ability to cause him to go to complete opposite extremes with one person within two meetings. This is apparently realistic and possible and even a major philosophical malady affecting all of us.

He clearly has some sort of BDSM fetish - shame, humiliation, mastery, possession, victimization, a need to control, a need to be forgiven, to be reviled. Again, changing on a dime.

We are told he is not the author. And yet the author uses him as a mouthpiece to deconstruct Cherneyev and the Russian rationalists. And Romanticism. So they agree? The character and author. But don't ...

A total lack of people skills, and he says he was always an introvert, a loner. But this isn't just a mental condition - it's a philosophical plague. And connection with people rather than living through books is the answer - says the author who writes books that weigh more than my dog.

And apparently there was once a 3rd section, censored by the Russian government, that said that actually Jesus is the answer. Because that long sanctimonious lecture berating the whore without ever listening to her was definitely just a character defect of the main character and not how the author actually wishes he could speak to all the women in his life.

Just not a good book. Dostoyevsky is probably the most overrated author in classics of literature. Doesn't hold a candle to Tolstoy. Or Dickens. Or Hugo. Or ... I could go on. He is the literary equivalent of a crisis pregnancy center - those "women's health" centers that try to lure in women thinking about abortion and it's really just a christian proselytizing to them and trying to shame them out of a medical procedure to remove a clump of cells the size of a tadpole which they pretend is equivalent to murdering a fully fledged adult human.

I can see why Notes from Underground is considered a classic, but it’s definitely not an easy read. It’s less about the plot and more about getting inside the mind of someone who’s painfully self-aware, deeply insecure, and constantly getting in their own way. At times it’s repetitive and frustrating, but I think that’s the point—you experience the same mental loops the narrator is trapped in. What stood out to me most was how honest it is about the darker parts of being human: pride, resentment, shame, loneliness, and the way we can sabotage the very things we want most. I don’t think Dostoevsky is asking us to agree with the narrator so much as asking us to understand what happens when someone becomes imprisoned by their own thoughts. It’s not a book I’d recommend to someone looking for an exciting story, but if you’re interested in psychology, philosophy, or understanding the complexity of human nature, it’s absolutely worth reading. Challenging? Yes. Comfortable? Not at all. But unforgettable.

A visceral experience. I don’t think I’ve ever related to a book character as much as I did with Underground Man. There were times where I legitimately felt my nerves throbbing as Dostoevsky forced me to take one long, hard stare into some of the nastiest thoughts I’ve had throughout my life. I feel like I understand myself better now, and I understand humanity better too. This guy is too much of a master.

I actually quite liked the first section of the book, which was thoroughly surprising. I normally have no time for rambly, disconnected stream-of-consciousness philosophizing, but for some reason this one landed just fine with me. But I hated Part 2—the sections with actual plot & characters. I’m never sure what I’m supposed to be drawn to in a book with a fully despicable main character, especially when he’s also the narrator. There’s just nothing at all to like about this guy; he makes sure to drive that home. OK, so then what? I haven’t yet found any answer to that.

An emotionally provoking read, written with passion and self-loathing, refraining from any self-compassion whatsoever as he continuously points out his own faults and traits seemingly unable to stop himself from using ragged honesty despite multiple attempts at lying. Wrought with shame and indignance and carried out until the bitter end of his tale as if possessed to do so by his own conscience.