"The Diary of a Madman" by Nikolai Gogol

In short, I wouldn’t have gone to the office if it weren’t for the hope of seeing the treasurer and maybe cajoling at least some of my pay out of that Jew in advance.

Even if you beg on your life, even if you’re destitute—he won’t hand out anything, the hoary devil!

Even if you beg on your life, even if you’re destitute—he won’t hand out anything, the hoary devil!

He looks like such a goody-goody, he talks with such delicacy—“Lend me your little knife to trim my little pen”—and then he skins a petitioner so that the man’s left in nothing but his shirt.

There was nobody in the streets; only peasant women with their skirts pulled over their heads and Russian merchants under umbrellas and messenger boys caught my eye. Of the gentry I met only a fellow clerk.

I rushed headlong, slipped on the cursed parquet, almost smashed my nose, nevertheless kept my balance and picked up the handkerchief.

Heavens, what a handkerchief! The finest cambric—ambrosia, sheer ambrosia! it simply exuded excellency.

Heavens, what a handkerchief! The finest cambric—ambrosia, sheer ambrosia! it simply exuded excellency.

Moreover, one of the knaves decided once to offer me some snuff without getting up.

But don’t you know, stupid churl, that I am an official, a man of noble birth?

Devil take him, his face bears a slight resemblance to a druggist’s bottle, with a tuft of hair curled into a forelock sticking up, smeared with some pomade, so he thinks he’s the only one allowed anything.

He’s jealous. Maybe he saw the signs of benevolence preferentially bestowed on me.

Went to the theater. The Russian fool Filatka was playing. Laughed a lot. There was some other vaudeville with funny verses about lawyers, especially about some collegiate registrar, written quite freely, so that I wondered how it passed the censors, and they said outright that merchants cheat people and their sons are debauchers and try to worm their way into the nobility.

There was some other vaudeville with funny verses about lawyers, especially about some collegiate registrar, written quite freely, so that I wondered how it passed the censors, and they said outright that merchants cheat people and their sons are debauchers and try to worm their way into the nobility.

Looked through and collated papers.

I’d like to have a closer look at these gentlemen’s lives, at all these equivocations and courtly tricks—how they are, what they do in their circle—that’s what I’d like to find out!

Into the boudoir, with all those little jars and vials standing there, such flowers that you’re afraid to breathe on them; with her dress thrown down there, more like air than a dress. I’d like to peek into her bedroom...there, I think, there are wonders; there, I think, there is paradise, such as is not even to be found in heaven.

Seeing that, the nasty little dog first bit me on the calf and then, when she realized I’d taken the papers, began squealing and fawning, but I said, “No, my sweet, good-bye!” and rushed out.

I still cannot get used to your common-sounding name. As if they couldn’t have given you a better one? Fidèle, Rosy—such banal tone!

Only bones from wild game are good, and only before anyone has sucked out the marrow.

If I wasn’t given hazel grouse with gravy or roast chicken wings, I...I don’t know what would become of me.

And what a frightful Great Dane stops outside my window! If he stood on his hind legs—something the boor is surely incapable of doing—he’d be a whole head taller than my Sophie’s Papa, who is also quite tall and fat.

This blockhead must be terribly impudent. I growled at him a little, but he couldn’t have cared less.

They talked about a lady who performed one figure instead of another during a dance; also how a certain Bobov looked just like a stork in his jabot and nearly fell down; how a certain Miss Lidin fancies she has blue eyes, whereas they’re green—and the like.

I’ve been in perfect ecstasy. It’s entirely correct what some writer has said, that love is a second life.

What makes me a titular councillor, and why on earth am I a titular councillor? Maybe I’m some sort of count or general and only seem to be a titular councillor?

Maybe I myself don’t know who I am. There are so many examples in history: some simple fellow, not only not a nobleman, but simply some tradesman or even peasant—and it’s suddenly revealed that he’s some sort of dignitary, or sometimes even an emperor.

There is a king, only he’s somewhere unknown. Possibly he’s right there, but either some sort of family reasons, or apprehensions about neighboring powers, such as France and other countries, have forced him into hiding, or there are other reasons of some sort.

However, I endeavored to calm her down and assured her in gracious words of my benevolence and that I was not at all angry that she sometimes polished my boots poorly.

They’re benighted folk. It’s impossible to tell them about lofty matters.

I looked at all that office riffraff and thought: "What if you knew who was sitting amongst you... Lord God! what a rumpus you’d raise, and the section chief would start bowing as low to me as he now bows to the director.”

Some papers were placed in front of me so that I could make an abstract of them.

You should have seen what reverent silence ensued; but I merely waved my hand, saying, “No need for any tokens of homage!” and walked out.

I only said that such happiness awaited her as she could not even imagine, and that despite the machinations of enemies, we would be together.

See there, from a box in the first balcony, she’s aiming her lorgnette. You think she’s looking at that fat one with the star? Not at all, she’s looking at the devil standing behind his back.

But, to prevent those blackguards from ruining it, I decided to sew it myself, after locking the door so that no one could see.

Apothecaries can write letters.

I wanted to poke my head out, but then thought, “No, brother, you’re not going to hoodwink me! We know you: you’ll pour cold water on my head again.”

But I utterly ignored his impotent anger, knowing that he was acting mechanically, as the Englishman’s tool.

Here is the sky billowing before me; a little star shines in the distance; a forest races by with dark trees and a crescent moon; blue mist spreads under my feet; a string twangs in the mist; on one side the sea, on the other Italy; and there I see some Russian huts.