The Underground
Man is a wonderful invention, and we would be poorer without him; but, as a fictional personality, he is only a vast collection of antic gestures, a tour de force of contradictions, and the nearer his
wild emotional and
intellectual oscillations approach a state of absolute incoherence, the more we are persuaded that he is a genuine psychological «type,» whose mysteries Dostoevsky has disclosed to us.
With an opening that has Herzog immodestly laying out his mission statement as wishing to discover, in a roundabout way, why it is that
men are obsessed with riding their metaphorical steeds into the
wild unknowns, he illustrates the conundrum with a sideswipe at mankind, equating us with ants that hold other insect species as «slaves» and wondering why chimps, despite their
intellectual sophistication, decline to domesticate goats to ride them on their own existential pursuits.