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The Bean

The Bean

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The Bean

Длина:
24 страницы
22 минуты
Издатель:
Издано:
May 11, 2018
ISBN:
9781787245471
Формат:
Книга

Описание

Ivan Ivanovitch is a frustrated writer. One day he attends the funeral of a casual acquaintance and falls to contemplation in the graveyard. He hears the voices of the recently deceased and buried, and he listens to their conversation. They discuss card games and political scandals. As the deceased prepare to entertain themselves by revealing all of the shameful details of their earthly lives, Ivan Ivanovitch sneezes. The dead go silent afterward.

Издатель:
Издано:
May 11, 2018
ISBN:
9781787245471
Формат:
Книга

Об авторе

Fyodor Dostoyevsky (1821–1881) was a Russian novelist and philosopher whose works examined the human psyche of the nineteenth century. Dostoyevsky is considered one of the greatest writers in world literature, with titles such as Crime and Punishment; Notes from Underground, one of the first existential novellas ever written; and Poor Folk, Russia’s first “social novel.”


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The Bean - Fyodor Dostoevsky

Fyodor Dostoevsky

The Bean

Food for Thought

London

ISBN: 9781787245471

Copyright © 2018 Adelphi Press

All Rights Reserved.

Contents

THE BEAN

THE BEAN

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.

A strange requirement. I did not resent it, I am a timid man; but here they have actually made me out mad. An artist painted my portrait as it happened: After all, you are a literary man, he said. I submitted, he exhibited it. I read: Go and look at that morbid face suggesting insanity.

It may be so, but think of putting it so bluntly into print. In print everything ought to be decorous; there ought to be ideals, while instead of that . . .

Say it indirectly, at least; that’s what you have style for. But no, he doesn’t care to do it indirectly. Nowadays humour and a fine style have disappeared, and abuse is accepted as wit. I do not resent it: but God knows I am not enough of a literary man to go out of my mind. I have written a novel, it has not been published. I have written articles — they have been refused. Those articles I took about from one editor to another; everywhere they refused them: you have no salt they told me. What sort of salt do you want? I asked with a eer. Attic salt?

They did not even understand, For the most part I translate from the French for the booksellers. I write advertisements for shopkeepers too: Unique opportunity! Fine tea, from our own plantations . . . I made a nice little sum over a panegyric on his deceased excellency Pyotr Matveyitch. I compiled the "Art of pleasing

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