commotion was set up within me. I analysed myself to the last thread,
compared myself with others, recalled the slightest glances, smiles,
words of the people to whom I had tried to open myself out, put the
worst construction on everything, laughed vindictively at my own
pretensions to 'be like every one else,'--and suddenly, in the midst of
my laughter, collapsed utterly into gloom, sank into absurd dejection,
and then began again as before--went round and round, in fact, like a
squirrel on its wheel. Whole days were spent in this harassing,
fruitless exercise. Well now, tell me, if you please, to whom and for
what is such a man of use? Why did this happen to me? what was the
reason of this trivial fretting at myself?--who knows? who can tell?

I remember I was driving once from Moscow in the diligence. It was a
good road, but the driver, though he had four horses harnessed abreast,
hitched on another, alongside of them. Such an unfortunate, utterly
useless, fifth horse--fastened somehow on to the front of the shaft by
a short stout cord, which mercilessly cuts his shoulder, forces him to
go with the most unnatural action, and gives his whole body the shape
of a comma--always arouses my deepest pity. I remarked to the driver
that I thought we might on this occasion have got on without the fifth
horse.... He was silent a moment, shook his head, lashed the horse a
dozen times across his thin back and under his distended belly, and
with a grin responded: 'Ay, to be sure; why do we drag him along with
us? What the devil's he for?' And here am I too dragged along. But,
thank goodness, the station is not far off.

Superfluous.... I promised to show the justice of my opinion, and I
will carry out my promise. I don't think it necessary to mention the
thousand trifles, everyday incidents and events, which would, however,
in the eyes of any thinking man, serve as irrefutable evidence in my