In July, we will be reading Notes from Underground by Dostoevsky.
Please post your comments and questions in this thread.
In July, we will be reading Notes from Underground by Dostoevsky.
Please post your comments and questions in this thread.
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"It is not that I am mad; it is only that my head is different from yours.”
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Awesome. I just started Absalom, Abasalom!, so when I finish that, I'll get right to Notes from the Underground. Looking forward to it; it's my first Dostoevsky.
It's a bit short so I can easily participate with you people
I'm a slow reader![]()
I read this not too long ago and loved it. I can't wait to hear everyone else's thoughts.
I like poetry,long walks on the beach and poking dead things with a stick.
I just got through part 1 and a bit of part 2, and I like it so far, though I'm not loving it. The first part was interesting, but a bit boring honestly, and I found my mind drifting quite a bit, and had no real desire to go back and re-read what I glazed over. Still, I found part 1 interesting for the most part.
What's surprised me so far is how funny it is. I didn't expect that at all, as one usually doesn't when it comes to "the classics" (especially the Russian ones--who knew Russians could be funny, Yakov Smirnoff notwithstanding). I love his little insults to the reader. As I read, I highlighted some quotes that struck me as particularly funny/clever, which I'll list below.
"I did not take bribes, 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 witty; 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!)"
"Remember I spoke just now of vengeance. (I am sure you did not take it in.)"
"Twice two makes four is a pert coxcomb who stands with arms akimbo barring your path and spitting. I admit that twice two makes four is an excellent thing, but if we are to give everything its due, twice two makes five is sometimes a very charming thing too."
"Whether it's good or bad, it is sometimes very pleasant, too, to smash things."
"I swear to you, gentlemen, there is not one thing, not one word of what I have written that I really believe. "
And my favorite:
"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."
"If the national mental illness of the United States is megalomania, that of Canada is paranoid schizophrenia."
- Margaret Atwood
Well, I'm glad I was savvy enough to pick it out.![]()
Great!! I'm going to begin tonight. This will be my third Dostoevsky book.
I must create a system, or be enslaved by another man's. ~ William Blake
Captivity is consciousness,
So's liberty. ~ Emily Dickinson
Just downloaded it on my nook. Will start later today after my trip to Costco
"Lennie said, "I thought you was mad at me, George."
"No," said George. "No Lennie. I ain't mad. I never been mad, an' I ain't now. Thats a thing I want ya to know."
So, I have mixed feelings on this book. I liked the writing and the humor, and the completely loathsome narrator, but I just didn't feel like the story really went anywhere. I was waiting for something, anything, "big" to happen, but it never did. I mean, the narrator sets the story up as something he can't forget, something he has to write down, and after finishing my thought was, "That's it?" Maybe that's the point, or maybe I missed something. The latter seems the more likely of the two.
I did absolutely love the dinner scene, though. I could just seem him pacing up and down that room. If I were the other guys there, I would've gotten the hell out of there, and fast. He seemed liable to bust a spring and just kill someone at any moment (kind of what I was waiting for, really).
I also really liked the complete unreliableness of the narrator. I've read plenty of literature with unreliable narrators, but this one has been the least trustworthy of the bunch by far.
What're some other people's thoughts?
I disagree with the first paragraph, and think the one aspect you're overlooking is the premise of the novella. Our unreliable narrator goes to painstaking detail to chronicle the realms of this thoughts throughout Part 1; Part 2 is a narration based on Part 1's premise. The inner workings of the mind depicted in Part 1 is on display for Part 2. Because the narrator stumbles on himself, the plot should be seen as the heights and valleys to which his psyche takes him. On reading this the first time (this is my 2nd), I didn't expect a climactic plot--if a climax is to be found at all, it'll be within each substory, the emotional heights to which the narrator allows himself to travel.
I find this novella a blend of philosophy, psychological study, fiction and non-fiction: the first part of the novella, obviously given under the guise of a crazed narrator, could just as well be a psychoanalysis of the author, or anyone under similar circumstances, transcending the role of the narrator. I'm working through Part 2 once more and will be able to contribute again; and while I do have some qualms about the writing as well, I think the extent to which Dostoyevsky builds acomplex within the mind is laudable, and indicative of a brilliant author.
I probably read the novel under the incorrect light, and will probably enjoy it more if I read it again.
I'm working my way through Part 2 again, stopping right after our narrator visits Simonov and commits to going to Zverkov's dinner, and all I can continue to think about is Part 1. As a typically uncertain person myself, the uncertainty of the narrator is something I can reflect on, but throughout Part 1, our narrator discusses the uncertainty of uncertainty; to me, that's a chilling though. Through a sequence of thought, he creates a phantasmagoria of separate conceptions of himself, all blurring what he really is as a person and narrator, but more importantly blurring the blurs of reality.
It reminds me of the movie Inception, except with more complexity. Creating these alterior images of himself leave enough space to collapse that reality, only to rebuild it again into completely different images with the same materials, then to demolish it again. Our only constant in reading this is the narrator, everything else is a question, an uncertain question, one whose uncertainty in the narrator makes uncertain the question about uncertainty.