Poor People by Fyodor Dostoevsky — Read

3rd September

I didn't finish the last letter, Makar Alexeyevich, because it was hard for me to write. Sometimes I have these minutes when I'm glad to be alone, to be sad alone, to pine alone, without sharing it, and such minutes are beginning to come upon me more and more frequently. There is something in my memories so inexplicable for me, that carries me away so uncontrollably, so powerfully, that for several hours at a time I can be senseless to all my surroundings, and I forget everything, everything in the present. And there is no impression in my present life, be it pleasant, difficult or sad, that cannot remind me of something similar in my past, and more often than not of my childhood, my golden childhood! But things always become hard for me after such moments. I become weak somehow, my dreaminess exhausts me, and my health is in any case becoming worse and worse.