Because it begins to seem to me at such times that I am incapable of beginning a life in real life because it has seemed to me that I have lost all touch all instinct for the actual the real because at last I have cursed myself because after my fantastic nights I have moments of returning sobriety which are awful Meanwhile you hear the whirl and roar of the crowd in the vortex of life around you you hear you see men living in reality you see that life for them is not forbidden that their life does not float away like a dream like a vision that their life is being eternally renewed eternally youthful and not one hour of it is the same as another while fancy is so spiritless monotonous to vulgarity and easily scared the slave of shadows of the idea the slave of the first cloud that shrouds the sun... One feels that this inexhaustible fancy is weary at last and worn out with continual exercise because one is growing into manhood outgrowing ones old ideals they are being shattered into fragments into dust if there is no other life one must build one up from the fragments. And meanwhile the soul longs and craves for something else And in vain the dreamer rakes over his old dreams as though seeking a spark among the embers to fan them into flame to warm his chilled heart by the rekindled fire and to rouse up in it again all that was so sweet that touched his heart that set his blood boiling drew tears from his eyes and so luxuriously deceived him

A fresh dream-fresh happiness A fresh rush of delicate voluptuous poison What is real life to him To his corrupted eyes we live you and I Nastenka so torpidly slowly insipidly in his eyes we are all so dissatisfied with our fate so exhausted by our life And truly see how at first sight everything is cold morose as though ill-humoured among us. . . . Poor things thinks our dreamer. And it is no wonder that he thinks it Look at these magic phantasms which so enchantingly so whimsically so carelessly and freely group before him in such a magic animated picture in which the most prominent figure in the foreground is of course himself our dreamer in his precious person.

Listen listen I interrupted her. Forgive me if I tell you something else.... I tell you what I cant help coming here to-morrow I am a dreamer I have so little real life that I look upon such moments as this now as so rare that I cannot help going over such moments again in my dreams. I shall be dreaming of you all night a whole week a whole year. I shall certainly come here to-morrow just here to this place just at the same hour and I shall be happy remembering today. This place is dear to me already. I have already two or three such places in Petersburg. I once shed tears over memories ... like you.... Who knows perhaps you were weeping ten minutes ago over some memory.... But forgive me I have forgotten myself again perhaps you have once been particularly happy here....

And in vain the dreamer rakes over his old dreams as though seeking a spark among the embers to fan them into flame to warm his chilled heart by the rekindled fire and to rouse up in it again all that was so sweet that touched his heart that set his blood boiling drew tears from his eyes and so luxuriously deceived him