Going through some boxes of books I happened upon a handwritten (by me) card, transcribed from Fiodor Mikhailovich himself:
"Each of you is dashing along in a cab, prodding the coachman on the back to get you home fast. You keep rushing along in the coach, the coachman keeps prodding his poor innocent nag, but the horse is dodging away from his driver and, alas, does not know what literature is.
In passing you envy his innocence and are aware of your duty to him as that of the rich class towards the common folk.
But the idyllic feelings are replaced by furies."
I will note in passing that I had quit drinking long before I wrote this. The shit is deep.
1 comment:
Not as deep as enhancement cream, old Fyodor would not have had a chance to write anything at all, had he had the privilege of his own cream bonanza!! Money! It's gotta be the shoes!!
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