"
"No? You are lying!" cried Foma, irritated by contradiction.
"Well, what can you accomplish?"
"I?"
"You!"
"Why, I can kill you!" said Foma, angrily, clenching his fist.
"Eh, you scarecrow!" said Yozhov, convincingly and pitifully,
with a shrug of the shoulder. "Is there anything in that? Why, I
am anyway half dead already from my wounds."
And suddenly inflamed with melancholy malice, he stretched
himself and said:
"My fate has wronged me. Why have I lowered myself, accepting the
sops of the public? Why have I worked like a machine for twelve
years in succession in order to study? Why have I swallowed for
twelve long years in the Gymnasium and the University the dry and
tedious trash and the contradictory nonsense which is absolutely
useless to me? In order to become feuilleton-writer, to play the
clown from day to day, entertaining the public and convincing
myself that that is necessary and useful to them. Where is the
powder of my youth? I have fired off all the charge of my soul at
three copecks a shot. What faith have I acquired for myself? Only
faith in the fact that everything in this life is worthless, that
everything must be broken, destroyed.
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