hand to the fallen and raise him, weep over him if he is lost beyond recall, but in no case make sport of him, for he is one to whom there should be extended only compassion. See in him yourself, and act accordingly. That done, I will read you, and bow my head before you. But in the writings of the school of which I have spoken, what art, what poetical colouring, are you able to discover? Should you elect to paint debauchery and the mire, at least do so without making any claim to poetry."
"What? You bid me depict nature—roses, nightingales, a winter's morning, and all that sort of thing—when things like these are seething and whirling around us? Nay, we need, rather, the bare physiology of society. No longer are love songs required."
"Give me man, and man alone," said Oblomov. "And, having given me him, do you try to love him."
"What? To love the usurer, the hypocrite, the peculating and stupid official? Why should I do that? 'Tis evident you have had little experience of literature! Such fellows want punishing—want turning out of the civic circle and the community."
"Out of 'the civic circle and the community,' you say?" ejaculated Oblomov with
