bullshit?

Upon Reading 'Notes From the Undergroud'

 There lives in each of us a clandestine underground man, and whether mankind is willing to accept the testimonies which serve to identify the man underground or not is simply mankind's own self-induced defect; denial, though retrogressive, is the most sought after anesthetic, despite Nature's course of providing innumerable occasions of self-discovery and acceptance as well as statistical evidence. A surplus population of humankind, however, will incessantly deny our underground man as well as his very existing; some, in their own madness, will regard his presence as madness, and the remaining mass of bourgeoisie will linger in blatant unconsciousness of this, which can reign both as a pro or a con dependent upon the perceiving audience. For the more morally bankrupt, this talent of blatant unconsciousness is assuredly a fixed convenience, and I only regard this as talent due to its pure, knowingly and purposely crafted blatancy.

This manifestation within us each, however, could very well benefit social factors in regards to general human interaction as well as paroxysms of passion, and Dostoyevsky's Notes From the Underground has adequately aided in this realization through a literary world within a literary world.

Let it not be doubted that we each crave artful, mystic qualities within our lives, tailored to our liking and exempt from flaw, albeit the vast differences in how we perceive divinely imagined lives. Dostoyevsky's character is not far off; the Underground Man, though of course lacking wont to admit so, regards nearly each moment of mundane daily life with superfluous breadth, as though living within a poet's dramatic monologue could evolve into reality. With references to Gogol, Rousseau, Kant, and even to his own works, Dostoyevsky has generated a character of worldly flaw – one who would much rather consciously immerse himself into the arts (namely literature) as a form of temporal alleviation than responsibly acknowledge the quintessential aspects of daily life – all whilst denying his discernibly average characteristics of pseudo-intellect and lackluster form of living. Yet, within his oblivious state of self-proclaimed superiority, consciousness still remains a conflict, and the formation of his worldly flaws placed upon the shoulders of society to avoid any true consequence or acknowledgment of hypocrisy, insecurity, and the difficulty of differentiating between what can be deemed evil and what the sincere cause of that evil is. The wall which disrupts our free will becomes yet another wall of everlasting denial.

 

Even so, comparing ourselves to this underground man is an obsession, which is nearly forced with his finishing thought, “I have only in my life carried to an extreme what you have not dared to carry halfway”, only to thereafter condemn himself to concluding a life of solitude. Yet, if we confine ourselves invariably to solitude through our own vices, is the act of conceptualizing our own new, ornate literary lives so absurd? The self-flagellating man will always flagellate the other in order to overcome the conscious illness which we've unknowingly accepted by now, and we've no time to be ourselves; we've only time to live, if even vicariously through overzealous art and exaggerated qualities, for a time must come when man begins calculating his happiness rather than counting trouble within a life only lingering in anticipation of an end. 

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Uncertain.

View mmmakaveli's Full Portfolio
tags: