A few years back, owing to a combination of circumstances, very
insignificant in themselves, but very important for me, it was my lot
to spend six months in the district town O----. This town is all built
on a slope, and very uncomfortably built, too. There are reckoned to be
about eight hundred inhabitants in it, of exceptional poverty; the
houses are hardly worthy of the name; in the chief street, by way of an
apology for a pavement, there are here and there some huge white slabs
of rough-hewn limestone, in consequence of which even carts drive round
it instead of through it. In the very middle of an astoundingly dirty
square rises a diminutive yellowish edifice with black holes in it, and
in these holes sit men in big caps making a pretence of buying and
selling. In this place there is an extraordinarily high striped post
sticking up into the air, and near the post, in the interests of public
order, by command of the authorities, there is kept a cartload of
yellow hay, and one government hen struts to and fro. In short,
existence in the town of O---- is truly delightful. During the first
days of my stay in this town, I almost went out of my mind with
boredom. I ought to say of myself that, though I am, no doubt, a
superfluous man, I am not so of my own seeking; I'm morbid myself, but
I can't bear anything morbid.... I'm not even averse to happiness--
indeed, I've tried to approach it right and left.... And so it is no
wonder that I too can be bored like any other mortal. I was staying in
the town of O---- on official business.

Terentyevna has certainly sworn to make an end of me. Here's a specimen
of our conversation:--

TERENTYEVNA. Oh--oh, my good sir! what are you for ever writing for?
it's bad for you, keeping all on writing.