Fyodor Dostoevsky

in me to struggle against this depravity passed. It ended by my almost

believing (perhaps actually believing) that this was perhaps my normal

condition. But at first, in the beginning, what agonies I endured in that

struggle! I did not believe it was the same with other people, and all my

life I hid this fact about myself as a secret. I was ashamed (even now,

perhaps, I am ashamed): 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, acutely conscious that that day I had

committed a loathsome action again, that what was done could never be

undone, and secretly, inwardly gnawing, gnawing at myself for it, tearing

and consuming myself till at last the bitterness turned into a sort of

shameful accursed sweetness, and at last--into positive real enjoyment!

Yes, into enjoyment, into enjoyment! I insist upon that. I have spoken of

this because I keep wanting to know for a fact whether other people feel

such enjoyment? I will explain; the enjoyment was just from the too

intense consciousness of one's own degradation; it was from feeling

oneself that one had reached the last barrier, that it was horrible, but that

it could not be otherwise; that there was no escape for you; that you never

could become a different man; that even if time and faith were still left

you to change into something different you would most likely not wish to

change; or if you did wish to, even then you would do nothing; because

perhaps in reality there was nothing for you to change into.

And the worst of it was, and the root of it all, that it was all in accord

with the normal fundamental laws of over-acute consciousness, and

with the inertia that was the direct result of those laws, and that

consequently one was not only unable to change but could do absolutely

nothing. Thus it would follow, as the result of acute consciousness,

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