Fyodor Dostoevsky

the more persuaded of that suspicion, if one can call it so, by the fact that

if you take, for instance, the antithesis of the normal man, that is, the

man of acute consciousness, who has come, of course, not out of the lap

of nature but out of a retort (this is almost mysticism, gentlemen, but I

suspect this, too), this retort-made man is sometimes so nonplussed in

the presence of his antithesis that with all his exaggerated consciousness

he genuinely thinks of himself as a mouse and not a man. It may be an

acutely conscious mouse, yet it is a mouse, while the other is a man, and

therefore, et caetera, et caetera. And the worst of it is, he himself, his very

own self, looks on himself as a mouse; no one asks him to do so; and that

is an important point. Now let us look at this mouse in action. Let us

suppose, for instance, that it feels insulted, too (and it almost always does

feel insulted), and wants to revenge itself, too. There may even be a

greater accumulation of spite in it than in L'HOMME DE LA NATURE ET DE LA

VERITE. The base and nasty desire to vent that spite on its assailant rankles

perhaps even more nastily in it than in L'HOMME DE LA NATURE ET DE LA

VERITE. For through his innate stupidity the latter looks upon his revenge

as justice pure and simple; while in consequence of his acute consciousness

the mouse does not believe in the justice of it. To come at last to the

deed itself, to the very act of revenge. Apart from the one fundamental

nastiness the luckless mouse succeeds in creating around it so many other

nastinesses in the form of doubts and questions, adds to the one question

so many unsettled questions that there inevitably works up around it a sort

of fatal brew, a stinking mess, made up of its doubts, emotions, and of the

contempt spat upon it by the direct men of action who stand solemnly

about it as judges and arbitrators, laughing at it till their healthy sides

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