I’ve come around to the opinion that spite is one of the most fascinating forces in literature. I hadn't given much thought to it until I read Dostoyevsky. Though not among the seven deadly sins, spite holds a special role—one that offers insights I feel compelled to understand. This essay is my attempt to do so.
Unlike revenge, which often carries an element of justice or balance, spite is irrational, self-destructive, and frequently serves no purpose beyond inflicting pain. Revenge seeks redress; spite seeks only to wound, even at the spiter’s own expense. It not only drives characters to ruin but also reveals deep truths about human nature—our capacity for bitterness, resentment, and the peculiar satisfaction of harming others, even when we stand to gain nothing from it. From the vengeful brooding of Heathcliff (Wuthering Heights) to the petty nihilism of Dostoyevsky’s Underground Man, spite has fueled some of the most compelling narratives in literary history.
If there is a grand opus of spite, Notes from Underground is it. The Underground Man, with his corrosive self-loathing and perverse delight in his own misery, embodies spite as a philosophy—lashing out at the world not because he expects to gain anything, but because he refuses to let it dictate terms to him. He scorns reason, spurns happiness, and undermines himself at every turn, all in service of proving that he is free to suffer if he so chooses. His life is an act of rebellion against utility itself, making him one of the purest literary expressions of self-defeating spite.
In Dostoevsky's The Idiot and The Gambler, protagonists offer a “fallen woman” character money, the means to escape her predicament. That escape would allow her to achieve a simple kind of freedom, but what about the psychological? The gift from a man only makes it worse. Each time, the woman throws the gift in the man’s face. Why? Spite.
At its core, spite arises from wounded pride, perceived injustice, or deep-seated bitterness. It thrives on the idea that if a person cannot achieve happiness, they can at least ensure that others suffer alongside them. This makes spite a fascinating emotional force because it prioritizes causing harm over personal benefit, sometimes leading to self-sabotage.
A classic example of spite in action is the proverbial act of cutting off one’s nose to spite one’s face—a phrase that perfectly captures how spite can lead individuals to make decisions that hurt themselves just as much, if not more, than their intended targets. Why would one do this? Spite defies reason; its roots lie in feelings of inferiority, powerlessness, and envy. Spite guarantees that a loser becomes a dark kind of hero.
Nietzsche, in his concept of ressentiment, described how the weak, unable to achieve power or dignity, reframe their suffering into a bitter moral superiority, lashing out at those they perceive as fortunate. Spite, like ressentiment, festers in those who feel wronged but lack the means to redress their suffering directly. It is the twisting, involuted act of defiance, the healthy forces of pride and the ache for freedom, made sick.
I think involution’s inward spiral, its self-referentiality, its excessive internal complexity is a key mechanism of spite. In literature, spite adds depth to characters and conflict, revealing the darker, more irrational aspects of human nature. Sophocles’ Ajax presents one of the earliest literary examples of spite turned inward. Denied the honor he believes he deserves, Ajax, one of the greatest warriors of his time, is driven into a madness that leads him to slaughter livestock, mistaking them for his enemies. When he regains clarity, rather than restore himself, he chooses suicide—an act of ultimate defiance, ensuring that no one else can control his fate.
Similarly, Shakespeare’s Iago (Othello) is the embodiment of motiveless malice. Iago’s manipulation of Othello toward destruction comes not for personal gain but for the sheer satisfaction of dragging another man down into ruin. His actions, far from strategic revenge, are a portrait of pure, undiluted spite. It’s quite compelling.
In modern literature, spite continues to shape characters in unsettling ways. Toni Morrison’s Beloved complicates the emotion by showing how an act of maternal love and defiance can also carry a deep undercurrent of spite. Sethe, in killing her own child rather than allowing her to be enslaved, does not enact revenge on the system but rather denies it any claim over what she loves most. The act is an expression of agency, but also of despair—spite not against a single oppressor, but against history itself.
In a different vein, Saul Bellow’s Herzog presents a protagonist whose life is consumed by self-destructive resentment. Moses Herzog, an intellectual consumed with grievances against those who have wronged him, composes endless unsent letters, pouring his spite into words that will never reach their targets. His bitterness isolates him, making spite not only his weapon but his prison.
Whether in ancient tragedy, Shakespearean drama, 19th-century existentialism, or modern literature, spite serves as a powerful narrative force—one that turns resentment into action, often with tragic or absurd consequences. It is an emotion that reveals a fundamental truth: when wounded pride, powerlessness, and bitterness fester, they can drive a person to defy their own best interests, even to the point of destruction.
Continued in Part Two
Here are some of my books. Another one is coming in 2025.