When one reads a work of fiction, one most likely relies upon the narrator to illustrate or recount the events of the story truthfully. Whether the story is narrated in the first, second, or third person, readers seek assurance that the narration accurately reflects circumstances and events, as well as the thought processes and emotions of the characters. But what if the narrator shakes the reader’s faith in her reliability? What if the narrator demonstrates to the reader that she is characteristically, perhaps even principally, untrustworthy? Russian novelist and philosopher Fyodor Dostoevsky provokes the above questions when he uses the literary device of the “unreliable narrator” in his work, Notes from Underground. A MasterClass article provides us with a definition of the unreliable narrator. The article states that the “unreliable narrator” most often speaks with a first-person perspective and either intentionally or unintentionally offers the reader misleading information (“What Is an Unreliable Narrator?”). The specific characteristics of the unreliable narrator include a tendency toward dishonesty, a demonstration of detachment from reality, and an inclination to inflate or exaggerate issues (“What Is an Unreliable Narrator?”). Dostoevsky’s first-person narrator demonstrates these qualities throughout Underground through his inconsistent interjections, through his constantly changing attitude and day-to-day outlook on people and occurrences, and through his often melodramatic view of anticipated interactions and events. The behavior of Dostoevsky’s narrator may prove familiar to readers and sometimes reflects tendencies and reactions that humans can experience on a daily basis.
Honest testimony hinges mainly on consistency, and Dostoevsky’s narrator proves himself largely inconsistent on numerous occasions throughout the book. As the book begins, the narrator tells the reader that he is a “wicked man” (1). He explains that he is so wicked that even though he is ill, he refuses to seek medical treatment, indicating a strong disinclination to trying to improve himself in any way (2). He states that when he served as a civil official, he felt “delight” in upsetting and lording his power over the petitioners who came to him for help, demonstrating a desperate retaliation against his own feelings of powerlessness (2). However, a few sentences later, the narrator states that he lied and that he is actually not a wicked man (2). In fact, he explains that not only is he not wicked, but he is also not embittered (2). The narrator contradicts this statement in other passages. In several instances, he attributes behaviors to himself that would seem to denote wickedness or, at a minimum, an embittered nature. For example, he speaks of finding “burning pleasure” in despair (9), and he relates himself to a fictional mouse who possesses a “nastiness” and who, when derided by society, drenches itself in “everlasting spite” and taunts itself with details of that derision for years (11). To further shake the confidence of the reader, the narrator then declares that he is joking and, a few sentences later, suggests that the reader must now consider him insane (32). Is the narrator truly who he says he is? Can it be possible for us as readers to trust that even the smallest detail he shares is accurate? From the moment we open a book, we begin looking for information that offers firm footing in the reality of the story’s universe. The narrator’s statements and the doubts he casts as to the seriousness of his testimony fails to give us that sense of solid ground and creates a sense of distrust and perhaps even confusion.
In accordance with the second set of criteria for the unreliable narrator, Underground’s narrator displays an erratic temperament that can quickly shift from hating a person to desiring their company and from desiring to control situations to making impassioned decisions on the spur of the moment. The narrator’s fluctuating disposition becomes apparent when he speaks of his coworkers. He discusses his hatred for and fear of them and adds that he sometimes considers himself to be lower than them (43-44). He explains to the reader that at one moment, he desires closeness with others and spends time visiting and talking with them, but in the next moment he possesses no desire whatsoever to interact with anyone (45). The narrator does admit to possessing a changeable nature and mentions how certain highly contrasted attitudes or feelings often come to him in sporadic bursts (45). Such a statement does little to reassure the reader of his reliability, especially in light of his later actions. For example, the narrator describes a startlingly conflicted attitude in regard to a police officer who insulted him by refusing to acknowledge his existence (49). The narrator states that for years he held the officer in extreme contempt and hatred but then experienced a sudden desire to befriend the officer and invoke his protection (51). Additionally, the narrator describes another event in which he displays erratic and even whimsical behavior. He describes an interaction that he had with a prostitute named Liza and offers commentary that suggests care or concern for her in one place and a longing for power over her in another. At one point, he speaks eloquently and beautifully to Liza about families and about motherhood (96). He describes love to her, calling it “God’s mystery” (97), but reveals to the reader that immediately afterwards a “wicked thought” takes control of him (98). In a monologue that becomes quite brutal, he details the future in store for Liza should she continue in her current profession (102). At first, it seems as though he is simply using extreme language as a tactic to dissuade her from such a lifestyle, but he later remarks that the whole thing had been merely a game to him from the beginning and that he knew it had not been necessary since he had already “broken her heart” (103). However, once Liza has been reduced to violent weeping, the narrator states that he feels a “sort of fever” (104). He holds her hands, asks her to forgive him, and gives her his home address (104). The very next day, he vehemently regrets having given Liza his address and the idea of her visiting his home “torment[s]” him (109). Over the next couple of days, he aggressively wishes that she will visit and even fantasizes about the event (111); however, when Liza finally arrives, he screams at her, mocking and humiliating her (121). The constant change of feelings and sentiments appear as though they would be exhausting to the characters themselves and, as readers, we may feel prodded into literary exhaustion as we try to form a picture of exactly who this narrator is. We may be taken in by the beautiful description of love the narrator shares with Liza but are appalled and even grieved by his admittance that the whole of what we thought was a testament to the just and the true and the beautiful was simply a means of manipulation, a game. A game the narrator played with us.
Another way in which the Underground narrator erodes our confidence in him is through his tendency to inflate issues and events. He creates long, elaborate plans in his mind and obsesses over them, often working himself into a hysteria that later proves disproportionate to the actual events. For example, in the aforementioned situation with the police officer, the narrator not only held the officer in contempt for years, but also formulated a plan through which he would exact revenge for the perceived offense. The narrator explains that he began to follow the officer wherever he went, even bribing the landlord to ascertain the exact room the officer occupied (51). Next, the narrator states that he wrote a letter to the officer to challenge him to a duel, hoping that the officer would recognize in the letter the “beautiful and lofty,” which would result in his embracing the narrator and pledging his friendship (51). The narrator writes, however, that he never actually sent the letter, an omission for which he thanks God “with tears,” revealing that his seemingly strong convictions often have a short duration (51). However, the narrator explains that while he never sent the letter, he still desired revenge on the officer and that he spent a great deal of time and money selecting the clothing that he would wear for his moment of revenge (54-55). In reality, the narrator's only revenge consists of bumping his shoulder against that of the officer—an event that would likely seem highly anticlimactic to most readers—yet the narrator celebrates the achievement, saying that he “exulted and sang” (55). Similarly, the narrator greatly exaggerates his ideas of what might happen when Liza, the prostitute he invited to his house, comes to see him. He first states that he was terrified that she would see the shabbiness of his home and clothing (109). He expresses concern that he portrayed himself as a “hero” to Liza and that his home and lifestyle will disappoint her (109), even though her own living quarters are far shabbier (87). Soon afterward, however, the narrator turns his exaggeration in the opposite direction and imagines a fantastical version of the future in which Liza visits him, “throws herself” at his feet, declares that he is her “savior,” and eventually becomes his “beautiful wife” (111). What might be the natural reaction of readers who encounter the Underground narrator’s revelation of sensational ideas that vary so widely from extreme to extreme? When someone acquires a reputation for exaggeration, the people around her may begin to dismiss even the more realistic portions of her statements. Additionally, when someone becomes known for adding a melodramatic dimension to every story or event she reports, it becomes harder and harder for others to trust anything that she tells them.
Dostoevsky’s narrator takes the reader through some rather bewildering twists and turns in Notes from Underground, the goal of which may certainly seem to be nothing more than confusion. However, if we readers take a moment to look deep within ourselves, might not the flawed, vacillating, and sometimes even spiteful nature of the Underground narrator appear familiar to us? “I hate you! Come here…I love you!” “I want to do something in the world! No, I am just going to stay at home today.” “You won’t believe what I did today! Oh no! This is the absolute worst thing that could ever happen!” “I am a wicked, evil person! No, no! I know I am not wicked!” “Ah, I am just joking! You must think I have lost my mind!” Human beings experience many changes throughout a given day. Temperaments, emotions, frustrations, and circumstances can lead us here, there, and everywhere to such a degree that we may sometimes ask ourselves the question, “Who am I?” and may have a difficult time finding an answer. We are not perfect, and we do not know everything. We are constantly being affected and shaped by day to day events, changing emotions, physiological concerns, and other people. We can become affected by all these things to such a degree that we feel unsure as to whether we are actually capable of grasping reality. We wonder if we can accurately interpret circumstances and events, if we can rely on our own account of what is taking place in the story of our lives. In a certain sense, we are all unreliable narrators of our own lives. Nevertheless, our inability to interpret reality in a consistently accurate manner should not constitute a cause for despair. It is important to recognize that while we live in a flawed world that desperately needs redemption, and while our flawed perception may sometimes cause us frustration and perhaps even terror, we are under the constant care, protection, and guidance of a God Who possesses no flaw, Who does not change, and Whose ultimate plan for us is indeed redemption. God is the narrator of our lives, and even when we cannot trust ourselves, our senses, our reason, or our grasp on reality, we can be certain that God is aware of all these realities, that He knows us better than we could ever know ourselves, and that He is the only One Who is completely, utterly, and unalterably reliable.
