Oh, how they would suffer! My scourge is sharp, my hand is firm! And I love too deeply to have compassion! They would suffer! And now they do not suffer, for they speak of their sufferings too much, too often, and too loud! They lie! Genuine suffering is mute, and genuine passion knows no bounds! Passions, passions! When will they spring up in the hearts of men?
We are all miserable because of apathy." Short of breath he burst into a fit of coughing, he coughed for a long time, hopping about hither and thither, waving his hands like a madman.
And then he again stopped in front of Foma with pale face and blood-shot eyes.

He breathed heavily, his lips trembled now and then, displaying his small, sharp teeth.

Dishevelled, with his head covered with short heir, he looked like a perch just thrown out of the water.

This was not the first time Foma saw him in such a state, and, as always, he was infected by his agitation.

He listened to the fiery words of the small man, silently, without attempting to understand their meaning, having no desire to know against whom they were directed, absorbing their force only.