I.
Gentlemen, why do I participate in the act of feeling? Why can't I deny myself, from the very things that bring me sorrow? Oh, why is existence so foul and cruel? Or better yet, why am I so foul and cruel? With the conviction that my forlorn nature will kill me, I have spent the past ten years in utter contemplation, trying to understand the origins of my guilt. I have hit a wall. I hoped to attain a root cause. Confessing to you, I hereby proclaim, that there is no ultimate cause for my despondency. Even if there was a cause, I would never convince myself to believe in it. I am truly, a despicable creature. In complete and utter darkness, I have tried extricating my acrimony, by isolating my emotions from my physical afflictions. Once again, I have failed.
At the abominable age of fifty, I have grown more sullen, more introverted and more desperate. I feel less rational, more enslaved by impulse. The beating desire of impulse is the very reason why I am allowing myself to be exposed this one last time. I am truly appalled by who I have become. To be honest with you, I feel as if a foreign mind has corrupted my decaying body. As the end is nearing, my ideals have undergone a dramatic shift. I am writing because hopefully I can learn the true meaning of commitment. As my words are sure on paper, hopefully this will encourage me to believe in my thoughts. Who am I fooling! I am a sham, a deceptive mask of skin. Don't despise my capricious nature. Please forgive a despicable old man for his fallibility.
I have come to realize that my underground is I. We are one in the same. I now know that the outside world is no place for someone like me. Please allow me to explain myself. You don't know me! You think you understand me, like you understand the notes to a sonata, but you know absolutely nothing! Perhaps, you knew me, but you most certainly don't know me. As my aching liver is pushing me over the brink, I feel the need to explain myself. I humbly thank you for your patience. Now, allow me to confess myself to you.
II.
I have questioned the meaning of existence for most of my life. I have wondered what inspired man to be what he indelibly is. Man, specifically being an entity, which is lost in the midst of his chaotic world. Ten years ago, I said " Let's suppose that the only thing man does is search for this two times two makes four; he sails across oceans, sacrifices his own life in the quest; but to seek it out and find it—really and truly he's frightened. After all, he feels that as soon as he finds it, there'll be nothing left to search for." I bring this up because I have altered my view since the last time that I wrote to you. You see, one must understand, that man, is an object, bred to elongate. There is no conceivable end. While at the time, I believed my theories about human existence to be altogether true, I now feel that I will never understand the world or myself for that matter. Man has no destination! You may ask what proof I have to make such a bold statement. The answer is inside all of us! I take myself as a perfect example. I keep writing, even when I am under the belief that I have achieved an answer, a so-called final destination. With age, I have become more suspect of my principles and beliefs. Therefore I feel that once man has sailed across oceans, sacrificed his own life and solved two times two as four, out of fear of stagnation; he will force himself to believe that two times two is five. In turn, the blood will push the body along, against rest, against society, against morality, against reason. As a result of this nihilist view, I have become even fouler than you last remembered.
III.
Two years ago, at the age of forty-eight, I began to suffer from a vivid storm of reoccurring dreams. Liza was the object of my imagination. Her face appeared to me through a luminous light. Why this image of her was suddenly appearing, to this day, I still do not conclusively know. Her face seemed to blend through the light. She was the ghost that haunted my dreams. As the image of her face approached mine, suddenly everything went black. I awoke to the throbbing pains of my physical body. My underground, seemed strangely unsympathetic to me. My pain was immense. The physical pain I could manage, but the emotional memory of Liza was beyond painful, it was petrifying.
The underground was no longer a sense of security from the outside world. The outside world's creation was inside of me. It haunted me, causing me much despair. During that time, everything that I invested my beliefs in began to fail me. I was lost. I was embarrassed to be alive. I felt that I had successfully achieved getting over the memory of Liza. Allow me, to delve deeper into this predicament.
Desire in its malevolent nature, reacquainted me with Liza. I felt as if I was becoming a nihilist. My years spent philosophizing the human condition, suddenly, meant absolutely nothing to me. Only the feelings of guilt and embarrassment seemed to permeate. Desire is humanity's most dangerous drug. The memory of Liza brought out all of my hidden desires, which had awoken me to nothing but grief. Desire will occasionally diminish, but it knows no end, it pushes the human race into a boundless journey of destruction. Desire is not a debatable construct on which intellectuals can philosophize about. It seeks out to infect, to disrupt and to ultimately bring logic to an end. I take full responsibility, and blame myself for the irrational impulses that I pursued. As proof of my complete admittance of foulness, I will explain to you, in vivid detail, how desire pushed me to no end. As I said before, there is no end. Today, I still suffer, just as I have suffered for the past fifty years.
IV.
Out into the streets I ran, with fear, humiliation and anger. I vowed never to leave my underground, but the impulse of desire superseded my principles. It was a dark night, with the cold rain showering down on me. I ran the desolate streets, combating the awful pains of my liver. Such rage I felt, living a life that was entirely useless. Everything I conceived to know, now meant absolutely nothing to me. I was a man without a path. The rain drenched me from head to toe. Cold and shivering, I came across an alleyway. It was as dark as my underground. I crept into this alleyway, and leaned my back against the wall, until I slid my back down it. My head sunk to my knees. Finally, I leaned over to my side and passed out.
I felt a tap on my shoulder. A sensation I have isolated myself from for the past ten years. Suddenly, I heard an unfamiliar voice, a voice that sounded concerned. I turned my head. While looking up, I saw a woman. She said, "Sir, you passed out in the alleyway, can I offer you some sustenance?" I shouted, "Liza, is that you!" She responded quickly by saying, "My name is Anna, not Liza, is Liza your wife?" I said, "No, no, I do not have a wife." Anna exclaimed, "Well, why are you sleeping in the alleyway, are you drunk?" I was confused how to answer her question. Inside, I was angry and embarrassed, but I knew how those feelings drove Liza away and this woman was my last hope. After noticing my aloofness, she said, "Come with me, I don't live far from here, allow me to offer you some shelter." I hurriedly picked myself off the floor and followed her through the rapid rains.
As I entered her apartment, I felt the urge to collapse. I felt uncertain being in her apartment. Anna prepared a steak dinner. Her hospitality made me feel guilty. Her compassion embarrassed me. I felt ashamed of myself to impose on her. Who was I? It had been years since I last interacted with anybody.
I said, "Anna, may I be so bold to ask you why you are being so generous to me?" She quickly responded by saying, "You looked like you were in pain, and that was painful to me. I felt morally obliged to help you. If I hadn't helped, I would have been ashamed of myself, and the last thing I want to do is to seclude myself in grief." Her candor surprised me, especially since I was a complete stranger. As she was talking, I looked into her face, and felt the necessity to please her, to make her happy. I know gentlemen, this sounds strange, but her compassion seemed genuine.
"Who is that, Anna?" That was the question asked by the mysterious voice from the back room. Clearly expressing anxiety, Anna rose from her seat, and said to me, "Oh, yes, I would like to introduce you to my husband, Simonov." After watching this figure walk out of the darkness and into the light, I was in a state of shock. Yes, it was in fact Simonov. Having aged, it took a while for me to fully register that I was actually looking into his face. Simonov, surprised to see my deterioration, looked contemptuously at me. He responded, "How did you know where I lived?" I was confused on how to respond to that question. How was I going to tell him that his wife found me in an abandoned alleyway? How could he not feel contemptuous of me? I could just see the superiority on his face. Let me tell you, that his face was utterly vile. I forgot how much I hated him. Only at that moment, had I lost all faith in him. I knew he was not my friend. If he had asked for his fifteen rubles back, then I would have been assured that he was not my friend.
I stood up to Simonov in a proud manner and said, "Your wife was working the streets, and she offered her services to me." His face fluttered with furious anger. I am sure he could not conceive that I had that much feeling in my body. No longer, was I to compromise who I was, for the sake of conformity. Anna grabbed his arms in fury and said, "He's lying, I found him passed out in the alleyway, it was wrong of I to invite such filth into our house. It was wrong to have such compassion for such a scoundrel. I disrespected our home with this heathen and I apologize." He violently smacked her across the face. Anna rubbed her face in shock and continued to deny her involvement with me. I sat there for ten minutes, with my half eaten steak, and watched as they argued about a little lie that I ingeniously delivered. In shame, she ran out the house. Simonov chased after her, screaming, "Anna! Anna!" Simonov violently slammed the door and looked into my eyes. I was frozen in fear. After hearing the scream of the word Anna, I was reminded of what I had lost.
Why in my own selfish pride, did I cast out Liza? I caused two women to run away. Why am I such a despicable fool? Am I ever going to learn from my past? Am I ever going to finally achieve an end goal of honorable behavior? The pain of my liver, distracted me from further contemplation, and I looked into Simonov's eyes with anger. I shamed myself for ever considering him a friend. This man, willingly and unwillingly was the center cause of my grief. If it hadn't been for him, I would have never gone to that brothel. I should have never left my underground. My anger knows no end; it is the anger that makes me human, it keeps my despicable nature intact.
"You are not welcome in here, get out, do you hear me," Simonov angrily proclaimed." His candor surprised me. I felt confused, unable to respond. The room started to shine brightly, almost in the same format of my dreams of Liza. While rubbing my hands together, they felt as cold as ice. Moving quickly, Simonov came towards me, turned his head sideways, and then looked into my bewildered eyes and punched me in the nose. Blood poured, surprised, my heart began to beat faster. I looked into his face, and watched as he began to cry in shame. He paced around the room, ashamed of his action, and tumbled to the floor. Sobbing incessantly, he got on his knees and looked out the window, searching for the appearance of his wife through the harsh rains. I pitied him, and hated him. I would have preferred if he continued to punch me. Hell, I rather have had him kill me. A despicable old fool can't live through these emotions any longer.
The sounds of grief were so painful to listen to. I felt sick. It was a task just to keep my eyes open. I just wanted to sleep. I was beginning to feel uneasy about who I was. Why do I feel? Why are my feelings so horrid?
Grabbing the steak knife behind me, I ran across the room and stood right behind Simonov's back. I listened to his bitter cries. I thought of Anna. Then, I began to wonder whether it was to his advantage that I stabbed him. I could rid him of his sorrow. It would however, make Anna a widow. I quickly began to rationalize. Instead of two miserable people, there would only be one. The logic seemed to make perfect sense. As Simonov turned his head left toward me, I for the last time stared into those big sullen eyes. I raised the knife and jabbed it twice into his broken heart.
I ran into the rain, bloodied, down the midnight streets. I thought of Liza, I thought of Anna and I thought of Simonov. The streets never seemed to end. The rain knew no end. I just ran.
V.
As I now lay here dying, this is my farewell to you. I lay comfortably in the underground because it is the only place, where I will never hurt anyone again. I stare into the darkness, wondering why humanity is so cruel. Is there any rationalization for the cruelties of the world? Should I even worry about the world? Should I lay here in the darkness and do nothing? By doing nothing, I will never hurt another soul again, even if it means, sacrificing my own sanity. All I can do is wait; wait till nature takes me away. My whole life I have written about humanity. I pondered many beliefs that, for a while, I deemed as true. I may have perhaps misled you, although I ask you again, to please forgive me.
No matter what answers I may come across, I can't stop writing. I can't stop thinking. I can't simply believe that there is only one conclusion. I may believe my conclusion, and it may seem logical, but the world we live is illogical. In my old age, I only know what I feel and what I feel is always shifting. If there was only one specific way to feel, I honestly believe, that humanity would never break the wall to obtain it. Humanity is too self-centered. I am a murderer. Do I feel guilty? Yes. But I also feel that I brought salvation to Simonov. Therefore I believe that I am a savior and a murderer. Does that sound like a rational conclusion to you? I believe not.
VI.
To you gentlemen, I hope you go on to achieve great things. However, might I add from personal experience, that intellectualism was not the key to my salvation. These notes from the underground saved my life. These words are the physical proof that I existed, and as you read them, I hope that you pass them on to your children. Hopefully, they will be read by many generations to come. I would be quite so lucky, to have known, that as my body died, my spirit through my notes never ceased to exist.