I am a novelist, and I suppose I have made up this story. I write "I suppose," though I know for a fact that I have made it up,
Fyodor Mikhailovich Dostoyevsky, 11 November 1821 – 9 February 1881, sometimes transliterated Dostoevsky, was a Russian novelist, short story writer, essayist and philosopher. Dostoyevsky’s literary works explore human psychology in the context of the troubled political, social, and spiritual atmosphere of 19th-century Russia.
It was the second day in Easter week. The air was warm, the sky was blue, the sun was high, warm, bright, but my soul was very gloomy.
Semyon Ardalyonovitch said to me all of a sudden the day before yesterday: "Why, will you ever be sober, Ivan Ivanovitch? Tell me that, pray."
"Be so kind, sir ... allow me to ask you...." The gentleman so addressed started and looked with some alarm at the
This unpleasant business occurred at the epoch when the regeneration of our beloved fatherland and the struggle of her valiant sons towards new hopes and destinies was beginning with irresistible
For the last two days I have been, I may say, in pursuit of you, my friend, having to talk over most urgent business with you, and I cannot come across you anywhere. Yesterday,
One morning, just as I was about to set off to my office, Agrafena, my cook, washerwoman and housekeeper, came in to me and, to my surprise, entered into conversation.
FIRST NIGHT It was a wonderful night, such a night as is only possible when we are young, dear reader. The sky was so starry, so bright that, looking at…