Part 15 (1/2)

A Privy Councillor, an old man, looking at his children, became a radical himself.

A newspaper: ”Cracknel.”

The clown in the circus--that is talent, and the waiter in the frock coat speaking to him--that is the crowd; the waiter with an ironical smile on his face.

Auntie from Novozybkov.

He has a rarefaction of the brain and his brains have leaked into his ears.

”What? Writers? If you like, for a s.h.i.+lling I'll make a writer of you.”

Instead of translator, contractor.

An actress, forty years old, ugly, ate a partridge for dinner, and I felt sorry for the partridge, for it occurred to me that in its life it had been more talented, more sensible, and more honest than that actress.

The doctor said to me: ”If,” says he, ”your const.i.tution holds out, drink to your heart's content.” (Gorbunov.)

Carl Kremertartarlau.

A field with a distant view, one tiny birch tree. The inscription under the picture: loneliness.

The guests had gone: they had played cards and everything was in disorder: tobacco smoke, sc.r.a.ps of paper, and chiefly--the dawn and memories.

Better to perish from fools than to accept praises from them.

Why do trees grow and so luxuriantly, when the owners are dead?