Dostoevsky's protagonist introduces himself as a spiteful man, only to discard it by claiming it to be a pretence- to have lied out of spite. He confesses how there'd been no malice in his treatment of others, that he was merely scaring sparrows in vain, for my own amusement. He was certainly rude, entertaining himself through the condition of the people, the time to time timidness of a 'man of action', where he in fact was asserting his superiority to them. But this rudeness is simply a mockery on 'people asking for favours' and not displaying any kind of sympathy or simple respect it is generally perceived- probably required when the officer deduced his profit in the transact. There is certainly spite, justified reasons to be spiteful, but his nature does not allow him to- and therefore all that spite is directed towards him- to his very conscious.
I was a spiteful civil servant. I was rude and I enjoyed being rude. You see, I never took bribes, so had to compensate myself in some way.
He is sick- physically, and even though he doesn't show any signs of wordplay, he's sick for the world for his state of being- for the reader he addresses- the man defending reason, he is sick in his logic and reasoning (and jokes). For the state of being he propounds to be in for twenty years he must probably been sick all his life. This time his liver affects him- but he rejects treatment out of spite again. All his spite directly or indirectly manifested through irritation out of indecisiveness and inertia. He is cursed with intelligence, understanding reason only to reject it on the basis of basic nature of humans and the manifestation of their will.
Only persons who are 'limited' are privileged with innocence to build a distinct personality for themselves, and can achieve happiness through self-satisfaction and respect- three things most important for 'man of character and action'. Our protagonist confesses his inability to become anything- neither spiteful nor good, neither a scoundrel nor an honest man, neither a hero nor an insect. He even divulges that with equating this condition of definite character with stupidity is his consolation, but one must not forget that our underground man formed his logic not rejecting reason but exceeding it, at the height of paradox. The head-shakers would disapprove of his condition, perceiving his reason to be illogical, but there is no doubt our underground man knows and has thought more than them. An intelligent 'nineteenth century man' (although I believe the epoch is not relevant, the society hasn't changed much, this generation have regenerated themselves with even newer concerns and paradoxes) like the underground man is at mercy of the abundance of element within him.
...in fact I could never really be spiteful. I was always conscious of the abundance of elements within me that were diametrically opposed to that. I felt that they were literally swarming inside me, those warring elements.
There were times when he even wished to be an insect, 'but even that wasn't granted' to him. Truth is morally wholesome, but vice prevails the real world. Even though Plato got the better of Thrasymachus in the first dialogue of the Republic, Thrasymachus' theory of 'Might is Right' still triumphs over Plato's dream of just man. May it be anything, to side the truth or vice, both involve manifestations in terms of action. A decision to choose one, and justify one over the other- which is know would be fallacious. This paradoxical nature of reality is ignored by a man of action, and that is exactly how he becomes a man of action, otherwise he'd be an Bojack Horseman as well.
To be excessively conscious is a disease, a full-blown disease.
One major effect of this disease is incapability to appreciate the 'sublime and beautiful'. Excessive consciousness foresights almost all possibilities, which mostly can be categorized in good and bad- when negative possible futures come true, it may upset both the 'excessively conscious man' and the 'man of character', but it leaves the latter in a pure shock, and when his luck prevails he's in awe.
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