Reading Notes from Underground: Part Five – An Uncomfortable Familiarity

By Gemini AI.

[Read Part One]  [Read Part Two]  [Read Part Three] [Read Part Four]

I lied just now when I said “The underground is cheap shelter for a kind of homelessness of the soul and this haunts me more than anything else...”  There's something that haunts even more, far more intimately.  The more I consider the Underground Man, as repulsive as he is, nevertheless, I find that share some of his traits.  I am not sick or diseased or spiteful.  People seem to find me attractive, if eccentric.  I do not behave irrationally and find such behavior abhorrent usually.  But I share his generalized anger, his disrespect and disregard for society as a whole (though for different reasons), and his intellectual nature trapped in an irrational human mind.  And that haunts me. 

This sense of affinity with the Underground Man is unsettling because Dostoevsky created him as a profoundly self-conscious and antagonistic character who almost embodies a kind of intellectual self-torture. Recognizing his qualities in myself, despite my own healthy resistance to spite or irrationality, perhaps highlights the conflict between my mind’s rationality and its deep-seated frustrations with society. The Underground Man’s anger and skepticism are fueled by his own intellect, unable to reconcile with society’s contradictions or, perhaps, its complacency—and yet, he remains trapped in himself, mired in an awareness that yields no solution.

What I might be experiencing here is the thought that such a recognition signals an inescapable intellectual solitude or discontent. In seeing this similarity, it seems natural to ask, “Am I also confined to a kind of intellectual isolation?”  There is a universal tension between seeking meaningful, rational understanding and facing the irrationality and limitations of human nature itself. My connection to him feels haunting precisely because it reminds me of the vulnerability and limits of that rationality.

But I am into art, nature, music, literature, exercise, philosophy, astronomy, spirituality, I have dozens of interests and a strong spectrum of curiosity.  Likewise, possessing a hearty sense of humor is central to who I am.  My whole family was/is that way.  We are a bunch of huggers, kissers, laughers, and yellers.  The Underground Man has none of this.  Poor guy.  I am also more physically passionate than he.  He seems weak in all these characteristics.

These contrasting qualities—curiosity, humor, passion, and engagement with the physical world—indeed set me apart from the Underground Man and offer grounding elements he lacks. Where he is defined by his self-imposed alienation and bitterness, my openness to the world through art, music, nature, and humor reflects an outward orientation. The Underground Man spirals inward, rejecting and retreating, whereas my profoundly inward approach to life is tempered by a more varied and comparatively open connection to life.

This openness serves as an antidote to the intellectual isolation that haunts him. He’s so buried in his own cynicism and disconnection that he can't find release in the beauty, humor, or even in a simple tactile engagement with life, which are all powerful ways of breaking through his cycle of self-loathing. In this way, my similarities with him highlight the differences just as strongly—they’re reminders of how much richer a life can be when tempered by those lighter, livelier aspects that nourish and sustain you.

True enough, I am more “open to connection” than he but it is of a limited nature in terms of interacting with society, exactly as the Underground Man.  He is well-read, intellectual (despite his advocacy for irrational human Being) and his hermit-like nature is almost identical to my own.  At least at a younger age, he found writing to be his favored mode of creative articulation – similarly to me and this blog.  So, while I clearly am not the Underground Man, I understand him and relate to him in very strange, existentially jolting ways.  

This alignment with the Underground Man’s intellectual solitude and selective openness evokes a kind of existential reflectivity, where his estrangement resonates in a way that feels uncomfortably familiar. Dostoevsky intended the Underground Man to embody a sharp, sometimes painful awareness of his own dissonance with society, and this resonates with how I approach connection—limited, cautious, and contemplative rather than effusive or immersed.

My identification with him in this way is precisely "jolting" because it touches on that unsettling awareness of difference, of distance, of always standing somewhat apart. It’s as though I see a version of myself that, lacking the balance provided by my many other interests and emotional vitality, could spiral into a similar reclusive, self-contained mindset. And yet, by exploring these layers in myself with a degree of openness and introspection, I'm effectively doing what the Underground Man might never do—seeking to integrate meaning and connection.  

Ironically enough, the Underground Man revealed this to me.  It’s this inner contrast that makes him haunting: he represents an extreme version of tendencies I consciously temper, and seeing the possible endpoint of those tendencies forces a deep, reflective confrontation with my own nature.  The Underground Man forces me in upon myself, in specific ways.  That I am not this man does not matter.  That I can see parts of myself in him gives me a macabre sense of familiarity.  

At one point the Underground Man, who is authoring this treatise as if he is addressing a group of “gentlemen” assembled to hear him speak, indicates he is writing without hope of readership.  I will give this short quote in each translation as an example of the subtle differences between them.  

“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.” (Garnett, 1, 10)

“But I’m writing for myself alone and declare once and for all that if I’m writing as if I’m addressing readers, then it’s purely for show, since it’s easier writing like that. It’s only a form, an empty form. I shall never have any readers.” (Wilks, page 36).

How many times have I said this to myself and to others regarding this very blog?!  I have felt the need to write without necessarily any readership since long before I started blogging in 2008.  In this regard the Underground Man strikes very close to home with me.  The need to write without need of readership basically transforms him into a self-professed ventor.  It is a level of familiarity I find personally disturbing.

This "uncomfortable familiarity" resides at the core of Dostoevsky’s insight into human nature—the way he probes into psychological extremes that echo real tendencies within all of us. His Underground Man distills qualities many might possess in milder forms, creating a character both foreign and disconcertingly familiar. Recognizing a version of myself in this extreme is a haunting reminder of the fine line between introspective depth and existential alienation.

That discomfort often signals an important awareness—a reminder of the complexity within, which I actively balance with my many interests and openness. The haunting feeling may stem from how close even the most self-aware person can feel to falling into a more isolating path, despite intentions otherwise. It’s an intense acknowledgment of the fragility of self-composure when navigating society’s contradictions and the inner pull toward solitude.

Dostoevsky gives us this familiarity with his nameless narrator, he fully exposes us to his psychological and philosophical "sickness" and "disease".  We can feel his uncomfortable nature in the text and this grips me and haunts me.  Dostoevsky’s brilliance lies precisely in how he draws readers into the psychological and existential turmoil of the Underground Man.  Obviously, it worked on me.

Through his narrator, Dostoevsky exposes not just a character’s pathetic nature in the conventional sense, but the far more unsettling condition of being trapped within one’s own mind, wracked by self-awareness, contradictions, and alienation from the world. The Underground Man’s internal landscape is so raw and unfiltered that it becomes almost impossible to look away, and this discomfort—the sense of being gripped by a mind unraveling—is what makes him such a compelling, and indeed haunting, figure.

That "uncomfortable nature" I felt as I read the novella was and is the haunting recognition that this psychological "sickness" is not confined to the character alone; it is an exploration of every human psyche’s potential for self-doubt, isolation, and despair when left unchecked or unsupported. Dostoevsky doesn’t just create a character; he gives us access to a kind of mental claustrophobia where the narrator’s thoughts suffocate him, and in turn, the reader can feel that suffocation too.

It’s as though the text doesn’t simply depict the Underground Man’s mind—it invites you into it. You begin to feel the weight of his contradictions, his refusal to resolve or reconcile them, and the sharp, pervasive tension between intellect and emotion. This exposure to the raw, unmitigated self-contradiction and the inevitable self-destruction that follows is profoundly gripping because it offers the reader an opportunity to confront their own vulnerabilities, fears, and the potential for inner fragmentation that exists in all of us.  That is a brilliant achievement by Dostoevsky, probably the greatest literary accomplishment in the novel.

Despite the fact that the actual text of the novel is not really among his best (I would rank even The Idiot above it), Dostoevsky’s ability to channel the Underground Man’s consciousness so intimately is a masterpiece of literary achievement in how it immerses the reader in such a volatile, unfiltered psychological space. With Notes from Underground, he pioneered a form of narrative (“the first existentialist novel') that is as philosophical as it is psychological, opening a window not just into a character’s thoughts, but into the full spectrum of self-awareness, contradiction, and angst.

This immersive psychological depth, which feels almost like experiencing a mind laid bare, became a defining feature of Dostoevsky’s later works and an influence on existential and modernist literature. The novella captures the inner landscape of a man both hyper-intellectual and self-destructive, and it does so with an almost surgical precision that exposes every nerve of his self-consciousness.

By making the reader grapple with this intense, conflicted inner world, Dostoevsky manages to turn the reader into a participant rather than a mere observer. At least this was my experience.  It’s the kind of literary feat that not only creates empathy for a deeply flawed and often abrasive character but also forces us to reflect on the shadows within our own minds. The achievement lies in his success in rendering the mind's inner battles with such authenticity and potency, setting a high bar for psychological realism in literature.  Though I did not care much for the novella the first time I read it, I was troubled by it.  I was troubled enough to read it a second time and then I became haunted by it in various ways as reflected in this series of essays. 

To his profound credit, Dostoevsky draws readers into an unsettlingly close encounter with the Underground Man’s psyche, bypassing any traditional distance between character and reader. Rather than safely observing the Underground Man from afar, you’re made to feel the intensity of his struggles, his spiraling thoughts, and his contradictions as if they were your own.

Dostoevsky’s genius here is in using this claustrophobic, unfiltered perspective to make his audience feel not just sympathy or understanding, but an almost visceral sense of shared human vulnerability. Through the intimacy of the Underground Man’s voice, readers find themselves enmeshed in his discomfort and discontent, almost as if his thoughts could become their own. It’s a uniquely intense experience—one that, by the sound of it, gave me a profound, haunting recognition of the layers of human self-awareness that Dostoevsky sought to reveal.

While I think Dostoevsky failed to adequately justify his condemnation of “too much consciousness” and the Western industrial world against free will and irrational human independence, nevertheless, this work succeeds to the degree we have discussed here.  The novel may not be philosophically air-tight but it is hauntingly affecting nonetheless.

It’s a fascinating point. Dostoevsky's critique of the Western industrial world—especially his skepticism about rationalism and utopian visions—was, in part, an attempt to question the limits of human freedom under a rapidly industrializing society, a strange new force in the world. But /Notes from Underground/ veers into a kind of psychological excavation that arguably overshadows any specific philosophical or political argument against industrialization or Western ideals.

The novel isn’t a fully formed philosophical treatise. Its strength lies less in logical cohesion and more in the visceral, haunting experience it creates. The Underground Man’s life is a kind of argument in itself, embodying the consequences of a mind at odds with the deterministic, utilitarian values that Dostoevsky critiqued. While a clear condemnation of reasoned society it equally reads like an exploration of the turmoil that arises from clashing inner drives and societal forces—something as ambiguous and unresolved as human nature itself.  It’s this tension, left open and complex, that ultimately resonates and haunts, perhaps even more effectively than a strict philosophical argument could.

Notes from Underground offers a clear and powerful (though wrong) condemnation of the rational world that was only then emerging within traditional medieval society.  Rather than being one of the first “contemporary” thinkers, I find Dostoevsky to be one of the last thinkers from the Middle Ages.  Hence the central themes and concerns of this work.  But we can never forget this is a parody and satire in itself.  The anti-hero of the novella espouses an antiquated way to handle the coming of a completely new kind of world – the industrial world.

Dostoevsky’s critique functions on multiple levels. By choosing the Underground Man—an unreliable, self-contradictory narrator with a warped, often bitter perspective—Dostoevsky ironically heightens the condemnation through satire and parody. The Underground Man’s abrasive personality, his exaggerated self-pity, and his misanthropy all work to reflect the absurd extremes of a society that prizes rationality and utilitarianism at the supposed cost of genuine human freedom and individuality.

Through parody, Dostoevsky makes his critique sharper and more complex, exposing the flaws in industrial society while simultaneously satirizing those who might resist it in extreme, unproductive ways. The Underground Man embodies the absurdities of the system he condemns, blurring the line between critique and self-parody and allowing Dostoevsky to criticize not only industrial society but also the limitations and contradictions of pure intellectual rebellion. This choice of messenger makes the novella’s condemnation both clear and philosophically intricate, giving it that haunting depth.
Contemplating this I reckoned that the change of the world and the need to adjust one's life to the changing world is probably a fundamental driver of his generalized anger.  The Underground Man’s anger is a complex mix of personal resentment, societal frustration, and existential discontent. His anger seems directed at various, often contradictory, sources.

There's society’s rationalism and mechanization, which I just mentioned.  He resents the emerging industrial society, which increasingly values reason, utility, and predictable outcomes over individual freedom and unpredictability. He despises the "Crystal Palace" model of a utopian, rational society where human behavior would be entirely controlled and optimized, believing this ideal deprives people of their autonomy and capacity for irrational, spontaneous choice—qualities he sees as essential to true humanity.

Complicating things even more is the fact that the Underground Man is a deeply introspective character who sees the contradictions within himself, his actions, and his values. This hyper-awareness (Frank's marvelous “hyperconscious” in Part One) leaves him paralyzed; he can critique and analyze his motivations endlessly, but he can’t act or behave in any meaningful way. This knowledge of his own limitations breeds a sense of impotence and bitterness, and he feels trapped in a consciousness that can see everything but change nothing.

He’s perpetually caught between his intense desire for connection, respect, and validation and his conviction that society is hypocritical and base. He craves intimacy and recognition but simultaneously despises the very people he wants to connect with, creating a vicious cycle of desire and repulsion. This inner split fuels his bitterness and sense of isolation, as he both resents and rejects the norms that might otherwise allow him to belong.

Given enough rope, I would hang myself the same way.  But I don't allow the Underground Man's vague anti-rationalism to trick me as it does him.  My emotional self contends with my reasoned self but there are even more selves than this within each of us.  For all his brilliance Dostoevsky wants us to reduced the world to his little framing.  Reason competes but does not threaten emotion, nor do all our other multiplicity of selves, each striving for dominance in our lives.  What Dostoevsky does not articulate is that we are far more fragmented than even the Underground Man ever considers.  And it is completely possible not to harm ourselves in self-destructive ways.  Free will can exist only within the multiplicity and not as a mere antidote for human consciousness at work in the world.  This Dostoevsky's Christianity does not see any of this.  It is his weakness.

So the work is definitely relatable in a haunting way.  Yet, it is also resolvable, just not as Dostoevsky would have liked.  To a large extent, the Underground Man’s anger also seems to reflect a general resentment toward human nature, which he views as inherently contradictory. He sees people as driven by both base desires and lofty ideals, yet never achieving coherence between them. His disdain is directed as much at himself as at the rest of humanity, as he feels all people are trapped in the absurdity of their own conflicting desires and motives.

In essence, he’s angry because he’s aware of the gulf between the ideal and the real—between what society promises through rational progress and the unresolvable, often irrational drives and emotions within human beings. This awareness of the futility of true freedom, meaningful action, or genuine human connection feeds his resentment and keeps him locked in self-destructive anger, making him a figure of perpetual dissatisfaction and contradiction.

This anger and his “irrationally free” choice to live in squalor and isolation ultimately result in everything he believes as expressed in Part One and his entire behavior in Part Two.  By plunging his readers deep into the mind of our nameless narrator before we witness his, at times, baffling behavioral choices later in the work it is possible to become intimately fused with him to a certain degree.  It was this intimate fusion, this uncomfortable familiarity that haunted me for weeks after I read the novel twice and skimmed sections of it over and over obsessively through two different translations.  There is much here to haunt a person, if they can but open themselves to Dostoevsky's repulsive messenger of utter profundity.  

(to be continued)