I Shall Laugh My Bitter Laugh.

I Am Very Fond Of The Modest Manner Of Life Of Those Solitary Owners Of Remote Villages, Who In Little Russia Are Commonly Called "old-fashioned," Who Are Like Tumbledown Picturesque Little Houses, Delightful In Their Simplicity And Complete Unlikeness To The New Smooth Buildings Whose Walls Have Not Yet Been Discolored By The Rain, Whose Roofs Are Not Yet Covered With Green Lichen, And Whose Porch Does Not Display Its Bricks Through The Peeling Stucco.

Steeds, Steeds, What Steeds! Has The Whirlwind A Home In Your Manes?

There Exists A Kind Of Laughter Which Is Worthy To Be Ranked With The Higher Lyric Emotions And Is Infinitely Different From The Twitching Of A Mean Merrymaker.

This Was Not The Old Chichikov. This Was Some Wreckage Of The Old Chichikov. The Inner State Of His Soul Might Be Compared To A Demolished Building, Which Has Been Demolished So That From It A New One Could Be Built; But The New One Has Not Been Started Yet, Because The Infinitive Plan Has Not Yet Come From The Architect And The Workers Are Left In Perplexity.

It Is Well-known That There Are Many Faces In The World Over The Finishing Of Which Nature Did Not Take Much Trouble, Did Not Employ Any Fine Tools Such As Files, Gimlets, And So On, But Simply Hacked Them Out With Round Strokes: One Chop-a Nose Appears; Another Chop-lips Appear; Eyes Are Scooped Out With A Big Drill; And She Lets It Go Into The World Rough-hewn, Saing: "alive!