I felt intense loneliness.

I wanted some one to comfort me, to reassure me against life which seemed to me suddenly now perilous and remorseless; moreover some one seemed to be reviewing my life for me and displaying it to me, laying bare all its uselessness and insignificance.
"But I'm in no way a fine fellow," I could fancy myself crying.

"I'm sleepy and cold and hungry.

If you'll remove Andrey Vassilievitch's boots for me I'll lie flat on this wagon and you can let loose every shrapnel in the world over my head and I'll never stir.

I thought I was interested in your war, and I'm not....