March 22, 2005

Crap. This is so me…

Read some selected paragraphs just from the first chapter of Dostoyevsky’s Notes From The Underground

Also, I have no desire to be cured of my ill-humour. I suppose you cannot understand this? No, I thought not; but I can understand it, although it would puzzle me to tell you exactly whom I am vexed with. I only know that I do not choose to offend the doctors by telling them that I am unable to accept their treatment. Also, I know — better than any else who can — that I alone am my worst enemy, and that I am my own worst enemy far more than I am any one else’s. However, if I am not to be cured, so much the worse for me and my evil passions. If my liver is out of order, so much the worse for my liver.

Do you wish to know wherein the sting of my evil temper has always lain? It has always lain (and therein also has always lain its peculiar offensiveness) in the fact that, even in moments of my bitterest spleen, I have been forced to acknowledge with shame that not only am I not at all bad-tempered, but also I have never received any real cause of offense — that I have been roaring to frighten away sparrows, and amusing myself with doing so. Foam though I might at the mouth, I needed but to be given a doll to play with, or a cup of sweet tea to drink, and at once I sank to quiescence. Yes, I have always grown calm for the moment — even though, later, I have gnashed my teeth at myself, and suffered from months of insomnia. Such has invariably been my way.

By the way, what is it that most respectable men talk about most readily? Answer — about themselves. So I too will talk about myself.

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