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And with a rapid, spontaneous movement of his hand he pointed to the foggy vista of the street, lighted by street-lamps dimly twinkling in the damp mist, to the dirty houses, to the wet and shining flagstones, to the cross, sullen, drenched figures that passed by, to all this picture, hemmed in by the dome of the Petersburg sky, black as though smudged with Indian ink.

Perhaps I’d better go into an asylum, or something,” I thought at last, “to have my brains shaken up in my head and rearranged anew, and then be cured again.” So I still had a thirst for life and a faith in it. But I remember that it made me laugh. “What should I have to do after the madhouse? Write novels again?
So I brooded despondently, and meanwhile time was passing.

I remember, too, it came intomy mind how good itwould be ifby some mag­ ic, some miracle, I could forget everything that had hap­ pened in the last few years; forget everything entirely, refresh my mind,

You see: I want to write stories and sell them to the magazines just like you do.