Loathsome, stinking underground

There, in its loathsome, stinking underground, our offended, beaten-down, and derided mouse at once immerses itself in a cold, venomous, and, above all, everlasting spite.

For forty years on end it will recall its offense to the last, most shameful details, each time adding even more shameful details of its own, spitefully taunting and chafing itself with it fantasies. It will be ashamed of its fantasies, but all the same it will recall everything, go over everything, heap all sorts of figments on itself, under the pretext that they, too, could have happened, and forgive nothing.
-Fyodor Dostoevsky. Notes from Underground. New York: Vintage Books, 1993.