What writers can take away from Dostoevsky's 'Notes from the Underground' — suffering, the journey, consciousness, and free will

Mini Essay | June 12, 2024

Like most writers, I read copiously, and like many readers, I love to talk about the books I’ve read with an air of pretentiousness. But Dostoevksy’s Notes from the Underground serves partially as a cautionary tale toward those who become too self-assured in their own mental capacity to seek further learning opportunities. Following his advice, I am narrowing the scope of this essay down only to my personal experience and hesitant interpretation. The other major theme in this text is the idea of suffering in relation to free will and the search for life’s meaning, which resonates with a greater number of us. So that is what I will focus on in this essay. 

Notes is divided into two segments—the former a philosophical monologue by the “Underground Man” (which, I later learned, was a poor translation; a more fitting one is “crawl space man”), a spiteful and miserable character who suffers tremendously. The second part is a narrative showing the themes of those ruminations play out in the narrator's life. Though the book covers a wide range of topics including but not limited to existentialism, rationalism, and suffering, I am writing about the idea of free will and hardship in respect to the pieces of the narrative that I saw my artistry reflected in. 

Dostoevsky presents suffering not only as an inevitable component of the human experience but as a hallmark of consciousness. In contrast to the utilitarian perspective, Dostoevsky believes that if given a choice, humankind would not favor a perfect utopia over pain and suffering. He argues that human desires often involve self-destructive tendencies and desires, and suffering breathes a new degree of meaning into the human experience. “Man is sometimes extraordinarily, passionately in love with suffering,” he writes in Chapter 9 of Part 1, in reference to his belief that we crave destruction as much as creation and often love the journey more than the destination. The utopian vision fails as he rebels against the idea that rationalism and basic principles can ascribe a standardized meaning to human consciousness. “Suffering is the sole origin of consciousness,” he writes; consciousness is not only a consequence of suffering but necessitates it as its precursor. 

The narrator in Notes bridges the themes of free will and suffering through his own self-sabotaging actions. From the first page of the book, he claims he is sick, possibly of liver disease, which he knows nothing about. Out of "spite," he does not seek a doctor, either. Throughout the narrative, this behavior continues. He sees a man thrown out of the window of a bar and craves to be thrown out the same. He sees a police officer who has spited him in the past and attempts to faze him by bumping into him on the street. He meets up with old schoolmates who have never held him to a high regard and stews in his own rage instead of making a stand against them. This irrational behavior and self-inflicted mental torture is meant to be interpreted not merely as a weakness in his character but an indicator of his freedom. He does not strive for happiness or attempt to fix his life; rather, he stews in his misery until the heat in his resentment caramelizes the sugar of his consciousness. From this deliberation emerges free will. 

Notes offers a stark refutation to the idea that we—humans—can achieve a peaceful, rational existence, as our capacity for irrationality and self-destruction is bound to interfere with the utopian ideal. In Dostoevsky's words, we are “frivolous and incongruous” creatures, bound to prefer challenge over an easy, but soulless, life experience. If the Underground Man is correct, then misery is inextricable from human experience, and we will always crave difficulty and hardship. This is but a bitter conclusion, as from this process emerges purpose. To the creative individual, this sentiment offers guidance and consolation regardless of the grim narrator from whom it originates. 

As I read Notes, I saw glimpses of myself in the underground Man, especially in the idea that humans overwhelmingly enjoy the destination over the journey. Dostoevsky compares this to the mentality of a chess player who “loves the process of the game, not the end of it.” Anyone who is a writer or other type of creative individual is familiar with the pain that goes into constructing a final product, an arduous, never-ending process that requires nothing short of total dedication. The writer and artist have no option but to embody the chess player’s mindset and prioritize the process of becoming over the end goal. In fact, ever since I committed myself to writing in middle school, I’ve become more than familiar with the grueling labor that goes into drafting, editing, publishing, then marketing a book, all in the name of pursuing a passion that sometimes flees. But my choice to pursue writing despite its endless difficulties is what defines me. My goal now is not to sell a certain number of books or sign with a certain publisher, but to take on the characteristics of a creative person. I don’t need to be a bestselling novelist or a renowned wordsmith. I don't even need someone to tell me they enjoyed my book or to validate my skills with their plaudits. All I need to do is be a writer, whatever that means to me. 

Perhaps this is a bit of a reach from what Dostoevsky intended with the text, but this is what I've gathered from my reading, especially in conjunction with Camus. Dostoevsky and Camus intersect at an existential crossroads. Camus famously said the meaning of life is to pursue whatever it is that stops you from killing yourself. If Dostoevsky is correct in that suffering is a token of free will, then this free will is what holds us back from spiraling down the mouth of despair and despondency. So enjoy the process of writing and hone your skills around the goal of developing the identity of a writer. The hardship is what gives us purpose.

Photos found on Pinterest 

Bantam Classics book cover (top)

https://www.pinterest.com/pin/1548181157814077/ (middle)

Art by Harry Brockway harrybrockwayartist (bottom)