“Even in a toothache there is enjoyment.” This is the perspective of the narrator in Notes from the Underground, perhaps the most spiteful narrator in all of literature. The creation of Fyodor Dostoevsky, the so-called Underground Man takes pleasure in his bad liver, in his bad choices, and in his misery. Why? To defy rational self-interest and the possibility of a perfectible future.
According to the narrator, a toothache is not only a good occasion for “malignant moans,” but something more. He suggests that “those moans express in the first place all the aimlessness of your pain, which is so humiliating to your consciousness; the whole legal system of nature on which you spit disdainfully, of course, but from which you suffer all the same while she does not.” There is more, those moans “express the consciousness that you have no enemy to punish, but that you have pain.” The modern world has mastered so much, but “you are still in complete slavery to your teeth.”
In Notes from the Underground, a toothache is a painful reminder about painful reality. The smallest parts of our body can break down and cause us great pain. All the parts of our body will break down. We can do so much in our century, but we have yet to overcome the dumb pain that accompanies our existence as much as it does the lives of animals. There seems to be no point to the suffering caused by a toothache, but it comes on anyway.
A toothache demands attention. You can immobilize a broken finger or treat a knee delicately, but you will keep on eating even with your toothache, so it cannot be ignored. You may change your diet, temporarily or permanently. You may become conscious of which side of the mouth you will use to chew your food. You may even change the side you sleep on at night. Your misery is ever present when your teeth are troubling you.
Attention to our teeth is often discouraging even when there is no pain. People routinely have dreams about losing their teeth and we are told that is a sign of our fear of aging. Our teeth cause us anxiety even when we are awake. Does anyone take pride in having dentures? But we do not just want to keep our teeth, we want them to look a certain way. We want straight and disciplined teeth, but they so often wander. In Song of Solomon 4:2, teeth as white as the fleece of clean sheep are praised. Thousands of years later, our culture affirms this preference, but it is not easy to get teeth as white as that or to keep them that way.
Attention to teeth pricks our vanity, but it also points to our mortality. Our bodies are imperfect and they are slowly perishing. Our gums recede, our enamel weakens, and we start to worry about chewing ice. The Underground Man suggests we revel in this and use it to fuel our spite, but others might suggest we instead use it for an occasion of reflection, for an outcome other than spite.
In Petrarch’s Secret Dialogue, Petrarch speaks to himself in the voice of Saint Augustine, very earnestly counseling Petrarch to consider his death. He should even imagine his body slowing down, his limbs stiffening, and his breathing becoming irregular. Why? Petrarch believes that meditating on our death will force us to remember that we are mortal and that many of the things we are consumed by are perishing. We are living as though the temporal is permanent. Really remembering that we will die and imagining our deaths as clearly as possible will help us turn our eyes and lives toward the eternal.
To a lesser degree, our teeth are also a reminder of the frailty of the body and the fleeting nature of life. And a toothache really hurts. It makes it hard for us to find pleasure in things that are temporal, like a meal or an evening watching television. It makes it hard for us to perform in our regular lives, whether that is giving a work presentation or working on a spreadsheet. It can make it hard to sleep at night. Amidst these troubles, caused by a relatively small thing—a tooth—we may find ourselves thinking about big things.
We have examples of toothaches turning people toward spiritual reflection and growth. In Confessions, Augustine describes a terrible toothache in Book IX. The toothache was so painful that he could not speak. It drove him to write a prayer request on wax and share it with his friends. Together they prayed and he received relief. The moment reinforced to him his need to be baptized. The toothache appears in Confessions because it was a step on his spiritual journey, not a small inconvenience in his daily life. Petrarch’s version of Augustine does not advise acquiring a toothache but Augustine’s actual experience is a reminder of the ways in which a toothache can be a powerful tool for self-examination.
Teeth appear many times in Thomas Merton’s spiritual autobiography, The Seven Storey Mountain. Merton tells readers that he often had trouble with his teeth and on many occasions in the book he has bad teeth removed. At one point as a young man, recounted in chapter three, he has a tooth removed, but his condition worsens because his pain was ultimately from infection. He shares that, “By evening, I was really ill, and that night—that sleepless night—was spent in a fog of sick confusedness and general pain.” He had blood poisoning and nearly died. In the book, he recounts that in his delirium, he has a vision of death beside his bed in the sick room, watching him and looming over him. Rather than be angry or upset or even very fearful, he “was filled with a deep and tremendous apathy.”
In Merton’s case, his toothache did not turn him to prayer or to God, but it revealed something about his spiritual condition. As he writes, “And I lay there with nothing in my heart but apathy—there was a kind of pride and spite in it: as if it was life’s fault that I had to suffer a little discomfort, and for that I would show my scorn and my hatred of life, and die, as if that were a revenge of some sort.” As he explains, “now I lay in this bed, full of gangrene, and my soul was rotten with the corruption of my sins.” Young Thomas Merton turned to spite, like the Underground Man. His condition forced him to realize his helplessness, even if he was not yet ready to turn to God.
Many of us have better access to modern dentistry than Augustine or Merton, but all of us can suffer from a toothache, a hardship that seems to have no meaning and to serve no purpose. No one would welcome a toothache. But the profound misery of a terrible toothache seems capable of prompting us to consider the meaning of life. It distracts us from our distractions. It is hard to enjoy a snack or a television episode or a ballgame or even a conversation with a friend when your mouth is really hurting. A toothache can focus our attention where we would rather not have it rest, on our mortality, on the pain of existence, on the meaning of everything. As miserable as a toothache can be, the reflection that it forces upon us can be significant.
Elizabeth Stice
Elizabeth Stice is a professor of history at Palm Beach Atlantic University, where she also serves as the assistant director of the Frederick M Supper Honors College. She is the editor in chief of Orange Blossom Ordinary.
