kode adsense disini
Hot Best Seller

Notes from the Underground by Fyodor Mikhailovich Dostoevsky, Fiction, Classics, Literary

Availability: Ready to download

Dostoevsky's NOTES FROM THE UNDERGROUND is a psychological study of the deepest darkest skeletons in the closet of the human mind. The first novel from Dostoevsky's mature "second period" works, divided in two parts, presents an unnamed protagonist, a twisted angry student, and his worldview. It is one proud man's cry for help and perverse rejection of the world around him Dostoevsky's NOTES FROM THE UNDERGROUND is a psychological study of the deepest darkest skeletons in the closet of the human mind. The first novel from Dostoevsky's mature "second period" works, divided in two parts, presents an unnamed protagonist, a twisted angry student, and his worldview. It is one proud man's cry for help and perverse rejection of the world around him.


Compare
kode adsense disini

Dostoevsky's NOTES FROM THE UNDERGROUND is a psychological study of the deepest darkest skeletons in the closet of the human mind. The first novel from Dostoevsky's mature "second period" works, divided in two parts, presents an unnamed protagonist, a twisted angry student, and his worldview. It is one proud man's cry for help and perverse rejection of the world around him Dostoevsky's NOTES FROM THE UNDERGROUND is a psychological study of the deepest darkest skeletons in the closet of the human mind. The first novel from Dostoevsky's mature "second period" works, divided in two parts, presents an unnamed protagonist, a twisted angry student, and his worldview. It is one proud man's cry for help and perverse rejection of the world around him.

30 review for Notes from the Underground by Fyodor Mikhailovich Dostoevsky, Fiction, Classics, Literary

  1. 4 out of 5

    karen

    oh, dear. this is not a character that it is healthy to relate to, is it?? he is a scootch more pathetic than me, and more articulate, but his pettinesses are mine; his misanthropy is mine, his contradictions and weaknesses... i have to go hide now, i feel dirty and exposed... come to my blog!

  2. 4 out of 5

    Nate D

    1. Irritated by Underground Man. 2. Amused by Underground Man. 3. Sick of Underground Man. 4. Want to fly to St. Petersburg, travel back in time, and punch Underground Man right in the face. 5. Pity for Underground Man. 6. Horrified by Underground Man. 7. Further reading of Underground Man's monologue almost physically painful. I almost wanted to cover my eyes, but this would have posed problems for reading. 8. Glad to be free of the Underground Man, but glad to have known him, in the end.

  3. 4 out of 5

    Ben

    More than anything, this book should make you think. And not about trivial shit either, but about big, important conditions of life and how best to view and react to them. I have "should" italicized in that first sentence for a reason: If you don't give yourself time to think -- if just skim through the book quickly -- then you won't get anything out of it. It's narrated by a guy living underground, in poverty. You are reading his notes. The first half, his ramblings, thoughts and philosophies of More than anything, this book should make you think. And not about trivial shit either, but about big, important conditions of life and how best to view and react to them. I have "should" italicized in that first sentence for a reason: If you don't give yourself time to think -- if just skim through the book quickly -- then you won't get anything out of it. It's narrated by a guy living underground, in poverty. You are reading his notes. The first half, his ramblings, thoughts and philosophies of life, via monologue. The second half, humiliating stories from when he was 24 (he is now 40). He is a fascinating character. A paranoid, ridiculous, introspective, analytical, abrasive, laughable, vengeful, antisocial, extreme, hypersensitive, pathological, delicate, hilarious, bottom-dwelling, pathetic, indecisive, crazy, loner of a man. He is an educated and intelligent man. Both his thoughts and actions are paradoxical. He is emotionally tough, then emotionally sensitive and fragile. He stands for great unequivocal moral virtue, then cowers further in his morally rotten state. At one moment he has what seems to be great conviction and inner strength. At the next moment, wavering doubt and uncertainty. He is an individual, unaffected by people, choosing to live by himself -- He is hypersensitive to what others think, to the point of being paranoid. He lives in great poverty; he has manic spurts, dreams, and visions of megalomania. You want to feel sorry for him, because he's pitiful and full of pain. You want to hate him, because he is hateful and a burden on humanity. He is a contrarian against everything, even himself. As previously mentioned, the beauty of this novel comes from the many various thoughts it can give birth to. It doesn't offer any easy answers or an obvious paradigm. There are no gifts in this book. New thoughts must be earned, but the opportunities are plenty. Below I’ve listed out some of the random-ass thoughts I had while reading, just to give you an idea of what I’m talking about. Those of you who read the book will probably disagree with some of them, and trust me, I don’t claim to be good with literary analysis, so you could probably convince me against some… after all they’re just thoughts. And don’t feel like you need to read them; maybe one or two to get the main thinkin’ point: - The narrator is an angry man with strongly violent speech, reveries, and threats. Yet we never see him act in violence. Is he, or is he not, physically dangerous? - What a shame it is that someone who has the capability of making great impact -- such as this man -- ends up being so insignificant. If anything, the world would be a better place without this guy. He uses his intelligence and intuition in all the wrong ways, bringing others down, including himself (or often, just himself) through his actions. - Our underground man wavered too much. He had trouble making up his mind and once having made a decision, he'd change it. In regards to making difficult decisions, Yogi Berra once said, "When you come to the fork in the road, take it!" Sometimes, most -- or even all -- of the options available are better than not taking any, or changing your mind midway through. Our narrator even wavered or made stupid decisions when faced with simple situations – common sense scenarios that 99% of the population would respond to in a better fashion than the ridiculous, silly ways that he did. How can such a smart man be such a poor decision maker? - I wonder how successful would he would be if his chemical imbalance where fixed (I guess it would have to be through pills) and he saw a good shrink. I wonder how much of his inner turmoil and unhappiness is caused by not being chemically stable. I wonder how much of his pathological condition is “fixable". - He seems to be incapable of love, and even says so. Yet, he shows dashes of deep understanding of it, and so you think he can't be right about that (himself not being able to love)… but, wouldn't he know? Is he bullshitting? Maybe he’s serious, but just wrong about himself: perhaps he's capable of love but hasn’t yet, perhaps because nobody has ever loved him. He seems to want to love at times, but then he'll completely shun it: glorifying it at one moment and then spitting upon it the next. Could he have opened his heart to the innocent whore that he meets? Given their compliments in character, could they have provided one another with support, understanding, and love, had he just given it a chance? Or, perhaps he doesn't need those things -- ultimately he retreats from such opportunities and returns to his spite. Are things like support, human understanding, and love things that we all need? Maybe if he would just open up once, he would get the love he needs and change into a much better person in all aspects of his life. - At one point in the book, our narrator states, "she is the cause of it all." Perhaps this one quote sums up a large portion of his problem: Instead of taking life by the horns and making the most of it, he's bitter and blames other people for his problems. He needs to take charge of the things he can control, instead of freezing himself with contempt. - In the second half of the book the narrator seems to be completely honest about his ridiculous past actions, and his various shortcomings. There's something to be said for that kind of honesty. It goes hand-in-hand with his anti-social, anti-establishment persona. He doesn't feel a need to present himself as more acceptable to society than he really is (which is to say, not at all). I like this about him. - If the narrator didn’t live in such poverty, could he gave gotten himself out of his figurative hole? If he had the basic necessities, would he have then had the level of conformability needed to start improving himself? If so, would he he then chose to improve himself? - He states, “the most intense pleasures occur in despair” Is he actually enjoying his situation? Oh man, there are just so many ways to look at that…. That sentence alone describes the paradox of this book in so many ways. Go ahead, think about it some.. - This guy is a great example of how common sense and emotional stability are often more important than IQ. But he would probably make a semi-strong argument to the contrary. - The stories of his foolishness (part 2 of the novel) took place 16 years before his writing about them. Was he wiser at the time of writing than he was when the actions took place? He articulates some recognition of shame and regret. Does he still behave ridiculously? We don’t have a strong idea of what his philosophies were 16 years ago (during part 2), and we don't know what his behavior was like at the time part 1 was written (at his "current" age of 40). - "Real life oppressed me with its novel so much that I could hardly breathe.” Is his problem that he’s too introspective? Is his heavily introspective nature a reason he's such a mess? Perhaps his problem is that he's just too analytical, too much of a thinker, too caught inside his own head. Perhaps he's not in touch with his feelings enough, and that by avoiding them, when they inevitably come out (to live is to feel), they are so foreign to him that he doesn't know how to deal with them. - He is known as a great anti-hero. Perhaps one can learn how to live by not being like this guy. But he does have some positive qualities: he's introspective, and prone to the kind of independent, critical analysis that leads to innovation. A great hero wouldn’t necessarily be the opposite of this guy… or would he? And what constitutes a "hero" anyway? And so you see, after reading this, I feel a bit like the narrator: conflicting, contrary and paradoxical thoughts running in different directions, often without conclusions. It's frustrating, but there's an energizing element to taking on such thoughts. These listed contemplations probably differ from yours, but that's part of what makes this novel of paradox so good. Despite it being short, it's the kind of book I could read over and over again and still find it thought provoking and satisfying each time. Society is persistent about filling our brains with the largely mindless: celebrity gossip, mtv, the newest trends, sitcoms, etc. -- hell just look around, examples are everywhere. Good books can bring us to our thinking place, which puts us in an opposite state. Getting to the thinking place, and staying there for a while, is not easy. It takes effort, but it's rewarding. The thinking place is were we grow as individuals and as a society. This book can take you to your thinking place.

  4. 4 out of 5

    Nataliya

    Imagine 19th century Russian literature as a loud boisterous party. Here's Pushkin, basking in the center of attention, charming up all the ladies. Here are Chekhov and Gogol at the heart of a passionate intellectual argument. Here's Count Tolstoy, busily serving canapés while rejoicing in the pleasure of work, stopping only to chat about the pleasures of countryside with Turgenev. But where's Dostoyevsky? Oh, there he is, sitting by himself in a dark corner, dead broke after a high-stakes cards Imagine 19th century Russian literature as a loud boisterous party. Here's Pushkin, basking in the center of attention, charming up all the ladies. Here are Chekhov and Gogol at the heart of a passionate intellectual argument. Here's Count Tolstoy, busily serving canapés while rejoicing in the pleasure of work, stopping only to chat about the pleasures of countryside with Turgenev. But where's Dostoyevsky? Oh, there he is, sitting by himself in a dark corner, dead broke after a high-stakes cards game, giving you the unsettling intense heavy glare that easily penetrates right into the darkest best-guarded secrets of your soul, the glare that clearly says 'been there, done that, been repulsed by what I saw.' And if he looks like he's judging you, it's because he is. And you deserve it, probably. Fyodor Mikhailovich, you don't make liking you easy, do you? ---------- This book is brilliant. Unpleasant and hard to read, disturbing and unsettling, and really brilliant. But before I go into my long-winded discussion, let me get this off my chest, for the honesty purposes and full disclosure:I finally can admit - I don't "get" Dostoyevsky. Perhaps my mind is a tad too shallow for his literary depths; perhaps my inner ball of sunshine deep deep inside refuses to see the world through Dostoyevsky's disillusioned glare. But I don't need to "get" him to know the greatness when I see it, to respect his sharp writing, his keenly observant eye that does not let anything slip away, and his scarily clear perceptions of people and the layers in which they dress up their otherwise petty and pathetic selves.In this short and strange book, Dostoyevsky manages to create perhaps the most disturbing image of a human being in the entire 19th century literature. Let me jot down just a few of the epithets that came pouring into my head with every page I read: petty, bitter, miserly, resentful, selfish, pitiful, entitled, cruel, deeply unpleasant and frankly miserable. The person who finds disgusting satisfaction in little acts of petty nastiness. The person who perversely enjoys stewing in self-imposed misery and figurative self-flagellation over every perceived slight, building exquisite mountains out of molehills. The person who would thrive on humiliating others, but if unable to achieve that would just as happily thrive on self-humiliation and self-loathing. The person who in the confines of his little mind hides a true despot, but gets his sense of self-worth by assuming that everyone else is beneath his miserable but clearly enlightened and misunderstood self - despite the world pointing to the contrary. The person who'd quietly spit into your bowl if you haven't offered to share it with him - and then will internally torment himself for years over the act, feeling that the act of torment is enough to elevate him out of the mud. The person who, in ramblings about how rotten society is helps it rot a little bit more. In short, he created a character the sheer mention of whom makes me want to take a shower and wash all of the above off me. He created a character that with all of the above scarily reminds you of so many people you know - and maybe sometimes even yourself. And that's what really disturbing about it. And this disturbing part is exactly what makes me from time to time abandon the fun bits of the Russian literature party and instead join Fyodor Mikhailovich in his dark gloomy corner for a minute or so. Because he makes me, unpleasant as it is, take a long critical look at myself, so that I can try to keep myself out of this "underground". Because he "gets" to me even if I don't quite "get" him. Because it's not a story, it's a mirror, and you have to work hard to make it not be so. I don't know how to rate this book. I did not enjoy it (how can you?) but it made a sizeable imprint on my soul. Stars are irrelevant here, so I'll randomly pick something. 4? ------ Written in Munich airport, stuck on an unscheduled 20hr layover, with almost no sleep and beginnings of jet lag.

  5. 4 out of 5

    °°°·.°·..·°¯°·._.· ʜᴇʟᴇɴ Ροζουλί Εωσφόρος ·._.·°¯°·.·° .·°°° ★·.·´¯`·.·★ Ⓥⓔⓡⓝⓤⓢ Ⓟⓞⓡⓣⓘⓣⓞⓡ Ⓐⓡⓒⓐⓝⓤⓢ Ταμετούρο Αμ

    Κατεβείτε σε αυτό το ΥΠΟΓΕΙΟ- σας συμβουλεύω ανεπιφυλακτα να κατεβείτε. Θα συναντήσετε έναν αντί-ήρωα απομονωμένο,ευγενή,εγωκεντρικό που θα σας διαφωτίσει ως προς το παράδοξο και το τραγικό της ανθρώπινης ύπαρξης. Η ελευθερία,η συναίσθηση,η αγάπη,η ανθρώπινη βούληση,το απρόβλεπτο και το αχάριστο της ανθρώπινης φύσης. " Πρώτα πρώτα,δεν μπορούσα μα αγαπήσω,γιατι,το ξαναλέω,για μένα αγάπη θα πει να τυραννάς και να κυριαρχείς στην ψυχή του άλλου" Με πολλή μαεστρία ο κάτοικος του υπόγειου μας εξηγεί π Κατεβείτε σε αυτό το ΥΠΟΓΕΙΟ- σας συμβουλεύω ανεπιφυλακτα να κατεβείτε. Θα συναντήσετε έναν αντί-ήρωα απομονωμένο,ευγενή,εγωκεντρικό που θα σας διαφωτίσει ως προς το παράδοξο και το τραγικό της ανθρώπινης ύπαρξης. Η ελευθερία,η συναίσθηση,η αγάπη,η ανθρώπινη βούληση,το απρόβλεπτο και το αχάριστο της ανθρώπινης φύσης. " Πρώτα πρώτα,δεν μπορούσα μα αγαπήσω,γιατι,το ξαναλέω,για μένα αγάπη θα πει να τυραννάς και να κυριαρχείς στην ψυχή του άλλου" Με πολλή μαεστρία ο κάτοικος του υπόγειου μας εξηγεί πως ο άνθρωπος απο τη φύση του λατρεύει την απεριόριστη ελευθερία που τον οδηγεί στην καταστροφή. Μέσα απο αυτό το αριστούργημα ο Ρώσος υπάλληλος του δημοσίου μας προσκαλεί στην υπόγεια φυλακή του για να μας εξηγήσει μέσα απο βιωματικές ιστορίες και σκέψεις πως ειναι ακριβώς ίδιος φόβος της αγάπης και της ελευθερίας. Κατεβείτε με πολύ πάθος και καθόλου φόβο σε αυτό το πολυκαιρισμενο και σκοτεινό υπόγειο με απεριόριστη θέα στην ψυχή των ανθρώπων.... Ο δάσκαλος που το κατοικεί θα σας πει πως πρέπει να μισείτε θανάσιμα ότι φυλακίζει την ελευθερία της βούλησης και με όλη την μεγαλοπρέπεια την καλοσύνη και την μεγαλοψυχία που τον διακρίνει - παρά τις ταπεινώσεις και τις καταστροφές του-θα προσπαθήσει μόνο με το "βλέμμα μας" που το χει μεγάλη ανάγκη για να υπάρχει και να πρεσβεύει τα πιστεύω του,να βρει γαλήνη και χαρά, μιλώντας απο ένα Υπόγειο "κοτέτσι" γεμάτο ρεαλισμό που δεν διαφέρει καθόλου απο ένα " κρυστάλλινο παλάτι" γεμάτο θυσιασμενες μέσα στο ψέμα ζωές!! Καλή ανάγνωση!! Πολλούς ασπασμούς!!

  6. 4 out of 5

    Lisa

    Bravo, Dostoyevsky! This is the perfect, absolutely accurate and universal portrait of the insecure, self-conscious egomaniac - pitiful and dangerous, on a negative quixotic rampage against himself, society and the laws of nature he despises but cannot change. There are so many of these angry men (and women), and they don’t speak from the underground anymore. With modern technology, they have conquered the virtual world, spewing out their self-pity and hatred in long, inconsistent, frustrated ti Bravo, Dostoyevsky! This is the perfect, absolutely accurate and universal portrait of the insecure, self-conscious egomaniac - pitiful and dangerous, on a negative quixotic rampage against himself, society and the laws of nature he despises but cannot change. There are so many of these angry men (and women), and they don’t speak from the underground anymore. With modern technology, they have conquered the virtual world, spewing out their self-pity and hatred in long, inconsistent, frustrated tirades, contradicting themselves at each moment, without thinking. “I am this or that … or no, wait, I was lying, … I am that or the other… I am going to show them all, slap them in the face …“ Dostoyevsky’s misfit is far more eloquent than his modern alter egos, quite similar to authors like August Strindberg, darkly misanthropic and full of self-loathing, but with a sharp intellect and deep understanding of the world of the 19th century, which is undergoing deep and irreversible change. The man from the underground is seriously shaken by the new scientific era, which he intellectually recognises, but hates because it leaves it to his own responsibility to define meaning in life. The new individual initiative which is required for success in the modern world is scary and diametrically opposed to the old structure, which gave him an unshakable place and aim: “What stone wall? Why of course, the laws of nature, the deductions of natural science, mathematics. As soon as they prove to you, for instance, that you are descended from a monkey, then it is no use scowling, accept it for a fact … [...] … for twice two is a law of mathematics. Just try refuting it.” It would take Orwellian dictatorship to put 2+2=4 in doubt again, but the man in the underground doesn’t, as a rule, stick to his own advice, and he curses and rants against the laws he cannot change, claiming that will give him a distinctive identity: “He will launch a curse upon the world, and as only man can curse (it is his privilege, the primary distinction between him and other animals), maybe by his curse alone he will attain his object - that is, convince himself that he is a man and not a piano-key!” He might of course just have proven that he is a piano-key that is capable of cursing, and he knows about the inconsistencies of his arguments. They follow him like a thread through all his interactions with other human beings. He craves a distinguished position in society, but only manages to show superiority by humiliating and despising the company he seeks, and by subsequently falling into passionate remorse and emotional crisis. He can’t be part of a group on equal terms because he wants to rise above it intellectually while feeling inferior to it on a psychological level. His relationship to women builds on the same oxymoron of romantic idealisation and disgust for reality. He despises women for giving the pleasure he craves. With the prostitute Liza, he has his final breakdown, losing all inhibitions and all sense of shame, pride and dignity. While seeing her helpless situation, her position as a victim of the patriarchal, sexually repressed and morally bigoted society, he still abhors the fact that she has been “used” like an object by other men, and he can’t consider her a subject, an individual, a human with a future anymore, once she has been sexually active with other men. This is so common, so universal, so deeply felt in most sexually repressive, patriarchal societies: men force women to be sexually dependent, either within marriage or outside it, and then they blame them for not being pure anymore. As if purity and chastity have to be virtues. Once that ancient oxymoron is erased from sexual and religious education, we might see some real change. Consent between grown-ups would be a good commandment for sexual behaviour, but it would seriously shake the foundation of many marriages. It would force many men to be considering ways beyond physical and societal power to attract and keep the devotion of a woman. That sounds like work, and like having to leave the egomaniac bubble. Our man from the underground wouldn’t be up to it. So he will fail, and continue to ensnare himself in a frustrating grey zone between desire and shame. Just like natural laws stay natural laws, whether you like them or not, sexuality will be there, whether you can deal with it or not. Our protagonist can’t obviously, like so many other young men brought up in a confused state of mind, with pride and honour as a guideline, and sexual repression and misogyny taught from early childhood, caught in a modern world that offers too many different lifestyles for them to be able to choose, and too few dogmatic guidelines to stick to. Being instinctively egomaniac, their antisocial behaviour falls flat in a group and in a democratic environment, and they compensate the vacuum in their mind with illogical, yet powerful rants! Don’t underestimate the danger of the voices from the underground. Dostoyevsky masterfully depicts the scary profile of a lost person, overlooked and ridiculed for his deficiencies, yet with enough anger in his heart to lash out, seemingly randomly and spontaneously. We need to have pity, and show respect, and care for those young people caught between modernity and patriarchy, to open our arms and integrate them as best we can. We can’t afford to let them rant in shame and frustration. There must be a place for them to fill “over the ground”, but they won’t take the first step to integrate - being emotionally too unstable. Give those misfits a place at the table, and they won’t have to shout from the underground, they won’t have to insult women, they won’t have to engage in meaningless, yet deadly duels to save their face. Give them a face. Like Dostoyevsky gave them a voice -from the underground.

  7. 4 out of 5

    Araz Goran

    " أيها السادة، سأخبركم حول الكيفية التي أضعتُ فيها فرصة النجاح في حياتي ...... بفعل الفساد الروحي والأخلاقي الذي أعاني منه، وبفعل الوقاحة الصلفة التي أتصف بها، وبفعل عدم تعودي على الحياة المُعاشة، وبفعل تراكم الغيظ والحقد اللذين نميتُهما في قبوي "

  8. 5 out of 5

    mark monday

    so I came across this guy at a party that I had known in college, many years ago. I remembered him clearly: that brilliant, pretentious guy with his stories and his sarcasm and his nihilism. our classmates mocked him and so did I, but I enjoyed him too. he was a funny fellow, entirely self-absorbed, smart and well-read and amusingly melodramatic in his comments about the world and his life; he wore his pathos blatantly, like some kind of robe or badge or shield. I always thought that was brave o so I came across this guy at a party that I had known in college, many years ago. I remembered him clearly: that brilliant, pretentious guy with his stories and his sarcasm and his nihilism. our classmates mocked him and so did I, but I enjoyed him too. he was a funny fellow, entirely self-absorbed, smart and well-read and amusingly melodramatic in his comments about the world and his life; he wore his pathos blatantly, like some kind of robe or badge or shield. I always thought that was brave of him, that naked vulnerability so openly displayed. and here he was, many years later, pretty much the same guy except the years had not been so kind to him. we struck up a conversation and talked about the old days. he asked if I wanted to leave the party and go back to his place, do some drugs; I agreed. his place was a dump but my place is little better (just cleaner). he had piles of books stacked everywhere (mine are kept neatly, in bookshelves). the place had a goaty smell, and a musty one too, smelling like dust and old food and socks and sweat and semen (I keep my windows wide open all the time to avoid those scents). we sat on his ratty couch, side by side, and began to do line after line. he talked and talked and talked. it was amusing at first; his spiteful and malicious commentary made me smile. such an odd fellow, so energetic in his negative way, and yet surprisingly self-aware. he talked about how low he was, but that at least he recognized what he was, unlike everyone else, how he was such a worm, an insect, really that's how he described himself, his life so meaningless and his job so mundane and the only things he gained pleasure from were books, people were nothing to him, he was nothing to himself. at one point I asked him: but what do you do with your time besides reading? he sneered and said not a lot, he's online a lot, he likes the anonymity, the ability to speak his mind and tell people exactly what he thinks about them and their world views and their fake happiness and their stupid families and their stupid beliefs and opinions and their stupid way of ignoring how shitty everything really is, they live their fake lives just pretending they are happy, how we are all divorced from life, we are all cripples, every one of us, more or less, we are so divorced from it that we immediately feel a sort of loathing for actual "real life," and so cannot even stand to be reminded of it, at least he knows the real score, at least he knows how the world works even as he rejects it. he opened up his laptop to show me some of his favorite posts and I have to admit that they were sort of funny. he had a way with words for sure. he also had an enviable collection of porn on his laptop and we enjoyed that for a while, doing more lines and laughing about all of the stupid whores in the world and weren't they just pathetic and wasn't everyone just pathetic. we stripped down to our boxers because the room was stifling and a person can feel pretty hot when they are doing a lot of drugs and watching a lot of porn. at some point I passed out to the sound of his miserable ricocheting laughter, like sad little toy gun bullets popping pitifully. I woke up early; the sun wasn't even out. I had fallen asleep on his couch sitting up and he had fallen asleep sideways: two things creating one perpendicular shape. I noticed a part of his leg touching my own leg; his naked flesh touching my own bare skin. I looked at that connection and recoiled, appalled. I jumped up from the couch and he moaned fitfully in his sleep, like a child or someone being tortured. I grabbed his laptop and smashed it into his head, again and again, making a red pulp. still feeling out of sorts, I went to his bathroom to shower. out of the showerhead poured mud, all over me. I bathed in the mud like it was water, rubbing it all over my face and body until I couldn't see any more of me. LOL what a night! 7 of 16 in Sixteen Short Novels

  9. 5 out of 5

    Sherif Metwaly

    " أنا رجلٌ مريض، أنا رجلٌ شرير، أنا بالأحرى رجلٌ مُنفر. " بهذه الجملة القصيرة، المعرِّية لنفسية بطل الرواية من أول لحظة، بدأتْ الرواية، وبدأ أول لقاء لي في رحاب خبير النفس البشرية الأعظم على مرّ التاريخ بشهادة معظم من قرأوا له. أن تفتح الصفحات الأولى من رواية فتجد في انتظارك هذا الاعتراف، لهو شيء مثير للاهتمام لدرجة أني ابتسمت!، نعم ابتسمت، فأنا: رجلٌ بسيط، أنا رجلٌ يحب الصدق، أنا بالأحرى رجلٌ مجنون. حسنًا، لننشّط الخيال قليلًا.. أنا الآن أقف أمام منزلٍ قديم، يبدو مظلمًا وكئيبًا لدرجة لا تُطاق، ا " أنا رجلٌ مريض، أنا رجلٌ شرير، أنا بالأحرى رجلٌ مُنفر. " بهذه الجملة القصيرة، المعرِّية لنفسية بطل الرواية من أول لحظة، بدأتْ الرواية، وبدأ أول لقاء لي في رحاب خبير النفس البشرية الأعظم على مرّ التاريخ بشهادة معظم من قرأوا له. أن تفتح الصفحات الأولى من رواية فتجد في انتظارك هذا الاعتراف، لهو شيء مثير للاهتمام لدرجة أني ابتسمت!، نعم ابتسمت، فأنا: رجلٌ بسيط، أنا رجلٌ يحب الصدق، أنا بالأحرى رجلٌ مجنون. حسنًا، لننشّط الخيال قليلًا.. أنا الآن أقف أمام منزلٍ قديم، يبدو مظلمًا وكئيبًا لدرجة لا تُطاق، الجوّ قارس البرودة والسماء تُمطر ندفًا من الثلج تتراكم على رأسي وكتفي لتحوّل لون معطفي البُنيّ إلى اللون الأبيض. أبحث عن جرس الباب، لا أجد، أهُمّ بالطَرقِ على الباب فأجده مفتوحًا، أدفعه وأدخل، هناك سلم يصعد لأعلى وآخر يهبط لأسفل، ألمح في نهاية السلم الهابط لأسفل بابًا يبدو مواربًا ويتسرب ضوءًا شاحبًا من خلفه، أهبط السلم، أطرق الباب عدة مرات، لا رد، أدفع الباب وأدخل، تقابلني رائحة عطن بشعة، وكأن هذا القبو مقبرةً تحوي عشرة جثث على الأقل، أهتف صائحًا: هل من أحدٍ هنا؟، لا رد، أسمع صوتًا ما، أتجه نحو مصدره، باب آخر!، أفتحه وأدخل، فإذا برجلٍ يجلس على منضدة موليًا ظهره تجاه باب الغرفة وتجاهي بطبيعة الحال، أهُمّ بإلقاء التحية، فيقاطعني صوتًا حزينًا قائلًا:- " لم أكن أعرف فقط، كيف أصير شريرًا، وإنما ظللتُ لا أعرف كذلك كيف أصير أي شيء يُذكر على الإطلاق: لا شريرًا، ولا طيبًا، ولا دنيئًا، ولا شريفًا، ولا بطلًا، ولا حشرة. والآن، ها أنذا أنهي مسيرة حياتي في هذه الحفرة، ساخرًا من ذاتي وأنا أواسيها بهذا اليقين، الذي بقدر ما هو متشائم، فإنه لا يجدي فتيلًا، والذي يفيد بأنّ الإنسان الذكي لن يقوَ أبدًا على أن يكون شيئًا يٌعتد به، ما دام أن الأغبياء هم الذين يستطيعون أن يصيروا شيئًا معينًا." لحظة اندهاش مشوبة بالريبة، وإذا بي أهُم بنزع معطفي والدخول لأرى هذا الذي يتكلم وجهًا لوجه، بينما هو يلتفت خلفه تجاه ذلك الفضولي الذي قطع عليه خلوته داخل قبر.. عفوًا، داخل قبوه. أجلس على الجانب الآخر للطاولة، أنظر إليه، يا إلهي!، ما هذا الوجه الشاحب؟!، وكأنه لم يرَ الشمس يومًا!، تلجمني المفاجأة فأصمت، نسيت حتى أن ألقي التحية أو أستأذن قبل الجلوس. ما الذي أتى بي هنا أساسًا؟، كان ينبغي لي أن أصعد للدور الثالث كي أزور جدتي فإذا بي هنا في هذا القبو الكئيب، العطن الرائحة، جالسًا أمام ذلك الشخص الذي لا أعرفه، والذي لا يعرفني. مع ذلك، أشعر أني أود الجلوس، تمامًا مثلما أشعر أنه لا يريدني أن أرحل. لحظاتُ صمتٍ تمُرّ وأنا في حيرة، هل سيتكلم ثانيةً؟ هل أبادر أنا بالكلام؟، وبينما تدور الأسئلة المربكة في ذهني إذا به يقطع حبل أفكاري قائلًا:- " أنا مُتعب ". كانت " أنا متعب " هذه الضربة الأخيرة التي أودتْ بسدٍ ضخمٍ يحجز خلفه الكثير من الكلام المدفون داخل أعماق نفسٍ بشرية من أغرب ما رأيت، لا لا.. هي ليست نفسًا غريبة، هي واقعية، واقعية لدرجة مخيفة. يبدأ الرجل في حكاية قصته، يبدأ بعرض فلسفته الغريبة تجاه الحياة، فلسفة لم أفهم معظمها، وأشك أنه كان مستوعبًا لما يقول، أعتقد أنه كان يهذي في أوقات عديدة، او يتعمد نقل حالة الارتباك التي عانى منها لسنواتٍ عديدة إليّ. ينتهي من عرض فلسفته، فيلمح علامات عدم الفهم على وجهي، يلمح العديد من التساؤلات التي أود طرحها عليه، فيبتسم ابتسامة حزينة، ويبدأ بحكاية مذكرات، أو بالأحرى مقتطفات من ماضيه، موضحًا لي كيف كان، وكيف كان من حوله، وكيف انتهى به المطاف هنا، في القبو. تنهمر الحكايات والتفاصيل، ينقلني معه إلى ماضيه، وأمضي في رحلة من أغرب ما يكون، أشاهده وهو يتعامل مع الناس بسخرية مشوبة بقلة الحيلة والضعف، أشاهده يُهان ولا يجرؤ على رد الإهانة، يحاول أن يكون شخصًا ذو كبرياء وكرامة فما يلبث أن يحتاج إلى أحدهم كي يقرضه بعض النقود فيمسح بكرامته وكبرياءه الأرض، أشاهده يحاول الاندماج مع المجتمع فيلفظه الجميع بمنتهى القسوة، أشهد خادمه الذي من المفترض أن يعامل سيد البيت باحترام، ولكن حتى الخادم كان يهين ذلك المسكين المتخاذل، أشاهد كيفية معاملة أصدقاؤه له بمنتهى الجفاء على الرغم من محاولته أن يبدو لطيفًا معهم - ورباه، كم كان ذلك صعبًا عليه -، أشاهد ليزا، تلك الفتاة التي لا تقل بؤسًا عنه والتي جاءت قرب النهاية لتسمح لهذه النفس الحانقة بالتنفيس عمّا يعتمل في داخلها قبل أن تتخذ القرار فيما بعد بالعزلة التامة. نعم، شاهدت كل هذا ولم أستمع له فقط، فهذا الرجل لديه قدرة عظيمة على الوصف، فخرجت معظم التفاصيل وكأنها لوحات مرسومة لمشاهد من ماضيه، أشاهدها بعيني، وتتحرك تفاصيلها أمامي بينما أستمع للكلام في الخلفية . لقد كانت رحلة عجيبة، لم أتفوه فيها بكلمة واحدة، إنما قمتُ بدور المستمع فقط. لا أعلم متى اختفي من أمامي ذلك الشخص، انتهى كل شيء فجأة، نعم، فجأة، وصرت أتلفت حولي بعد انقطاع الصوت وانتهاء الحكايات باحثًا عمن كان يتكلم أمامي منذ قليل، فلم أجده، ووجدت نفسي وحيدًا داخل هذا القبو، أبحث عنه وعن نفسي. نفسي !.. لا ، لا لا يمكن ، يا إلهي، هل يُعقل أن من كان يتكلم أمامي لم يوجد أساسًا؟، يا إلهي، فمن كان يتحدث إذًا؟ !من؟ ولم أعثر على الإجابة يومًا .. تمت

  10. 4 out of 5

    Glenn Russell

    Dostoevsky leads us into the deepest recesses of human consciousness, a mire of stinky sewers, feted pits and foul-smelling rat holes - novel as existential torment and alienation. Do you envision a utopia founded on the principals of love and universal brotherhood? If so, beware the underground man. And what is it about the underground? Well, ladies and gentlemen, here are several quotes from the text with my comments: "I would now like to tell you, gentlemen, whether you do or do not wish to he Dostoevsky leads us into the deepest recesses of human consciousness, a mire of stinky sewers, feted pits and foul-smelling rat holes - novel as existential torment and alienation. Do you envision a utopia founded on the principals of love and universal brotherhood? If so, beware the underground man. And what is it about the underground? Well, ladies and gentlemen, here are several quotes from the text with my comments: "I would now like to tell you, gentlemen, whether you do or do not wish to hear it, why I never managed to become even an insect. I'll tell you solemnly that I wanted many times to become an insect."----------The underground man's opening reflections form the first part of this short novel. He is forty years old, sits in his apartment, arms folded, brooding about life and death, telling us all about his underbelly-ish plight as a man-mouse, speaking about the subject giving him the greatest pleasure: himself. "If man has not become more bloodthirsty from civilization, at any rate he has certainly become bloodthirsty in a worse, a viler way than formerly.” ----------The underground man spews out his view of others. If all humankind were to succumb to plague and die a horrible, anguished death, we can see in our mind's eye the underground man chuckling to himself and thinking every single minute of the excruciating pain of all those millions of men and women and children were well deserved. But, in all fairness, the underground man tells us he has a sensitive streak, being as insecure and touchy as a hunchback or dwarf. "Two times two is four has a cocky look; it stands across your path, arms akimbo, and spits. I agree that two times two is four is an excellent thing; but if we're going to start praising everything, then two times two is five is sometimes also a most charming little thing."----------The underground man despises nature and the laws of nature. One can imagine how he would react if someone spoke of the philosophy of harmony or compassion – squinting his eyes, grinding his teeth and clenching his fists so hard blood would appear on his palms. "Of Simonov's two guests, one was Ferfichkin, from Russian-German stock- short, monkey-faced, a fool who comically mimicked everyone, my bitterest enemy even in the lower grades--a mean, impudent little fanfaron who played at being most ticklish ambitious, though of course he was a coward at heart." ----------Here we have the underground man's reflections on encountering someone from his boyhood past. If you think the underground man would have less flattering things to say about you if he saw you talking in a railway station or eating at a restaurant, please continue reading. The underground man's hatred and bitterness reaches a high pitch by simply being around three of his former acquaintances. Has there ever been a more comical and compelling scene in all of literature? "That night I had the most hideous dreams. No wonder: all evening I was oppressed by recollections of the penal servitude of my school years, and I could not get rid of them. I had been tucked away in that school by distant relations whose dependent I was and of whom I had no notion thereafter - tucked away, orphaned, already beaten down by their reproaches, already pensive, taciturn, gazing wildly about at everything. My schoolfellows met me with spiteful and merciless derision, because I was not like any of them. . . . I immediately began to hate them, and shut myself away from everyone in timorous, wounded, and inordinate pride."----------The underground man deals with a cab driver, a young prostitute and his servant. Such nastiness, such viciousness -- every single encounter vivid and memorable. Dostoyevsky at his finest. "We're stillborn, and have long ceased to be born of living fathers, and we like this more and more. We're acquiring a taste for it. Soon we'll contrive to be born somehow from an idea. But enough; I don't want to write any more "from Underground" . . . "----------You may forget other works of literature you have read; however, I can assure you, once you have read the underground man's notes it will be an experience you will not soon forget.

  11. 4 out of 5

    Salma

    النسخة التي عندي مترجمة تحت عنوان "في سردابي" لعبد المعين الملوحي..._و هي معنونة في قبوي ترجمة سامي الدوربي و دار ابن رشد، أو الانسان الصرصار(أو رسائل من أعماق الأرض) في ترجمة ثالثة لا أدري لمن_ نسختي كانت _قبل أن أبيعها_ نسخة قديمة مصفرة الأوراق مطبوعة عام 1956... و قد اشتريتها من على بسطة الكتب القديمة...0 رواية عن رجل يتحدث عن نفسه بصيغة المتكلم قد قرف المجتمع و زيفه...0 هل أستطيع أن أدلي باعتراف صغير هنا... لطالما أحببت دوستويفسكي... لكن في روايته هنا أحسست به يعرفني منذ أمد بعيد لا أحد يشك بأ النسخة التي عندي مترجمة تحت عنوان "في سردابي" لعبد المعين الملوحي..._و هي معنونة في قبوي ترجمة سامي الدوربي و دار ابن رشد، أو الانسان الصرصار(أو رسائل من أعماق الأرض) في ترجمة ثالثة لا أدري لمن_ نسختي كانت _قبل أن أبيعها_ نسخة قديمة مصفرة الأوراق مطبوعة عام 1956... و قد اشتريتها من على بسطة الكتب القديمة...0 رواية عن رجل يتحدث عن نفسه بصيغة المتكلم قد قرف المجتمع و زيفه...0 هل أستطيع أن أدلي باعتراف صغير هنا... لطالما أحببت دوستويفسكي... لكن في روايته هنا أحسست به يعرفني منذ أمد بعيد لا أحد يشك بأن الشخصية التي يتحدث عنها القابعة في سردابها هي شخصية مريضة حتماً و غير سوية و لا متوازنة على الإطلاق... لكن سبب مرضها مرده إلا أنها لم تستطع أن تجاري المجتمع الحديث في مرضه أعني الحضارة المادية الحديثة و قوانين المجتمع و عاداته و نفاقه المثير للغثيان... فلا استطاعت هي أن تبقى سوية... على فطرتها... لأنه ليس بأمر يسير أن يبقى المرء على فطرة سوية في مجتمع مشوه... و لا استطاعت أيضا أن تجاري المجتمع و تقتل إحساسها بالقرف منه و من زيفه... فبرزت مريضة غير متوازنة على هذا الشكل... و هذا سبب اعتزالها بعيدا في سردابها...0 طبعا هذا مرض الحضارة سيصيب الجميع في وقت ما _كما في وقتنا الآن_ و سيفرز شخصيات لا متوازنة و غير سوية بفطر مشوهة... لكن الأشخاص المفرطي الإحساس هم أول من يسقطون صرعى بهذه الأمراض... 0 و الصادقون هم الذين سيحاولون أن يقفوا بوجهها... رغم أنها قد أصابتهم...0 إ"إني على يقين من أننا نحن معاشر أصحاب السراديب يجب أن نبقى دائما ملجمين بلجام يكم أشداقنا... نعم إننا نستطيع أن نعيش في سراديبنا أربعين عاماً لا ننبس ببنت شفة. و لكن حذار حذار، فنحن إذا خرجنا إلى النور و ولينا الأدبار هاربين من سراديبنا جئنا معنا بطوفان من الكلام. و ها نحن هؤلاء نتكلم و نتكلم و نتكلم"0 دوستويفسكي كان شخصا مفرطا الإحساس بحيث استطاع أن يكشف و يتنبأ بما سيكون عليه هؤلاء الأفراد... و من خلال ذلك يكشف بشاعة المجتمع أمام نفسه ليرى مدى قبحه...0 ربما على زمن دوستويفسكي لم يكن الأمر ملاحظا لهذه الدرجة _و باقتناصه برزت عبقريته_ 0 أما في عصرنا هذا فقد طمى الخطب حتى غاصت الركب... فكم شخصا نعرفه يعيش في قوقعته... و هل أجرؤ على القول بأن الانترنت أصبح بمثابة سرداب يلجأ إليه معظمنا هربا من المجتمع و المحيط الذي يخنقنا...0 كتاب رائع بحق... كثير من الجمل بهرتني... و كأنها تقرأ ما في دماغي... 0

  12. 4 out of 5

    Garima

    Shall the world go to hell, or shall I not have my tea? I say let the world go to hell, but I should always have my tea. Thus Spoke Dostoevsky There were many things for me to get excited about after finishing this novella (It’s a trap!) but the first and an essentially timeworn image which appeared in my mind was that of a small child, sitting in a corner after being rebuked by an elder for giving little or no thought about the world with its countless complexities and contradictions around her. Shall the world go to hell, or shall I not have my tea? I say let the world go to hell, but I should always have my tea. Thus Spoke Dostoevsky There were many things for me to get excited about after finishing this novella (It’s a trap!) but the first and an essentially timeworn image which appeared in my mind was that of a small child, sitting in a corner after being rebuked by an elder for giving little or no thought about the world with its countless complexities and contradictions around her. Now, everything about that image is strictly metaphorical in nature but the important thing is that “I” felt like a small child. Reading philosophical discourses whether in the form of a story or endless ramblings drenched in satirical juices does that to me and Mr. Dostoevsky, by way of these notes written by his Underground Man, made me both wriggle and relish in my noetic limitations. But it is precisely in this cold, loathsome half-despair, half-belief, in this conscious burying oneself alive from grief for forty years in the underground, in this assiduously produced and yet somewhat dubious hopelessness of one’s position, in all this poison of unsatisfied desires penetrating inward, in all this fever of hesitations, of decisions taken forever, and repentances coming again a moment later, that the very sap of that strange pleasure I was talking about consists. Divided into two parts, the first part, Underground is the abode of our unnamed narrator where he engages himself in all sorts of monologues ranging from talks of some really strange pleasures to the inevitable and self-imposed sufferings which further leads to the dissection of the human nature in the wake of reasoning, logic, goal, and most significantly, wanting & free will. All this is provided with a peculiar but apparently rational justifications or I thought they were rational in an unconventional but tremendously comical way. And suddenly you hid your face In trembling hands and, filled with horror, Filled with shame, dissolved in tears, Indignant as you were, and shaken . . . Etc., etc., etc. It’s in the second part, Apropos of the Wet Snow where the whole setting turns biting cold though a sense of relief can be experienced with the presence of scathing satire, charming wit and ingenious story-telling. Here the narrator opens the door of his past and recounts the outlandish tales of his life which can invoke all sorts of emotions in a reader and also serve as the basis of first part hence rendering a meandering pattern to this work. And once you’ll get around the whole thing, don’t get baffled on finding a part (or whole) of your personality within the startling words originated from some dark, horrid place. The influence of Gogol can be easily observed in these stories and a comfort can be found that Dostoevsky deftly picked up the threads of Russian Literature where Gogol must have left them (It’s funny that I’m drawing out these conclusions after reading one book each by both authors so you can tell me if I’m wrong or exaggerating). In any case, I was left pleasantly surprised on finding that my preconceived notions were crushed and dusted and a new, although a little confused perspective was gained on contemplating the questions which our Underground Man has asked in this book. I’m now asking an idle question of my own: which is better – cheap happiness, or lofty suffering? Well, which is better? I’m hoping to find the answers in Dostoevsky’s chefs-d'oeuvre Crime and Punishment and The Brothers Karamzov which I’ll surely read soon but till then I need to work on materializing a new and grown-up image of myself. Books will help.

  13. 4 out of 5

    jessica

    im trying to become more of a classics person and ive found that foreign classics, especially russian, is the easiest way to do that. not only do i feel cultured, but the writing style and themes are so interesting - particularly with this book. if i could rename this book, it would be ‘the impossible rant of a cranky recluse.’ lol. the narrator spends part one of this book rambling about the shortcomings of humanity, how he despises modern society as it is, and his contempt for just about every im trying to become more of a classics person and ive found that foreign classics, especially russian, is the easiest way to do that. not only do i feel cultured, but the writing style and themes are so interesting - particularly with this book. if i could rename this book, it would be ‘the impossible rant of a cranky recluse.’ lol. the narrator spends part one of this book rambling about the shortcomings of humanity, how he despises modern society as it is, and his contempt for just about everything. most of the time, i just wanted to shout ‘preach, sis!’ but there were moments where i thought ‘wow, who hurt you!?!’ which leads us to part two, where the narrator shares various stories of his youth which showcase just how alienated he actually is from the world. the narrator himself is very dislikable and bitter and selfish and lonely. but wow, its shockingly easy to relate to him! its also one of the best representations of anxiety i have ever seen portrayed in a character. hes one of those characters where you are glad to get finally rid of him at the end of the story, but are somehow glad you got to know him. this was such a wildly insane and exhaustively weird book, but its also brutally honest. you definitely have to be in the right sort of mindset to read this because this will take everything out of you, but its worth it! side note - i might bump this up to 4 stars after i have a think, because 3 stars feels a little too harsh at the moment. ↠ 3.5 stars

  14. 4 out of 5

    B. Han Varli

    aşkı ilk defa yaşamak gibi, denizi ilk defa görmek gibi, dostoyevski'yi keşfetmek de insanın hayatında önemli bir tarihtir her başladığım yeni kitapta daha iyi anlıyorum ben borges'in ne demek istediğini. yüzlerce hikaye ile tanıştım, başka başka gerçekliklerin ve kurguların içerisine dahil oldum, ama hiçbir yazar ile, evet hiçbiri ile dostoyevski ile aramda kurduğum bağ kadar kuvvetli bir bağ kuramadım. onu okurken zihnimde işlemeye başlayan mekanizma kadar özel bir pratiği hiçkimse ile sağla aşkı ilk defa yaşamak gibi, denizi ilk defa görmek gibi, dostoyevski'yi keşfetmek de insanın hayatında önemli bir tarihtir her başladığım yeni kitapta daha iyi anlıyorum ben borges'in ne demek istediğini. yüzlerce hikaye ile tanıştım, başka başka gerçekliklerin ve kurguların içerisine dahil oldum, ama hiçbir yazar ile, evet hiçbiri ile dostoyevski ile aramda kurduğum bağ kadar kuvvetli bir bağ kuramadım. onu okurken zihnimde işlemeye başlayan mekanizma kadar özel bir pratiği hiçkimse ile sağlayamadım. ya dostoyevski ile hiç tanışmamış olsaydım, kim bilir nasıl biri olurdum... hiç aşık olmamak, deniz görmemek, hatta sevişmemek türünden bir yoksunluk, mahrumiyet durumu bence de bu. kendi kendime söz vermiştim uzunca bir süre okumayacağım başka kitabını diye, onu tüketmek istemiyorum, kıyamıyorum okumadığım kitaplarına, daha başka bir bene saklıyorum sanki; ama, olmadı, bir şekilde yolum yine kesişti kendisiyle. tüketmek ne haddime elbette, onu okuyarak tüketmiş değil, yüzeysel bir şekilde anlamış oluyorum en fazla zaten, o da ancak şanslıysam, okurken algım tam olarak açıksa filan... marketten aldığın çikolatayı evindeki bir dolaba aktarmış olmak gibi bir şey dostoyevski okumak; düşünceleri zihinde bir yerlerde demlenmeye bırakmadan, verimli bir şekilde tekrar okuma yapmadan, dolaptaki çikolatanın kimyasal bağlarını kırıp bileşenlerini kendi kanında hissetmen mümkün değil. bunu yeni yeni anlayabiliyorum. ufaktan tekrar yolumun nasıl kesiştiğini anlatacak olursam, ankara devlet tiyatrosu yeraltından notları oynayacaktı, ben kitap fuarından kitabını almıştım, derken, kendimi şöyle bir şeyin içerisinde buldum: tiyatro oyununa iki biletim var, birkaç saat sonra oyun başlayacak ve kitap da kitaplığımda! kendimce bir iddiaya tutuşup oyuna kadar kitabı bitirdim. çok acayip bir okuma deneyimiydi, gerçekten. bir yere işsiz güçsüz kırk yıl tıksam sizi, kırk yıl sonra da ne durumda olduğunu görmek için yanınıza gelsem nolur? gibi bir soru ile muhatap oldum yüz sayfa kadar ve kafamı yere eğip utanarak okudum. ne olduğunu anlayamadan, özümseyemeden birinci perde ile de karşı karşıyaydım zaten. oyunda dev eğlendim. zihnimde her şey taze olduğu için metinler akıp gidiyordu gözümün önünden, murat çidamlı sahnede tıpkı kitaptaki gibi seyircilere haykırıyordu ve ben cümle sonlarını tamamlıyordum. ayrıca, tiyatro metninin çevirisinin ergin altay'a ait olduğuna da hemen hemen eminim! kitabı okurken ilgimi çeken ilk şey ise, her zamanki dostoyevski tarzında bir kitap olmadığı yönündeydi yeraltından notların... genelde ilgim karakterlerin tamamına yayılırken, bu kitapta adını bize bağışlamadığı tek bir kişiye, bay x'e odaklandım sadece. ilginç bir şekilde bahsettiğim yoğunluğu kaldırabilecek kadar sağlam bir tipti ama karakterimiz. tüm gözler onun üzerindeyken, o gerçekten de sahneden hepimizin ağzının payını verdi. kahkahalar attı, sinirlendi, arzu dolu çıktı sesi yer yer ama hepsinin üstesinden hakkıyla gelebildi. her sayfada ama her sayfada kırk yıldır yeraltında yaşayan birinin haykırışını duydum. gözlerim doldu bazı satırlarda, derin sorgulamaların içerisinde buldum kendimi, özetle, hislerden hislere koşarken onlarca şey öğrendim yine bir kitaptan. hiç tanımadığım bir adam beni yine karşısına oturttu, bana beni anlattı; bizim iki yüzlülüğümüzü çarptı yüzüme. geçenlerde biri roman okumanın faydasız bir eylem olduğunu savunuyordu bir yerlerde, kendisine iç rahatlığıyla bu kitabı gönderebilirim mesela: gogol'ün kitaplarından, oblomov'a, napolyon'dan almanlara kadar... neler neler vardı yüz elli sayfanın içerisinde, her göndermeyi yakalamış olduğumu da sanmıyorum. tüm bunlar, mükemmel bir eleştirinin içerisinde yoğrulmuştu hem de. tüylerim diken diken oluyor şimdi yazarken bu satırları size. dostoyevski'yi tanımış olmak ne güzel şey, onu okumak ne büyük bir keyif! çok az kitabı kaldı okumadığım. lütfen gelmeyin üzerime, oyunlar hazırlamayın, kitaplarını hediye etmeyin... lütfen dedim!

  15. 5 out of 5

    Ahmad Sharabiani

    871. Zapiski iz podpol'ia = Notes from the Underground, Fyodor Dostoevsky Notes from Underground (Russian: Записки из подполья, tr. Zapíski iz podpólʹya), also translated as Notes from the Underground or Letters from the Underworld, is an 1864 novella by Fyodor Dostoevsky. Notes is considered by many to be one of the first existentialist novels. It presents itself as an excerpt from the rambling memoirs of a bitter, isolated, unnamed narrator (generally referred to by critics as the Underground M 871. Zapiski iz podpol'ia = Notes from the Underground, Fyodor Dostoevsky Notes from Underground (Russian: Записки из подполья, tr. Zapíski iz podpólʹya), also translated as Notes from the Underground or Letters from the Underworld, is an 1864 novella by Fyodor Dostoevsky. Notes is considered by many to be one of the first existentialist novels. It presents itself as an excerpt from the rambling memoirs of a bitter, isolated, unnamed narrator (generally referred to by critics as the Underground Man), who is a retired civil servant living in St. Petersburg. The first part of the story is told in monologue form, or the underground man's diary, and attacks emerging Western philosophy, especially Nikolay Chernyshevsky's What Is to Be Done? The second part of the book is called "Apropos of the Wet Snow" and describes certain events that appear to be destroying and sometimes renewing the underground man, who acts as a first person, unreliable narrator and anti-hero. عنوانها: یادداشتهای زیرزمین؛ یادداشتهای زیر زمینی؛ یادداشتهای زیرزمینی با چهارده تفسیر؛ نویسنده: فئودور داستایوسکی (علمی و فرهنگی) ادبیات روسیه؛ تاریخ نخستین خوانش: روز بیست و یکم ماه سپتامبر سال 1972 میلادی عنوان: یادداشتهای زیر زمینی؛ نویسنده: فئودور داستایوسکی؛ مترجم: رحمت الهی؛ تهران، زوار، 1333، در 235 ص، قیمت: 45 ریال؛ چاپ دیگر: تهران، کتابهای جیبی، 1343، موضوع: داستانهای نویسندگان روسی - سده 19 م عنوان: یادداشتهای زیرزمین؛ نویسنده: فئودور داستایوسکی؛ مترجم: رحمت الهی؛ تهران، جامی، 1369، در 223 ص؛ چاپ ششم 1387، در 223 ص؛ شابک: 9789642575305؛ عنوان: یادداشتهای زیرزمینی؛ نویسنده: فئودور داستایوسکی؛ مترجم: رحمت الهی؛ تهران، علمی فرهنگی، 1379، در 6 و 200 ص؛؛ چاپ ششم 1386؛ هفتم 1388؛ هشتم 1392؛ شابک: 9789644452598؛ عنوان: یادداشتهای زیرزمین؛ نویسنده: فئودور داستایوسکی؛ مترجم: شهروز رشید؛ تهران، آرش، 1391، در 152 ص؛ شابک: 9786009299812؛ ترجمه از متن آلمانی؛ عنوان: یادداشتهای زیرزمینی با چهارده تفسیر؛ نویسنده: فئودور داستایوسکی؛ مترجم: حمیدرضا آتش برآب؛ تهران، علمی فرهنگی، 1394، در ده و 546 ص؛ شابک: 9786001217760؛ از متن: «میبینم که هنوز معتقدید بالاخره بشر روزی، فضایلی را که مصالح و منافعش در آن است درمییابد و آنگاه که آخرین باقیمانده های عادات احمقانه ی گذشته، از یادش رفت، آنوقت عاقلانه رفتار خواهد کرد . . .؛ اما غافل از اینکه به همان نسبتی که زندگی بسیار عاقلانه ای درست میکنیم، در اثر همان خسته کننده بودن، و یکنواخت بودن آن، چه فکرها که برای مردم پیش نمیآید. آن سنجاقهای طلایی را نیز، کلئوپاترا، برای همان ملال آور بودن و یکنواخت بودن زندگی، در سینه کنیزکان فرو میکرد ...؛ گاه بشر دانسته و متعمداً، امری مضر و احمقانه و حتی احمقانه ترین کار را برای خود آرزو میکند، و انجام میدهد ...؛ او میخواهد این حق را داشته باشد که بتواند حتی احمقانه ترین کار را، برخلاف همه ی قوانین آرزو کند و انجام دهد. نه این که مکلف باشد که فقط کارهای عاقلانه و خردمندانه بکند».؛ و: «آقایان من، شما به وجود کاخهای بلورین، که هیچ وقت فرو نمیریزند و تا ابد باقی میمانند، اعتقاد دارید، یعنی در حقیقت به چیزی معتقدید که احتمال نمیرود و نمیتوان از آن، سیر و دل زده شد. به چیزی که ممکن نیست از آن خسته شد، و پنهانی بر ضدش درآمد. در برابرش مقاومت کرد، زبان را از دهان بیرون آورد و به آن دهان کجی کرد. ولی من از این جور قصرهایی که میگویید میترسم. میترسم که دوامی نداشته باشد». پایان انتخاب از متن. ا. شربیانی

  16. 5 out of 5

    Mohammed Ali

    أحيانا يصادف الإنسان مواقف معينة، مختلفة ومتباينة، فتتولّد داخله مشاعر معينة، مختلفة ومتباينة أيضا .. فيحدث أحيانا أنّنا نستطيع التعبير عن هذه المشاعر، وأحيانا نفشل في التعبير عن ذلك .. وما أريد قوله الآن ما هو إلاّ فشل في التعبير، وإخفاق في تحويل المشاعر إلى كلمات فجمل فمعنى. بدأت في قراءة هذه الرواية فوجدت كلمات أعرفها تصف شعورا أعرفه، بل وجدتني أحيانا هناك، بين الكلمات وبين المعاني، وجدت ما لم أستطع التعبير عنه، وجدت معاني أحسستها ولكن لم أستطع تكوينها وتجميعها .. وجدت تقريبا كلّ شيء أو حتّى ن أحيانا يصادف الإنسان مواقف معينة، مختلفة ومتباينة، فتتولّد داخله مشاعر معينة، مختلفة ومتباينة أيضا .. فيحدث أحيانا أنّنا نستطيع التعبير عن هذه المشاعر، وأحيانا نفشل في التعبير عن ذلك .. وما أريد قوله الآن ما هو إلاّ فشل في التعبير، وإخفاق في تحويل المشاعر إلى كلمات فجمل فمعنى. بدأت في قراءة هذه الرواية فوجدت كلمات أعرفها تصف شعورا أعرفه، بل وجدتني أحيانا هناك، بين الكلمات وبين المعاني، وجدت ما لم أستطع التعبير عنه، وجدت معاني أحسستها ولكن لم أستطع تكوينها وتجميعها .. وجدت تقريبا كلّ شيء أو حتّى نكون أكثر دقة وجدت العديد من الأشياء التّي فكرت فيها.. فماذا فعلت ؟ تركت هذه الرواية لمدة عام تقريبا، عام قلت لعلّي أنضج قليلا، أو لعلّ الأفكار والمشاعر التّي تولدت داخلي إثر قراءة هذه الرواية والتي وجدت مثيلاتها كائنات هناك منذ فترة تنضج، ووعدت نفسي بقراءة ثانية .. قرأتها ثانية وتهت ثانية وأظنّ أنّني سأتوه أكثر وأكثر. لن أقول شيئا عن الرواية فإسم الكاتب يغني عن كل قول، ولكن ما سأقوله هو أنّ هذه الرواية تقرأ وتقرأ ثانية ولما لا مرة ثالثة. المهم .. بهذه الرواية أنهي وأغلق تحدّي هذه السّنة وما أجملها من نهاية.

  17. 5 out of 5

    Fernando

    "Dostoievski, el único psicólogo, dicho sea de paso, que me ha enseñado algo. Dostoievski ha sido una de las mayores suertes de mi vida, más incluso que mi descubrimiento de Stendhal." Friedrich Nietzsche, El ocaso de los ídolos Amargado, resentido, contestatario, recalcitrante, ácido, irónico, irreverente, negativo, acomplejado, cruel, pesimista... Estos pueden ser algunos de los adjetivos calificativos que el lector puede darle al narrador de "Memorias del subsuelo", uno de los libros más difíc "Dostoievski, el único psicólogo, dicho sea de paso, que me ha enseñado algo. Dostoievski ha sido una de las mayores suertes de mi vida, más incluso que mi descubrimiento de Stendhal." Friedrich Nietzsche, El ocaso de los ídolos Amargado, resentido, contestatario, recalcitrante, ácido, irónico, irreverente, negativo, acomplejado, cruel, pesimista... Estos pueden ser algunos de los adjetivos calificativos que el lector puede darle al narrador de "Memorias del subsuelo", uno de los libros más difíciles de reseñar del inmortal Fiódor Dostoievski, a quien tanto admiro. Este hombre cuarentón, refugiado en su cuchitril dispara dardos venenosos contra la sociedad de su época, contra la famosa "Inteligentsia" rusa, tan de boga en esos años, contra los intelectuales atildados y políticamente correctos sin dejar de chorrear ácido por los cuatro costados. Dostoievski, quien venía juntando presión debido a sus problemas personales, a los desengaños que la literatura le propinó a mazazos y con la carga de haber saldado su deuda luego de esos interminables cuatro años de prisión en Siberia ("Esa noche tuve pesadillas horribles. No era extraño, pues durante el día había recordado los años de cárcel que habían sido mis años de estudio"), puso en este narrador todos sus pensamientos más negativos, crueles y despóticos sabiendo que muchas de las personas que en ese 1864 leyeran este manifiesto, tomarían el guante y posiblemente se sintieran ofendidas ante palabras tan hirientes pero también certeras que se les propinaba. "Quienquiera oír que oiga", dijo don Fiódor mientras despotricaba contra medio mundo, contra los hipócritas, los débiles, los chicos buenos, contra los pacatos y los aduladores de cuarta categoría. Nadie se salvó de su crítica, a la que disfrazó de ex empleado atrincherado en un mugroso cuarto subterráneo. Las palabras del narrador del subsuelo son de carácter anticipatorio, dado que vislumbran lo que en pocos años más sucedería en Rusia entre las distintas clases sociales. Dice lo que muchos piensan pero pocos se atreven a decir; habla con paradojas ("Ustedes creen en el palacio de cristal, al que no se le podrá sacar la lengua ni amenazar a escondidas. Pues bien, yo desconfío de ese palacio, porque justamente es de cristal e indestructible" o "Evidentemente, no puedo romper la pared con la cabeza, por que mis fuerzas no me alcanzan para ello; pero me niego a aceptarla simplemente porque sea de piedra y yo no tenga fuerzas para romperla"). El hombre del subsuelo es inconformista, no se soporta ni a sí mismo y vomita su rencor y su odio a los cuatro vientos sin temor, pero a la vez, es un hombre que más allá de saber que está en una posición desventajosa, cree firmemente en la voluntad del hombre, en sus intereses y los sopesa con dignas dosis de razón y deseos. Este personaje tan peculiar, con sus ideas tan radicales y extremas será el puntapié de partida para otros personajes de tintes bastante similares que Dostoievski creará para sus novelas futuras. Anticipa una mente tan retorcida como autocompasiva como es la de Rodion Románovich Raskólnikov en "Crimen y castigo", compare ideales revolucionarios con Piotr Verjovenski, y Nikolai Stavroguin de "Los demonios", tiene puntos en común con el costado más oscuro de Iván y Dmitri Karamazov y posee afinidades con Arcady Dolgoruki de "El adolescente", quien desarrollará una interesante teoría denominada "idea-rincón". Siempre, en las novelas de Dostoievski nos encontramos con personajes emparentados con el subsuelo. El caso de Smerdiakov en "Los hermanos Karamazov" es uno de los más emblemáticos. Svidrigáilov en "Crimen y castigo" es taimado, raro e impredecible y el príncipe Sokolski de la novela "El adolescente" puede ser frívolo y cruel. Esta es la personalidad que también se autoimponen los mismos personajes ya que forman parte de la polifonía creada por Dostoievski en sus novelas. Hay una frase de uno de sus libros que aparece en otra de sus novelas llamada "La aldea de Stepanchikovo" que dice "Un alma ruin, al salir de la opresión, comienza a oprimir". Creo que esto es lo que le sucede al narrador de este libro y decide ponerlo en práctica en la segunda parte "A propósito de la nieve derretida", en donde narra tres hechos que le sucedieron a la edad de 24 años. Aquí todo se desarrolla en tres grandes escenas, en primer lugar cuando se encuentra con sus compañeros del trabajo, cuando estos tres deciden hacer una comida de despedida a uno de ellos y cuando luego de distintas situaciones que no lo dejan bien parado, termina en un febril y desvariado encuentro con una joven prostituta a la que quiere aleccionar en la vida. Posteriormente, sigue todo esto en su propia habitación involucrándose su propio criado en la confusión general. Pero puede observarse que la segunda parte del libro es completamente distinta de la primera. A mí personalmente me gusta muchísimo más la primera puesto que en ella se lo nota totalmente jugado y sin vuelta atrás, metido en una salsa como él dice en "hecha de contradicciones, de sufrimientos y de amargos análisis". Anoté alrededor de treinta frases que se dicen y algunas de ellas, sirven para reconocer la maestría de Dostoievski a la hora de penetrar en lo más profundo del alma humana. Algunas de ellas son realmente profundas: "Uno, en el fondo, no cree en su sufrimiento, casi se ríe, pero, aún no creyendo, y sufre de verdad." "No digo que la civilización hace al hombre más sanguinario, pero sí mucho más perverso, más cobardemente sanguinario." "El hombre, a veces, desea apasionadamente sufrir." "El hombre siempre enumera sus pesares, pero no siempre se detiene a pensar en su felicidad." "El hombre es estúpido por naturaleza, totalmente estúpido. Y es más ingrato que estúpido: es difícil encontrar otro ser más ingrato que él." "Cuando la voluntad se enfrente con la razón, podremos razonar y ya no desear, porque a un ser que razón le es imposible desear algo estúpido, o ir en contra de la propia razón." "¿Qué buscamos? ¿Qué queremos? Nosotros mismos no lo sabemos. Es más, si nuestros deseos se cumplieran, no nos sentiríamos felices." Puedo afirmar que dentro de todo lo que he leído, un solo libro se asemeja a este: me refiero a "La caída", de Albert Camus, quien admiraba con devoción al genial novelista ruso, aunque difiere en la variedad de temas tratados y el tenor de este libro no es tan cargado y visceral como el de Dostoievski. Fiódor Dostoievski resume en la que considero la mejor frase de este libro lo que significó su obra en su momento y aún hoy, en nuestros días y nos da la real dimensión de quién fue verdaderamente como escritor y ser humano: "En lo que a mí respecta, a lo largo de mi vida no he hecho más que llevar al extremo todo lo que ustedes dejaron por la mitad."

  18. 5 out of 5

    Paul Bryant

    Literary Characters React to Notes from the Underground Eeyore This Accounts for a Good Deal. It Explains Everything. In Life, you see, we can't all, and some of us don't. Gaiety. Song-and-dance. Here we go round the mulberry bush. This book is telling everybody “We can look for the North Pole, or we can play 'Here we go gathering Nuts in May' with the end part of an ants' nest. It's all the same to me." Amusing in a quiet way, but not really helpful. Piglet Help, help! A hexistentialist! A horrible Literary Characters React to Notes from the Underground Eeyore This Accounts for a Good Deal. It Explains Everything. In Life, you see, we can't all, and some of us don't. Gaiety. Song-and-dance. Here we go round the mulberry bush. This book is telling everybody “We can look for the North Pole, or we can play 'Here we go gathering Nuts in May' with the end part of an ants' nest. It's all the same to me." Amusing in a quiet way, but not really helpful. Piglet Help, help! A hexistentialist! A horrible hexistentialist! Hex, hex! A hexistible horribilist! Oh my… I know it’s only a story. But, it is hard to be brave when you are a very small animal entirely surrounded by despair. Shrek Well, it’s about this guy and he lives under some floorboards somewhere in a hovel, and he’s full of rage and horror and bile, like. Talks about toothache a lot. When I was reading this book I was thinking, I know this guy. This guy is my cousin. He’s a right misery. He’d split your head open for a tuppeny bit. Woody (sings) You've got a fiend in me You've got a fiend in me You got troubles and I got 'em too There isn't anything I wouldn't do To make everything twice as bad for you 'Cause you've got a fiend in me Ha ha. That’s a parody. Did you get that? Friend – fiend! See? Okay, don’t knock yourself out. Peter Pan When the first baby laughed for the first time, its laugh broke into a thousand pieces, and they all went skipping about, and that was the beginning of fairies. Now when the first baby fell out of its pram and banged its little head on the hard hard floor, it howled for the first time, and its howl broke into a thousand pieces, and they all went crawling around, and that was the beginning of Dostoyevsky. Mary Poppins I propose to dispense with the a spoonful of sugar, Mr Under the Floorboards. So it’s two Xanax on retiring and two at noon. Is that understood? Upon my soul, no more of that please. We are not a codfish. Tony Soprano I got a steel-jacketed antidepressant right here, just say so it’s yours. Cher Horowitz There’s like this creep who lives in the ground, I think like Lord of the Rings, what’s those things, bobbits? Anyway he hates everything and he doesn’t have the internet. At least the bobbits got to travel. Not this dude. I mean, this is like from history so you know, there is a severe lack of things like credit cards and betties to pay for with the credit cards. . Way back then people were barely alive. I can’t even believe there were any people back then. So he’s waaa waaa everything I think and everything I do is wrong but hey, I like having toothache. I know! He’s just totally clueless. Reading this really wigged me out. Okay, all right, reading Spark Notes on this wigged me out. I was Seriously? And this is good because?

  19. 5 out of 5

    Vit Babenco

    A novelette Notes from Underground is a conspicuous harbinger of existential novel. It is like a warning to the future society of hypocritical and conforming featureless worms into which the world is gradually turning these days. And now I am living out my life in my corner, taunting myself with the spiteful and utterly futile consolation that it is even impossible for an intelligent man seriously to become anything, and only fools become something. Yes, sir, an intelligent man of the nineteenth c A novelette Notes from Underground is a conspicuous harbinger of existential novel. It is like a warning to the future society of hypocritical and conforming featureless worms into which the world is gradually turning these days. And now I am living out my life in my corner, taunting myself with the spiteful and utterly futile consolation that it is even impossible for an intelligent man seriously to become anything, and only fools become something. Yes, sir, an intelligent man of the nineteenth century must be and is morally obliged to be primarily a characterless being; and a man of character, an active figure – primarily a limited being. A miserable nook turns into a confessional and the protagonist begins his confession to himself… Or in the modern terms the underground is the sort of a couch and the wretched hero is both a patient and a psychoanalyst… This confession is a personal revolt but it is a rebellion of a bedbug against its aimless existence: a mutiny against those who have more to do than to suck blood…

  20. 4 out of 5

    Ahmed Oraby

    حسنًا حسنًا، دويستويفسكي العظيم من جديد هذا الرجل المحير للغاية مرة أخرى، يجذبك بأسلوبه وبكلماته العميقة البسيطة، في آن واحد، لتكمل قراءة الرواية لآخرها. رواية أخرى لا يسعنى بعد الفراغ منها إلا أن أقف مشدوهًا أمام قدرة هذا العبقري ها هنا، يتجلى دوساويفسكي في أبهى صوره؛ في صورة الفيلسوف، بالطبع. صدقًا، هذا الرجل ملئ بالمفاجآت، فلرواياته طعم خاص ولون مغاير للغاية، عن أي ما ستقرأ مستقبلًا ولرواياته ألوان عديدة ومختلفة، فقلما تجده يكرر نفسه وأسلوبه. عند أول عهدي به، مع روايته الجريمة والعقاب، ما وسعني إلا حسنًا حسنًا، دويستويفسكي العظيم من جديد هذا الرجل المحير للغاية مرة أخرى، يجذبك بأسلوبه وبكلماته العميقة البسيطة، في آن واحد، لتكمل قراءة الرواية لآخرها. رواية أخرى لا يسعنى بعد الفراغ منها إلا أن أقف مشدوهًا أمام قدرة هذا العبقري ها هنا، يتجلى دوساويفسكي في أبهى صوره؛ في صورة الفيلسوف، بالطبع. صدقًا، هذا الرجل ملئ بالمفاجآت، فلرواياته طعم خاص ولون مغاير للغاية، عن أي ما ستقرأ مستقبلًا ولرواياته ألوان عديدة ومختلفة، فقلما تجده يكرر نفسه وأسلوبه. عند أول عهدي به، مع روايته الجريمة والعقاب، ما وسعني إلا أن أصنف هذا الرجل بأنه عالم نفسي، ضليع بمسائل تحليل الشخصيات والغوص في طبائع الأنفس البشرية. وبعد قراءتي لروايته الثانية، مذلون مهانون، وجدته روائي مخضرم للغاية، متمكن من أسلوب كتابته لفن الرواية، ولبنائها الدرامي وحبكتها وبعد قرائتي له في رواية مذكرات من منزل الأموات، وجدته عالم فذ في تحليل نفسيات المجتمع والخوض في بيان مشكلاته وحلها! وها هنا تتجلى فلسفته القوية، في رواية هي أجمل وأفضل وأقوى ما يكون تعرض دوستويفسكي هنا لمسألة فلسفية شديدة الأهمية، لم نحن هنا، لم خلقنا، هل نحن أحرار، هل نملك نحن زمام الأمور، هل نملك القدرة على التغير والتغيير. هل لمآسي الحياة من حد، هل الإنسان بمكانته أم بسمعته؟ هل على الإنسان أن يسعى لمصلحته فقط؟ أم أن يسعى للنفع كمجموع؟ كمجتمع بحاله؟ هل المنفعة الحقة هي في منفعة الجسد؟ أم العقل اللذة أم الإرادة؟ يطرح في كل سطر المزيد والمزيد من الأسئلة، ليتركنا نحن نتأمل ونسعى لإيجاد الأجوبة هل نستطيع أن نخلص بعد قراءة هذا العمل بأجوبة حقًا؟ على كل هي رواية أخرى للعزيز دوستويفسكي، أعدها أنا ضمن أفضل ما قرأت يومًا وكأفضل ما قرأت لدوستويفسكي رواية جديرة بالقراءة والتأمل.!

  21. 5 out of 5

    فرشاد

    یادداشتهای زیرزمینی، بیش از این که یک رمان باشد، یک تحلیل شخصیت روانشناسانه است. اگرچه داستایوفسکی در اینجا شانس رویارویی با فروید را به طور مطلق از دست داده است، نثر او با اندیشههای فروید، پیوند خواهرانه برقرار میکند. یادداشتهای زیرزمینی، البته مصداق بارزی از رمان کلاسیک است. یعنی از آن دست رمانهایی است که نویسنده سعی میکند با تحلیل شخصیت و توصیف حالات فیزیکی، مخاطب را به مرز جنون برساند. در یادداشتهای زیرزمینی، داستایوفسکی بیش از صد حالت مختلف را برای چهره و رفتار شخصیتها تشریح کرده است. توصیفا یادداشت‌های زیرزمینی، بیش از این که یک رمان باشد، یک تحلیل شخصیت روان‌شناسانه است. اگرچه داستایوفسکی در اینجا شانس رویارویی با فروید را به طور مطلق از دست داده است، نثر او با اندیشه‌های فروید، پیوند خواهرانه برقرار می‌کند‫. یادداشت‌های زیرزمینی، البته مصداق بارزی از رمان کلاسیک است. یعنی از آن دست رمان‌هایی است که نویسنده سعی می‌کند با تحلیل شخصیت و توصیف حالات فیزیکی، مخاطب را به مرز جنون برساند. در یادداشت‌های زیرزمینی، داستایوفسکی بیش از صد حالت مختلف را برای چهره و رفتار شخصیت‌ها تشریح کرده است. توصیفاتی کسالت‌بار، خسته‌کننده و ناامید کننده. در روزگار مدرن، می‌توان روزانه پنج مرتبه خدا را سپاس گفت که دوره‌ی رمان کلاسیک به لطف نوشته‌های ولف و جویس، به سرانجام رسیده است‫. درمجموع، یادداشت‌های زیرزمینی اثری دمده و کهنه است. خواندنش هم لذت‌بخش نیست. نکته‌ی دیگر این است که فلسفه‌ای که داستایوفسکی قصد چیدن یا بافتن آن را دارد، نه به اندازه کافی اگزیستانس و نه به اندازه لازم ابزورد است. یک حالت بینابینی است. من وجود دارم و رنج می‌کشم. اما زیاد هم پوچ نیستم. هرچه باشد با بهره‌گیری از تخیل و خیال‌بافی، توانسته‌ام خودم را چهل سال در یک زیرزمین حبس کنم. خودم را آگاهانه دچار تنهایی کرده‌ام. و آگاهانه دست به هیچ کاری نزده‌ام. و این اقدامی شجاعانه است. در فلسفه داستایوفسکی، ترس، رنج، تنهایی و آزادی، مفاهیم عمده هستند. فلسفه‌ای که مساله‌ی بحران انسان مدرن را تشریح می‌کند اما راه حلی ارائه نمی‌دهد‫.

  22. 4 out of 5

    حماس

    في قبوى، أم في قبري ؟! مضطربة الفكر انتهي من هذا الكتاب الغريب مميز جدا في ذاته لا يشبهه شىء يتحدث عن رجل اعتزل مجتمعه ومكث في قبوه يتأمل ويتخيل أشخاصًا يحدثهم بأفكاره ويكتب لهم هذا الرجل يقر بحقارته ودناوته معترفًا في الوقت ذاته بأنه أذكى البشر وأنه وصل لمرحلة عليا من الوعى وهو بالفعل وصل لقمة الوعى بالذات، حتى انه ليظن باقي البشر انما يحسدونه ويحقدون عليه فنفّر الجميع من حوله حتى لم يبق على علاقته احد فهو يريد من حوله أن يُظهروا له الخضوع والاحترام، فيسخر منهم ويصرخ فيهم ويهينهم، ألا يظن أنه يبعدهم عن في قبوى، أم في قبري ؟! مضطربة الفكر انتهي من هذا الكتاب الغريب مميز جدا في ذاته لا يشبهه شىء يتحدث عن رجل اعتزل مجتمعه ومكث في قبوه يتأمل ويتخيل أشخاصًا يحدثهم بأفكاره ويكتب لهم هذا الرجل يقر بحقارته ودناوته معترفًا في الوقت ذاته بأنه أذكى البشر وأنه وصل لمرحلة عليا من الوعى وهو بالفعل وصل لقمة الوعى بالذات، حتى انه ليظن باقي البشر انما يحسدونه ويحقدون عليه فنفّر الجميع من حوله حتى لم يبق على علاقته احد فهو يريد من حوله أن يُظهروا له الخضوع والاحترام، فيسخر منهم ويصرخ فيهم ويهينهم، ألا يظن أنه يبعدهم عنه أكثر فأكثر؟ إن الإجبار وعلى الاحترام بالذات لا تقبله نفس بشرية، وتكون النتيجة معاكسة تمامًا فها هو قد أصبح منبوذًا مكروهًا وها هو قد انتهى به المطاف في قبوه لأربعين عامًا ورغم ذلك فإنه يدرك كيف تكون السعادة في قلوب البشر أو علّه يظنها سعادة زائفة يصطنعونها، لكن الأغلب انه يعلم بحقيقتها، ولتبرير تعاسته لنفسه لكى يستطيع تحملها وحده فانه يذكر نفسه مرارا وتكرارا انه اذكى من البشر لم أفهم الرواية من أولها، لم أفهمها إلا حين كُتبت كلمة الختام، الجزء الثانى ترجمان للأول ويثير دهشتي للغاية تصوير ديستوفيسكى للنوازع الانسانية بهذه الدقة ووالوضوح الشديدين في الحقيقة ان شخصية هذا الرجل -قبل العزلة- متواجدة وواقعية، ما جعلها مميزة وغّيب عن ذهنى هذه الحقيقة هى الصراحة التتى تتحدث بها، والمبالغة في حديث النفس حد الغرق هذا الرجل يستحق الشفقة لما هو في صراع، لطريقة تفكيره، ولتنفيره لمن حوله من الناس لكن حتى الشخصية الوحيدة التى أظهرت له تلك الشفقة في صورة حنان، قوبلت بالمهانة والاذلال إجابة لشهوة التملك والسيطرة في نفس الرجل لكم هو مسكين!

  23. 5 out of 5

    Taghreed Jamal el deen

    ما الهدف من وجود الإنسان ؟ هل انتصار العقل يعني تلاشي العاطفة ؟ هل تحكمنا الرغبات أم المصالح ؟ ما سبب البريق الذي يرافق بعض الناس ؟ وخفوت ضوء بعضهم الآخر بغض النظر عن قيمته ؟ أيهما أكثر انتشارا ، كذب الإنسان على نفسه أم على غيره ؟ وإلى أي مدى يمكن للإنسان أن يصدّق كذباته ؟ الشكل الذي نرى عليه شخص ما كم يمثل من حقيقته ؟ هل الإهانة قد تدفع بالإنسان إلى الحضيض ؟ ما الذي يتسبب في وجود شخصية مريضة كالتي أوردها دوستويفسكي ؟ هل هو مظلوم أم ظالم ؟ هل يستحق الشفقة أم الكره والإحتقار ؟؟ وهل حقا بعض الناس لا يمكن لأي ما الهدف من وجود الإنسان ؟ هل انتصار العقل يعني تلاشي العاطفة ؟ هل تحكمنا الرغبات أم المصالح ؟ ما سبب البريق الذي يرافق بعض الناس ؟ وخفوت ضوء بعضهم الآخر بغض النظر عن قيمته ؟ أيهما أكثر انتشارا ، كذب الإنسان على نفسه أم على غيره ؟ وإلى أي مدى يمكن للإنسان أن يصدّق كذباته ؟ الشكل الذي نرى عليه شخص ما كم يمثل من حقيقته ؟ هل الإهانة قد تدفع بالإنسان إلى الحضيض ؟ ما الذي يتسبب في وجود شخصية مريضة كالتي أوردها دوستويفسكي ؟ هل هو مظلوم أم ظالم ؟ هل يستحق الشفقة أم الكره والإحتقار ؟؟ وهل حقا بعض الناس لا يمكن لأي شيء تغييرها ولا حتى الحب ؟؟ وأخيرا .. هل الإنسان يحتقر ذاته لأنه سيء ... أم يصبح سيئا لأنه يحتقر ذاته ؟؟ عاصفة من التساؤلات يثيرها دوستويفسكي من خلال روايته ، وقد أحاط بمعالم شخصيته بشكل عبقري لا أملك أمامه إلا أن أقف مشدوهة .. وستظل النفس البشرية تسحرني بكل تناقضها وشططها واستعصائها على الفهم.

  24. 5 out of 5

    Rowena

    Never be fooled by book size when it comes to Dostoevsky! This novella was just under 100 pages long so I figured it would take me just a couple of hours to read. I was obviously wrong but I enjoyed the read. The prose is extremely dense so I had to read it slower than I read other books. The protagonist was fascinating (peculiar, even) and I enjoyed reading his introspective thoughts about different issues. I will definitely be re-reading this one.

  25. 5 out of 5

    هَنَـــاءْ

    إن مأساة هذا الإنسان البائس على وجه التحديد حينما لا يجد المنفذ للتنفيس من بين الأبواب الموصدة أمامه .. ثم لا يخرج، ولا ينفجر، ولا يعبر عما بداخله كما يليق بكائن حي ذو منزلة عالية. لذا تجده يتوه في حقده مع صراعاته الدامية، وأفكاره المريضة .. ويتربص بها كالثعلب حيناً، والأفعى الغاضبة حيناً آخر. حتى يقضي ليلته ثائراً، مقهوراً، منكفئاً في عزلته. يدور خلف أفكاره وكأنها تهرب منه وهو يركض خلفها ليمسكها .. ثم لا يمسك منها إلا الخيال الذي يتلاعب به. إن الإنسان المهان، مخلوق هائج كبلّته أوهامه مع ما لا يقاو ‏ إن مأساة هذا الإنسان البائس على وجه التحديد حينما لا يجد المنفذ للتنفيس من بين الأبواب الموصدة أمامه .. ثم لا يخرج، ولا ينفجر، ولا يعبر عما بداخله كما يليق بكائن حي ذو منزلة عالية. لذا تجده يتوه في حقده مع صراعاته الدامية، وأفكاره المريضة .. ويتربص بها كالثعلب حيناً، والأفعى الغاضبة حيناً آخر. حتى يقضي ليلته ثائراً، مقهوراً، منكفئاً في عزلته. يدور خلف أفكاره وكأنها تهرب منه وهو يركض خلفها ليمسكها .. ثم لا يمسك منها إلا الخيال الذي يتلاعب به. إن الإنسان المهان، مخلوق هائج كبلّته أوهامه مع ما لا يقاوم من رغباته في مستقبل أفضل .. ووعي لا ينفصم عنه وعن واقعه القاطع لما يرنو له .. و استحالة ذلك كله، الذي يدركه تمام الإدراك. فيتضخم القلق كالوحش في صدره، مع ما يكبر من ضآلته .. حتى لا يغدو أكبر من حشرة بائسة غذاها الهم والقلق. مسجون في كبريائة، جريح خلف القضبان، ينزف عزة مهدورة، جريمته في إهانته، وعقابه كان بالتقريع الذي لا يتوقف .. عله يخفف من عقوبات لحقته بحقيقته وأنه كان ضحية لا مجرم. ذنبه وعيه الكامل .. بالمستقبل الناقص. في الإنزواء في القبو، طريق مظلم ظل يشق دربه في عقله ويزرع على جنباته عذابات الأمس التي كان لا بد لها أن تُجتث من فوق أرضه ولا ينزل إلا خالي الوفاض وواسع النفس. في قبوه كان لابد أن يحفر قبراً يبتلع آلامه ولكنه حفر له جهنم صغرى وقذف بروحه فيها بلا رحمه. جرح نفسه مبتسماً وتلذذ بخروج الدم. إنها العظمة الزائفة، والخوف الدائم من خدش الكرامة!. وأي إنسان يفكر أكثر من اللازم فيما يخافه ستجرحه حتى أقدام النملة السادرة بجهلها على من تمشي، و أي ضرر سيتبعها. ....... ....... البشرة المكشوفة : معرضة لأدنى اكتساح، والريح التي تأتي ستكون للتعرية لا للستر .. فيخرج ضعفها مفضوحاً لكل عين. القلب الثائر بصمت : مكشوف تحت شروق الشمس من لون احتقانه وتهاويه المحتمل. الحقد : يحول الإنسان إلى طاغية دون أن يدرك حتى، وجارح لا يذكر ألمه حينما كان مجروح، وآلة لا تحنو على أي مادة تراها في وجهها. تنهال عليها بالضرب والتمزيق. . . . -هل يكذب الإنسان ؟ -نعم، ويرتكب أفظع الحماقات تحت غلاف الحب بل حتى يقتل من يهوى بدمٍ بارد ليستعيد كبريائه بحقارة وقذارة صرصار خرج للتو من جحره، حاملاً معه نتانة الريح التي كان مكتوماً بها في قبوه.

  26. 4 out of 5

    Lyn

    I first met the Russian on the loading docks. Filling trailers with freight out in the weather, in the humid heat and then again in the freezing cold was not a career, not a job anyone especially wanted, it was a job to fill in the gaps, work that paid a wage and filled a need as necessary as the empty trailers that backed into the dock one after the other. I had seen him in the break room, out on the picnic tables - always alone. He scribbled incessantly in an old thesis book, would pause long m I first met the Russian on the loading docks. Filling trailers with freight out in the weather, in the humid heat and then again in the freezing cold was not a career, not a job anyone especially wanted, it was a job to fill in the gaps, work that paid a wage and filled a need as necessary as the empty trailers that backed into the dock one after the other. I had seen him in the break room, out on the picnic tables - always alone. He scribbled incessantly in an old thesis book, would pause long moments staring into space, as still as a statue, and then would bend his head and write feverishly. Sometimes he would sit quietly on his break, with a thin old paperback or a tattered library book in his lap. Passing once, I could not help glancing over his shoulder and saw that his book was a collection of poems. Another time, in the cold of January, when we all dressed like astronauts in plump suits, or like Eskimos in thick woolen parkas, the Russian was dressed in a thin old ragged coat and cloth gloves with holes in several fingers. He looked ill, and little doubt, we still had hours to go on our shift and his only head covering was the sparse patch of thinning hair atop his sallow scalp. I remembered having an extra woolen cap in my locker, and fetched it and then offered it to him without a word, just held it out. It was a colorful winter toboggan hat with a bright red fluffy ball atop. He looked up at me and seemed to almost decline, he looked embarrassed to wear the warm cap, as if its incongruous color atop his sullen head would be a greater hindrance than the warmth it would provide. A dirty hand ventured up and took the cap and black eyes beneath scruffy brows looked into me, seeking to discover was this true kindness or a jest at his expense. I smiled and he seemed to relax, and a thickly accented “thanks” drifted up from his stringy mustache and beard. The other dockworkers said of him that when they worked a trailer in tandem, he spoke very little or nothing at all, loading mechanically and only passing information as needed. My first trailer with him was on a cold night in March and the brisk pace of the work kept us warm. I tried to spark a conversation, but he only answered in grunts and shrugs. Another time I got him to speak a little, talked some about his origins and his life before this. At the end of the load, he smiled shyly, thanked me for the winter cap, reached from his back pocket, returned it and gave me a firm handshake. I returned the grip and looked at him and saw again those eyes that seemed to look into me. “I’m Lyn,” I said. “Fyodor.” After that we slowly began to talk, to share ideas. Working together, Fyodor told me about his writing, during breaks, he would read aloud. “Talking nonsense is the sole privilege mankind possesses over the other organisms. It's by talking nonsense that one gets to the truth! I talk nonsense, therefore I'm human.” “Man only likes to count his troubles; he doesn't calculate his happiness.” “I say let the world go to hell, but I should always have my tea.” “To love is to suffer and there can be no love otherwise.” Fyodor was … insane. He was inspired, passionate, angry, hurt, a victim, a survivor, a damaged soul that had lived beyond torture and then had been able to describe the journey into hell and the ascent past. There were days that I had to walk away from him, unable to meet the brutal honesty, the too focused intensity, I had to step away. “I am alone, I thought, and they are everybody.” And I would scream at him, but also screaming at myself, “It doesn’t have to be this way, damn you! Life is not this black and white, you are not the final judge and jury, you cannot cut down to our souls like a scalpel, it is not your place to examine us, you are ONE OF US!!” And he answered: “I love, I can only love the one I've left behind, stained with my blood when, ungrateful wretch that I am, I extinguished myself and shot myself through the heart. But never, never have I ceased to love that one, and even on the night I parted from him I loved him perhaps more poignantly than ever. We can truly love only with suffering and through suffering! We know not how to love otherwise. We know no other love. I want suffering in order to love. I want and thirst this very minute to kiss , with tears streaming down my cheeks, this one and only I have left behind. I don't want and won't accept any other.” And I had to get away. I quit, I left, and I separated myself from him. Who was he to say these things, who was he to judge me, to judge all of us?? Yet I could not forget, could not stop thinking of his words, could not get away from those eyes that delved into me.

  27. 4 out of 5

    MJ Nicholls

    New: “ . . . we’ve all grown unaccustomed to life, we’re all lame, each of us more or less. We’ve even grown so unaccustomed that at times we feel a sort of loathing for real “living life,” and therefore cannot bear to be reminded of it. For we’ve reached a point where we regard real “living life” almost as labor, almost as service, and we all agree in ourselves that it’s better from a book. And why do we sometimes fuss about, why these caprices, these demands of ours? We ourselves don’t know why New: “ . . . we’ve all grown unaccustomed to life, we’re all lame, each of us more or less. We’ve even grown so unaccustomed that at times we feel a sort of loathing for real “living life,” and therefore cannot bear to be reminded of it. For we’ve reached a point where we regard real “living life” almost as labor, almost as service, and we all agree in ourselves that it’s better from a book. And why do we sometimes fuss about, why these caprices, these demands of ours? We ourselves don’t know why. It would be the worse for us if our capricious demands were fulfilled. Go on, try giving us more independence, for example, unbind the hands of any one of us, broaden our range of activity, relax the tutelage, and we . . . but I assure you: we will immediately beg to be taken back under tutelage. I know you’ll probably get angry with me for that, shout, stamp your feet: “Speak just for yourself and your miseries in the underground, don’t go saying ‘we all.’” Excuse me, gentlemen, but I am not justifying myself with this allishness. As far as I myself am concerned, I have merely carried to an extreme in my life what you have not dared to carry even halfway, and, what’s more, you’ve taken your cowardice for good sense, and found comfort in thus deceiving yourselves. So that I, perhaps, come out even more “living” than you. Take a closer look! We don’t even know where the living lives now, or what it is, or what it’s called! Leave us to ourselves, without a book, and we’ll immediately get confused, lost—we won’t know what to join, what to hold to, what to love and what to hate, what to respect and what to despise. It’s a burden for us even to be of it, we consider it a disgrace, and keep trying to be some unprecedented omni-men. We’re stillborn, and have long ceased to be born of living fathers, and we like this more and more. We’re acquiring a taste for it. Soon we’ll contrive to be born somehow from an idea.” (p118-9) Old: Man on a Bench: A Roman Anecdote. i) The littlest things can drastically alter a person’s mood. ii) For example, seeing a squirrel scurry across the road and shimmy up a tree. That would improve one’s mood. Seeing a squirrel flattened by an HGV hauler—that wouldn’t improve one’s mood. iii) But I knew this man. iv) He sat on benches all day long. Sometimes he’d feed the ducks, sometimes he’d sit and observe passersby. v) I spotted him on various benches across Edinburgh. He sat with a neutral expression. Looking. Most people, as people do, dismissed him as a creepy loner. vi) People are so very empathetic. vii) But I loved this man. viii) He was a modern day Underground Man. He sat on the sidelines of life, observing. Cold and detached. All day long. On benches. A visible nonentity, the bland face of self-erasure. ix) Chances are he had a family, or a cat. But when he sat on those benches, on his lonesome, the serenity oozed from this man. x) I took comfort in the fact that a person can be happy without people. That people are useful, and necessary, but essentially undesirable. xi) So whenever I spotted him around town, sitting blankly on his bench, my mood skyrocketed. xii) How brilliant to be alone, in the throb of a city, and to be content! xiii) I haven’t seen him in a long time. Hopefully he hasn’t committed suicide.

  28. 4 out of 5

    Shivam Chaturvedi

    You see, this man Dostoyevsky calls you witness to a killing, a killing that he himself intends to perform. You are apprehensive, frightened even, but you walk in nevertheless. There in front of you lies this despondent figure of a man whom this convener intends to slaughter. Settled in rather uncomfortably, you prepare for the death blow to fall. But it doesn't; the victim is not shown the mercy of an easy execution. Instead Dostoyevsky strangles him, squeezes the very life out of him. And he do You see, this man Dostoyevsky calls you witness to a killing, a killing that he himself intends to perform. You are apprehensive, frightened even, but you walk in nevertheless. There in front of you lies this despondent figure of a man whom this convener intends to slaughter. Settled in rather uncomfortably, you prepare for the death blow to fall. But it doesn't; the victim is not shown the mercy of an easy execution. Instead Dostoyevsky strangles him, squeezes the very life out of him. And he does it ever so slowly. Somewhere midway through all of this, you want to cry out in disgust; nauseated with all the gore you want to go puke somewhere. But Dostoyevsky has no mercy for the horrified spectator either. You were never meant to leave afterall, and this while torture continues unabated. And when the end is nigh, this new understanding begins to dawn upon you. You've always suspected this, somewhere deep down, but were never sure until this is all about to get over in all its splendid glory. With great despair and humiliation you realize that the illusionist has pulled off the greatest illusion of them all. It has been you all along. Not just a nobody, but you yourself who have been killed here. Dostoyevsky has had you witness to your own merciless damnation. Why, oh why, did you ever have to this Fyodor Mikhailovich. Why?

  29. 5 out of 5

    Nahed.E

    اعطي هذا الكتاب 5 نجمات لما قدمه ديستويفيسكي من تصوير رائع لحياة هذا الإنسان المسكين المغلوب علي أمره في هذا العصر فهذا الإنسان كما قال ديستويفيسكي موجود في كل مكان حولنا دائماً نراه كثيراً كضحية لعصر أصبح الإنسان فيه مثل الألة التي لا شعور فيها ولا إحساس هذا الإنسان المسكين الذي يرسل لنا مذكراته من تحت الأرض مثله كمثل الحشرات تحيا تحت اقدامنا تهرب من مكان لمكان بلا انتماء ولا أمان ولا هدف فقط حياتها في الهروب حتي الهروب من الأفكار والأحلام وحتي محاولة الهروب من تحقيق الأحلام أو تحقيق أي سعادة في اعطي هذا الكتاب 5 نجمات لما قدمه ديستويفيسكي من تصوير رائع لحياة هذا الإنسان المسكين المغلوب علي أمره في هذا العصر فهذا الإنسان كما قال ديستويفيسكي موجود في كل مكان حولنا دائماً نراه كثيراً كضحية لعصر أصبح الإنسان فيه مثل الألة التي لا شعور فيها ولا إحساس هذا الإنسان المسكين الذي يرسل لنا مذكراته من تحت الأرض مثله كمثل الحشرات تحيا تحت اقدامنا تهرب من مكان لمكان بلا انتماء ولا أمان ولا هدف فقط حياتها في الهروب حتي الهروب من الأفكار والأحلام وحتي محاولة الهروب من تحقيق الأحلام أو تحقيق أي سعادة في الحياة فلم يعد هناك هدف ولا أمل ولا خوف من شئ أو علي شئ هذا الإنسان المسكين الذي تعب من الاقنعة التي حوله من الإنسانية المزيفة تعب من إنسان يدعو إلي السلام بيد ويحارب باليد الأخري فحاول هذا المسكين أن يكون حشرة ولكنه لم يستطع وحاول أن يكون مثلهم إنساناً فلم يستطع فأصبح الإنسان الحشرة الذي لا يعلم كيف يهبط إلي مستوي الإنسان وكيف يرتفع إلي مستوي الحشرة !!!!!!!! فعلي الأقل الحشرة خُلقت حشرة .. عاشت حشرة .. وستستمر حشرة .. وستموت حشرة .. وليس بيديها ألا تكون حشرة ! فلقد خُلقت هكذا .. وستظل هكذا .. مُسيرة لما خلقت له .. تقوم بدورها .. ولن تنحط أكثر من ذلك .. أما الإنسان .. فلقد خُلق إنسان .. ولكن .. هل بقي إنساناً ؟؟ .....!!

  30. 4 out of 5

    Arnie

    When I read it at the height of my existential angst college days, I felt I had never identified with a character so strongly. I don't underline books, this might be the only one, I underlined about 90% of it.

Add a review

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

Loading...
We use cookies to give you the best online experience. By using our website you agree to our use of cookies in accordance with our cookie policy.