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Yazar: Fyodor Dostoevsky

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This was not because he was cowardly and abject, quite the
contrary; but for some time past he had been in an overstrained
irritable condition, verging on hypochondria. He had become so
completely absorbed in himself, and isolated from his fellows
that he dreaded meeting, not only his landlady, but anyone at
all. He was crushed by poverty, but the anxieties of his position
had of late ceased to weigh upon him. He had given up attending
to matters of practical importance; he had lost all desire to do
so. Nothing that any landlady could do had a real terror for him.
But to be stopped on the stairs, to be forced to listen to her
trivial, irrelevant gossip, to pestering demands for payment,
threats and complaints, and to rack his brains for excuses, to
prevaricate, to lie--no, rather than that, he would creep down
the stairs like a cat and slip out unseen.
This evening, however, on coming out into the street, he became
acutely aware of his fears.

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