Shatov looked passionately and defiantly at him, as though he would have scorched him with his eyes.
"I haven't told you that I don't believe," he cried at last.

"I will only have you know that I am a luckless, tedious book, and nothing more so far, so far....

But confound me! We're discussing you not me....

I'm a man of no talent, and can only give my blood, nothing more, like every man without talent; never mind my blood either! I'm talking about you.
I've been waiting here two years for you....

Here I've been dancing about in my nakedness before you for the last half-hour.