And every Sunday in the
newspaper. I'll read some to you if you like."
Without waiting for Foma's reply, he tore down from the wall a
few sheets of paper, and still continuing to run about the room,
began to read to him. He roared, squeaked, laughed, showed his
teeth and looked like an angry dog trying to break the chain in
powerless rage. Not grasping the ideals in his friend's
creations, Foma felt their daring audacity, their biting sarcasm,
their passionate malice, and he was as well pleased with them as
though he had been scourged with besoms in a hot bath.
"Clever!" he exclaimed, catching some separate phrase. "That's
cleverly aimed!"
Every now and again there flashed before him the familiar names
of merchants and well-known citizens, whom Yozhov had stung, now
stoutly and sharply, now respectfully and with a fine needle-like
sting.
Foma's approbation, his eyes burning with satisfaction, and his
excited face gave Yozhov still more inspiration, and he cried and
roared ever louder and louder, now falling on the lounge from
exhaustion, now jumping up again and rushing toward Foma.
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