
Notes From The Underground, by Fyodor Dostoyevsky. Part I.
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The Pleasure of Acute Consciousness
I got to the point of feeling a sort of secret, abnormal, despicable enjoyment in returning home to my corner on some disgusting Petersburg night. I have spoken of this because I keep wanting to know for a fact whether other people feel such enjoyment. The enjoyment was just from the two intense consciousness of one's own degradation. In despair there are the most intense enjoyments, especially when one is very acutely conscious of the hopelessness of one's position. And when one is slapped in the face, why, then, the consciousness of being rubbed into a pope with positively overwhelmed one?
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