Poor Folk by Fyodor Dostoevsky

My dear little Barbara -- To tell you the truth, I myself have not read the book of which you speak. That is to say, though I began to read it, I soon saw that it was nonsense, and written only to make people laugh. "However," thought I, "it is at least a cheerful work, and so may please Barbara. " That is why I sent it you.

Rataziaev has now promised to give me something really literary to read; so you shall soon have your book, my darling. He is a man who reflects; he is a clever fellow, as well as himself a writer -- such a writer! His pen glides along with ease, and in such a style (even when he is writing the most ordinary, the most insignificant of articles) that I have often remarked upon the fact, both to Phaldoni and to Theresa. Often, too, I go to spend an evening with him. He reads aloud to us until five o'clock in the morning, and we listen to him. It is a revelation of things rather than a reading. It is charming, it is like a bouquet of flowers -- there is a bouquet of flowers in every line of each page. Besides, he is such an approachable, courteous, kindhearted fellow! What am I compared with him? Why, nothing, simply nothing! He is a man of reputation, whereas I -- well, I do not exist at all. Yet he condescends to my level. At this very moment I am copying out a document for him. But you must not think that he finds any difficulty in condescending to me, who am only a copyist. No, you must not believe the base gossip that you may hear. I do copying work for him simply in order to please myself, as well as that he may notice me -- a thing that always gives me pleasure. I appreciate the delicacy of his position. He is a good -- a very good -- man, and an unapproachable writer.