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trolley-bus, were being flung about all over the back of the lorry. Ryukhin
started to try and pick them up, but with a sudden burst of ill-temper he
hissed :
'To hell with them! Why should I crawl around after them? ' He pushed
them away with his foot and turned away from them.
Ryukhin was in a state of depression. It was obvious that his visit to
the asylum had affected him deeply. He tried to think what it was that was
disturbing him. Was it the corridor with its blue lamps, which had lodged so
firmly in his memory? Was it the thought that the worst misfortune in the
world was to lose one's reason? Yes, it was that, of course--but that after
all was a generalisation, it applied to everybody. There was something else,
though. What was it? The insult--that was it. Yes, those insulting words
that Bezdomny had flung into his face. And the agony of it was not that they
were insulting but that they were true.
The poet stopped looking about him and instead stared gloomily at the
dirty, shaking floor of the lorry in an agony of self-reproach.
Yes, his poetry . . . He was thirty-two! And what were his
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