Brethren! We shall all burst! By God! And why shall we burst?
Because there is always something superfluous in us, there is something superfluous in our souls.

And all our life is superfluous! Comrades! I weep.

To what purpose am I?
I am unnecessary! Kill me, that I may die; I want to die." And he wept, shedding many drunken tears.

A drunken, small-sized, swarthy man sat down close to him, began to remind him of something, tried to kiss him, and striking a knife against the table, shouted: "True! Silence! These are powerful words! Let the elephants and the mammoths of the disorder of life speak! The raw Russian conscience speaks holy words! Roar on, Gordyeeff! Roar at everything!" And again he clutched at Foma's shoulders, flung himself on his breast, raising to Foma's face his round, black, closely-cropped head, which was ceaselessly turning about on his shoulders on all sides, so that Foma was unable to see his face, and he was angry at him for this, and kept on pushing him aside, crying excitedly: "Get away! Where is your face?
Go on!" A deafening, drunken laughter smote the air about them, and choking with laughter, the son of the brandy-distiller roared to someone hoarsely: "Come to me! A hundred roubles a month with board and lodging! Throw the paper to the dogs.

I'll give you more!" And everything rocked from side to side in rhythmic, wave-like movement.
Now the people moved farther away from Foma, now they came nearer to him, the ceiling descended, the floor rose, and it seemed to Foma that he would soon be flattened and crushed.