RexLegendi reviewed Ondergrondse notities by Fyodor Dostoevsky
Wryly humorous
4 stars
It has become a pleasant tradition to close the year with Russian literature. This year, I have Leo Tolstoy (The Death of Ivan Ilyich) and Anton Chekhov (Verhalen, 1889-1894) on my list, but I began with Fyodor Dostoevsky’s Notes from the Underground, which I plan to follow with The Brothers Karamazov.
Notes from the Underground is the kind of novel that speaks to me. Literally at first, as the narrator addresses the reader directly in the first part. His words seem cynical yet strangely enigmatic: what exactly does he want? Is he reliable? Why does he contradict himself? Could he be indignant or angry? Perhaps at mankind’s hypocrisy? Why does he claim that a rational or reasonable person cannot have a shred of self-respect? In an odd way, I felt affection for this self-punishing narrator, seemingly lost in his own thoughts.
Ik …
It has become a pleasant tradition to close the year with Russian literature. This year, I have Leo Tolstoy (The Death of Ivan Ilyich) and Anton Chekhov (Verhalen, 1889-1894) on my list, but I began with Fyodor Dostoevsky’s Notes from the Underground, which I plan to follow with The Brothers Karamazov.
Notes from the Underground is the kind of novel that speaks to me. Literally at first, as the narrator addresses the reader directly in the first part. His words seem cynical yet strangely enigmatic: what exactly does he want? Is he reliable? Why does he contradict himself? Could he be indignant or angry? Perhaps at mankind’s hypocrisy? Why does he claim that a rational or reasonable person cannot have a shred of self-respect? In an odd way, I felt affection for this self-punishing narrator, seemingly lost in his own thoughts.
Ik kan u niet uitleggen, wie ik met mijn venijn nou precies een loer draai; ik weet heel goed dat ik de dokters geen hak kan zetten door me niet door hen te laten behandelen; ik weet beter dan wie ook dat ik hier alleen mezelf maar mee heb en verder niemand. Maar toch, als ik me niet laat behandelen, dan is dat uit vileinigheid. Ik heb een leverziekte, wel, voor mijn part mag de boel nog meer verzieken!
In the second part, the narrator draws from memory, offering a complete portrait of a fringe figure unable to fit into society and living primarily within his own imagination. His relationships with others are complex. While ostensibly looking down on them, there is a clear sense of longing, suggesting that society has rejected him at some point. The narrator’s reflections on love as a battlefield call to mind Michel Houellebecq’s Extension du domaine de la lutte.
Het was een ware martelgang, een onafgebroken, ondraaglijke vernedering bij de gedachte, die overging in het onafgebroken en regelrechte gevoel, dat ik een vlieg was in de ogen van deze hele wereld, een smerige, walgelijke vlieg, intelligenter, ontwikkelder, nobeler dan iedereen – dat spreekt vanzelf – maar een vlieg die voortdurend voor iedereen uit de weg ging, door iedereen vernederd en door iedereen gekrenkt.
The narrator offers a perspective on 19th-century Russian society, but I was more intrigued by his internal dialogue, which reveals his inability to transcend himself. It is also wryly humorous, such as when he writes a letter challenging an opponent to a duel two years after the events, only to decide against sending it at the last minute, or when he attends an evening where everyone is hostile to him, arriving an hour early to an empty table. Despite the narrator’s own words, reading his notes is anything but ‘detention’.
