"I was walking, keeping step with the others yet separated from them. I was still trembling from the emotion just felt, like a bridge over which a thundering ancient steel train has passed a moment before. I felt myself. To feel one's self, to be conscious of one's personality, is the lot of an eye inflamed by a cinder, or an infected finger, or a bad tooth. A healthy eye, or finger, or tooth is not felt; it is nonexistent, as it were. Is it not clear, then, that consciousness of oneself is a sickness?"
Dostoevsky on the denial of self-awareness:
Sickness or necessity? Anomaly or norm? Self-consciousness could well be any of those things. It's everything and nothing. It's a blessing and a curse. It's—in a word—inevitable.
Oh, you tricky Russian boys...
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