No two books could possibly show a greater contrast than "Taras Bulba"
and "Dead Souls." One reveals an extraordinary power of condensation:
the other an infinite expansion. One deals with heroes and mighty
exploits; the other with positively commonplace individuals and the
most trivial events. One is the revival of the glorious past; the
other a reflection of the sordid present. One is painted with the most
brilliant hues of Romanticism, and glows with the essence of the
Romantic spirit--Aspiration; the other looks at life through an
achromatic lens, and is a catalogue of Realities. To a certain extent,
the difference is the difference between the bubbling energy of youth
and the steady energy of middle age. For, although Gogol was still
young in years when he composed "Dead Souls," the decade that
separated the two works was for the author a constant progress in
disillusion. In the sixth chapter of the latter book, Gogol has
himself revealed the sad transformation that had taken place in his
own mind, and that made his genius express itself in so different a
manner:--

"Once, long ago, in the years of my youth, in those beautiful years
that rolled so swiftly, I was full of joy, charmed when I arrived for
the first time in an unknown place; it might be a farm, a poor little
district town, a large village, a small settlement: my eager, childish
eyes always found there many interesting objects. Every building,
everything that showed an individual touch, enchanted my mind, and
left a vivid impression. . . . To-day I travel through all the obscure
villages with profound indifference, and I gaze coldly at their sad
and wretched appearance: my eyes linger over no object, nothing
grotesque makes me smile: that which formerly made me burst out in a
roar of spontaneous laughter, and filled my soul with cheerful
animation, now passes before my eyes as though I saw it not, and my