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Julia Annas
philosophical preface to the cycle of the great novels" (p. 245). Even
though Dostoyevsky's passionate and extreme temperament made him
quite incapable of constructing a piece of precise philosophical argument,
there is much of genuine philosophical interest in part I. It is not
just a particular moral and political theory, like Chernyshevsky's, which
is to be discredited, but something deeper, the presuppositions of a
whole type of moral theory.
In this article I shall examine the implications of what Dostoyevsky
says for the philosophy of action and thence for ethics. I shall argue
that he challenges a very basic model of human action, which is both
intuitively plausible and basic to many moral theories. I shall also argue
that as the work stands, there is a lack of continuity between parts
Tell me, who was it who first declared, proclaiming it to the whole world,
that a man does evil only because he does not know his real interests,
and if he is enlightened and has his eyes opened to his own best and
normal interests, man will cease to do evil and at once become virtuous
"Every art and every inquiry, and similarly every action and pursuit,
notes that it follows that we can always work out some reasoning which
gives the characteristic of the action that the agent found desirable:
"from the agent's point of view there was, when he acted, something
to be said for the action" ("Actions, Reasons and Causes," p. 691).
Davidson sums up this line of thought neatly:
When a person acts with an intention, the following seems to be a true,
Julia Annas259
if rough and incomplete, description of what goes on: he sets a positive
value on some state of affairs (an end, or the performance by himself
of an action satisfying certain conditions); he believes (or knows or
perceives) that an action, of a kind open to him to perform, will promote
or produce or realize the valued state of affairs; and so he acts (that
is, he acts because of his value or desire and his belief). Generalized and
refined, this description has seemed to many philosophers, from Aristotle
on, to promise to give an analysis of what it is to act with an intention;
to illuminate how we explain an action by giving the reasons the agent
had in acting; and to provide the beginning of an account of practical
reasoning, i.e. reasoning about what to do, reasoning that leads to action
("How is Weakness of the Will Possible?," p. 102).
Julia Annas261
a man can only act with some good or advantage in view. "Can you
undertake to define exactly where a man's advantage lies? What if
it sometimes happens that a man's advantage not only may but must
consist in desiring in certain cases not what is good but what is bad
for him? And if so, if such cases are even possible, the whole rule
is utterly destroyed." He claims, that is, that the mere possibility of
such a case proves his point. But is he still not begging the question?
In fact he is not, because Dostoyevsky is quite subtle here. The
Underground Man conducts the whole argument in his opponents'
terms, so that they are forced to recognize a counterexample to the
position they hold. He allows them to insist that action can only occur
when there is some good in view, and that otherwise described it is
incoherentstill, he claims, they lose their case because they omit the
good or advantage that consists in acting against all one's other goods
and advantages. "Doesn't there, in fact, exist something that is dearer
to almost every man than his own very best interests, ornot to violate
logicsome best good (the one that is always omitted from the lists
. . .) which is more important and higher than any other good . . .?"
Perhaps, that is, irrational action has to be described in terms of seeking
some good so as not to "violate logic," that is, produce an inconsistent
description of what is going on. But even if the opponent claims that
when the action is properly described, i.e., as aiming at some good,
it can be seen not to be irrational at all, this move gets him nowhere.
For this "good" is no more than verbally similar to any recognized
good. " 'Well, but then it is still a good,' you interrupt. By your leave,
we will explain further, and the point is not in a play on words, but
in the fact that this good is distinguished precisely by upsetting all
classifications. ... In short, it interferes with everything." The opponent
ought to worry about the case of a man acting knowingly but not
so as to achieve any recognized good, for even if what happens has
to be described formally in terms of seeking good of some kind, the
opponent still cannot account for it, because the "good" here is one
he has not considered and which conies into conflict with all the goods
he has considered. He can draw no comfort from the fact that the
volition, one's own caprice, however wild, one's own fancy, inflamed
sometimes to the point of madnessthat is the one best and greatest
good, which is never taken into consideration because it will not fit
into any classification, and the omission of which always sends all systems
and theories to the devil."
out the point that the agent is still to be considered the author of
his acts, however irrational. They are caused by his desire or wanting,
and so brought about in the normal way, even if he does not aim
at any good in doing them. The English word "volition" is an artificial
philosopher's term, and indeed suggests if anything an act of will that
is opposed to the agent's desires, whereas khoten'ye at once brings to
mind the very common verb khotet', to want or like. The Underground
Man is not suggesting that an irrational action can be motivated by
an act of pure will, a volition unconnected to desire. On the contrary,
he is insisting that it can be produced by some kind of desire, and
be an expression of agency, in the face of the recognition that it is
no good. In section 8 he insists that reason is only a part of human
life, whereas khoten'ye is a "manifestation of the whole of life (proyavlenie
vsei zhizni), I mean of the whole of human life including both reason
and speculation." It is hardly natural to say this of "volition" in English,
although this is the translation Coulson uses.
This vindication of acting in the full sense against what one recognizes
as good is developed in two main directions. First, the Underground
Man is clear that such actions are nevertheless not motivated, and hence
Julia Annas263
he says. He talks a lot about the laws of nature, but without any clear
idea of what they actually are. In section 3, he throws together as
and twice two equalling four; and this shows great ignorance, and
perhaps lack of interest, in what a determinist might actually be trying
to say. But this confusion does not matter after all, since in section
8, the most sustained discussion, neither the Underground Man nor
his opponents are arguing about the truth of determinism; what they
are disputing is whether or not it matters if determinism is true. The
opponent is presented as thinking that it does not, even though he
recognizes that if all our desires are predictable, they become controllable.
He accepts this, holding that if our desires run on the rational lines
laid down, this will remove freedom only in the sense that there will
no longer be desires which are opposed to reason. But, he maintains,
freedom to act against reason is not what we really mean by "freedom";
freedom is just the ability to do what it is rational to do, and so we
are not deprived of anything by losing a will which goes against reason.
It is obvious that this is a kind of compatibilism, though in Dostoyevsky's
hostile presentation it is not clear or well-thought out, and much more
work would have to be done to make it sound plausible. What the
Underground Man insists on, by contrast, is quite clear: the possibility
does make a difference, for if a man's desires can be predicted then
they can be manipulated, and if they can be manipulated then he
really is no more than a piano key, part of a mechanism constructed
independently of him.
Occasionally he does maintain that determinism is actually false; it
cannot be true because man does possess desires of such a type as
to frustrate any attempt to manipulate them. (This is a thesis which
is not necessarily tied to irrational actions, except insofar as he sometimes
suggests that the desires in question are those which bring about irrational
actions.) Sometimes, however, he seems to be less sure of this, recognizing
that the desires on which he lays so much weight are, after all, merely
desires which could in principle be just as predictable and manipulable
as any others. But the main point is sustained: it does matter whether
or not determinism is true, for, if so, it is no longer a man's own
desires that bring about his actions, and he loses responsibility for
them.7
A great deal of the discussion of part I, then, and not just the most
obvious section 7, maintains that there do exist actions in the full sense
of the word, which are freely produced by the agent's desires and
thus genuinely originate from him, but which are nevertheless done
in the knowledge that the agent believes them to produce no good,
or less good then an alternative. The effect of this claim is of course
altruism.
one's character and expresses it, and the akratic act is out of character.
An irrational act does not reflect the agent's valuations, and so it cannot
be seen as a product of his dispositionshis generosity or meanness,
greed or thrift, courage or cowardice. It lacks understandable connection
with his character. Most of our character-describing words applied to
agents (not just the traditional virtues and vices) have implications about
what the agent values and what choices he has made and will make.8
The Underground Man is like Aristotle's weak-willed man in whom
weakness of will has become a chronic condition. And one result at
Julia Annas265
feature is his inconsistency, which he describes (in the person of his
interlocutor) in section 1 1 . But this inconsistency does more than make
him difficult to pin down by a third party. The book is written in
the first person, and what is striking is the way that the writer displays
his lack of grip on his own character. Because he does not regard
his actions as reflecting and confirming considered value judgments,
he cannot see them in the light of any lasting disposition or trait of
character, and so he is left without any way of making connections
between his own actions. If two of his actions or utterances do not
disease, still less swagger with it? Why do I say that, though? Everybody
does itwe all show off with our diseases." He develops arguments
Julia Annas267
which is a strong feeling but a momentary one. It is called forth by
the appearances of things, the way they happen to strike one, as much
as by the way they really are. Correspondingly, the feeling of disgust
requires no reference to a trait or disposition of character; it is more
like a reaction which does not characterize the person in any lasting
way.
The very first section presents us with the dilemma of the Underground Man. AU the salient features are already there in its first five
paragraphs. The strangeness of the narrator strikes us from his very
first words, and it lies as much in the way he tells us about himself
as in what he tells us about what he does.
The first paragraph introduces the writer as sick and nasty ("Ya
chelovek bolnoi . . . ya zloi chelovek."). Again, there is no adequate
English translation of the crucial word zloi, the adjective corresponding
to zlost'. "Angry," Coulson's word here, is too feeble in not suggesting
the note of nastiness and perversity. The nearest equivalent is perhaps
"mean" in the American sense, suggesting both force and malevolence.
We begin to see the perverse nature of the writer's beliefs. He thinks
that his liver is bad, though he knows he has no ground for this belief.
He is not having treatment although he thinks that he ought to. He
is superstitiously respectful of doctors, although he is well-educated
enough not to be. He refuses treatment out of spite (zlost'). So far
we find a man who acts even aggressively against his own interests
out of pure perversity. We may find it hard to see the point of acting
like this, but there is no indication yet that this is not a coherent policy.
The second paragraph partly continues in this way. He makes a
joke, decides that it is no good and leaves it in for that reason. But
a new element is also introduced. Although his behavior was consistently
that of someone utterly zloi, we are told, it did not really answer to
the way he felt. He did not in fact care at all about the petitioners
he got so angry with. Then why behave so badly to them? That turns
out to have been the heart of his perversity ("glavniy punkt moei zlosti").
Zlost', which has been introduced as the mainspring of his behavior,
makes a man act in ways in which he has no desire to act. It turns
to paradox. The zloi man is the man who acts out of perversity and
breaks all links between action and character. Thus he is unable even
Julia Annas269
weighed up objectively, for to do so would involve comparing his past
and future states. These considerations have force only according to
how he feels at the time. The section concludes with a final poindess
paradox: the respectable man wants most to talk about himself, so
he will too. The respectable (poryadochniy) man is the man whose life
displays poryadok, order and organization; exactly the opposite of the
Underground Man. The writer cannot even talk about himself without
tight, though not altogether obvious, links with the notion of moral
character. If we cease to interpret what someone does in the light
of the rational paradigm, we lose all comprehension of his character.
Part I of Notes from Underground shows the horror of knowing that
this has happened when the person is oneself.
Ill
then"But no! that was a lie! To justify myself was exactly what I
wanted to do. That observation is made for my own benefit, gentlemen.
I won't lie. I have given my word. . . ." He is catching himself out
in a lapse of from a general policy of truthfulnessprecisely what
does not happen in part I, where his self-accusations of lying are more
like a mere swing between two opinions. Compare this passage from
part I, section 11: "It would be better if I believed even a small part
of everything I have written here. I swear, gentlemen, I don't believe
a word, not one single little word, of all I have scribbled down! That
is, I do perhaps believe it, but at the same time, I don't know why,
Julia Annas271
I feel, or suspect, that I'm lying like a trooper." This is someone who
really does have difficulty in distinguishing between telling a lie and
being uncertain between two opinions because he is uncertain of his
commitment to either. By contrast, the narrator of part II is in no
such muddle, and is even fanatically truthful. When he comes to relate
his ugliest action, in section 11, he says, "I wish I could lie now and
write that I had done it without premeditation." But he does not in
fact lie; it matters to him to face the truth. His asides do not express
real shifts and are more like rhetorical flourishes. (The only exception
is perhaps the long excursus on Russian romantics in section 1, but
this is clearly signalled as a digression, separate from the narration.)
Part I, then, is written by a man who embodies the condition he
is talking about; part II is not. At the literary level one may conclude
that Dostoyevsky has made his point, and there would be nothing more
to be gained by upsetting the narrative conventions in order to go
on and on, showing that the narrator is a fragmented personality.
If part II had continued in the style of part I, we would never be
able to identify the relevant events very firmly; they would be seen
in flashes and impressionistically, from different and perhaps contradictory points of view. Doing this could make a point, of course, but
not one that Dostoyevsky wants to make.
with himself that formally leads him to write down the story " Propos
of the Sleet." Further, he puts great energy and effort into this attempt
to be honest. And he also sees it as helpful to himself, in that it may
"write out" and so release him from, a painful memory that troubles
come from, still more the energy to carry it through? The Underground
Man as we have seen him lacks the motivation to complete any project.
He veers, as he himself recognizes, between zlost' and inertia. To carry
out such a project one needs to believe that it is worth carrying out;
but precisely this kind of belief cannot motivate him to action in any
sustained way. Further, why should he be troubled by the painful
memory? This presupposes a self with enough solidity to be troubled
the reader is worried by the strange definiteness with which the writer
begins to shape up and tell the story. It is not that we are surprised
that he is interested in himself; but we are surprised that he proposes
Julia Annas273
the other hand says that Dostoyevsky "prepares the way for the
The story presents the way in which his present self faces and comes
to terms with his past action. He accepts that he is capable of the
The writer of part II is, although he may not yet do so. The confusion
and raggedness left by the censor's pencil in part I, section 10 point
up the problematic way in which the writer of part I becomes the
writer of part II.
only against society, but also against himself, not once, not only today
or tomorrow, but eternally." It may seem unusual to look to Dostoyevsky
for illumination of philosophical problems of "practical reason" and
"action" that have occupied philosophers in a more analytic tradition.
But the richness of a work can sometimes be best appreciated by seeing
how it allows fruitful readings within quite different traditions. I am
not suggesting that my interpretation of Notes from Underground is more
justified or privileged than the more customary ones. Arguably, it is
much further from any explicit thoughts that Dostoyevsky himself may
have had about the book as he wrote it by his wife's deathbed. But
1 . For the relations of the books, see: Leonid Grossman, Dostoyevsky: a biography, translated
by Mary Mackley (London: Allen Lane, 1971), pp. 310-311; Richard Peace, Dostoyevsky:
An Examination of the Major NoveL (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1971), p.
7, 10-11, n. 3; Konstantin Mochulsky, Dostoyevsky: his life and work, translated by Michael
A. Minihan (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1967), p. 251.
2.Cf. Mochulsky: "The dreamer-romantic of the forties has in the sixties been transformed into a cynic-paradoxalist. . . . The underground man's social and historical
condition is defined by the same marks which earlier characterized the dreamer's state.
This is 'one of the representatives of a generation still living,' i.e., an intellectual of
the 'Petersburg period' of Russian history, poisoned by European culture, divorced from
the soil and the people, an historical type who 'not only can, but also must exist in
our society'" (pp. 244-5). Grossman: "It is as if he was trying to pay back the spiritual
leaders of his youth for the terrible ordeals of his years as a convict" (p. 310). Some
of the characteristics of the ineffectual dreamer-idealist foreshadow the hostile portrait
of Stepan Verkhovensky in The Devils.
3.More accurately we should call him the Underfloor Man. Podpol'ye means "under
the floor," and iz podpol'ya has suggestions of something nasty creeping out from under
the floorboards, rather then the more heroic overtones acquired by the English "underground."
4.To simplify rather crudely: I am thinking of moral theories of a roughly "Aristotelian"
Julia Annas275
kind, which, while not egoistic, nonetheless assume that morality is an agent-centered
affair, that it is part and parcel of the practical reasoning the agent carries on in his
situation in the world. Nothing said here touches moral theories of a radically different
type, e.g. Kantian theories.
5.The most important here are: "Actions, Reasons and Causes," Journal of Philosophy
1963, pp. 685-700; "How is Weakness of the Will Possible?", in Joel Feinberg, ed.,
Moral Concepts (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1969), pp. 93-113; "Freedom to Act"
in Ted Honderich, ed., Essays on Freedom of Action (London: Roudedge and Kegan
Paul, 1973), pp. 139-156; "Agency" in Robert Binkley, Richard Bronaugh, and Antonio
Marras, eds., Agent, Action and Reason (Oxford: Blackwell, 1971), pp. 3-25.
6.The matter is complex; for a sharp discussion of the issues involved see Thomas
Nagel, The Possibility of Altruism (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1970).
7.In what Dostoyevsky says about will we do find incoherent exaggeration, as that
the individual's will is opposed not merely to philosophical and scientific theories but
to mathematical necessity; it is an exercise of the individual's will to want two and
two to equal five. This confusion is a consequence of Dostoyevsky's hasty and uncritical
lumping-together of very different things under the heading "laws of nature."
8.This is a very sketchy and vague gesture towards the problems of character and
action. See Myles Burnyeat, "Virtues in Action," in Gregory Vlastos, ed., The Philosophy
of Socrates (New York: Doubleday, 1971), pp. 209-234; N. Dent, "Virtues and Actions,"
Philosophical Quarterly 1975, pp. 318-335.
9.There is a problem here of "self-ascription" analogous to that of ascribing evil traits
of character to oneself; see Margaret Gilbert, "Vices and Self-Knowledge," Journal of
Philosophy 1971, pp. 443^153. But the problem is more salient in the case of zlost'.
10.Mochulsky says that the second part "is joined to the first stylistically" (p. 257).
But his grounds for this refer in fact not to style at all but to continuity of themes:
"the inner dialogue becomes external, the fight is transferred from the sphere of ideas
into the plane of life, the imaginary enemies are embodied in real ones."
11.Alexander Boyce Gibson, The Religion of Dostoyevsky (London, 1973), p. 81.
12.Mochulsky, pp. 256 and 257. Mochulsky significantly finds it hard to explain why
Dostoyevsky "never reestablished the original text in subsequent editions. Dostoyevsky's
'philosophy of tragedy' has remained without its mystical consummation" (p. 257). This
fact remains "strange"surely an inadequate account if the censored ideas were in
fact the whole point of the work.