a gasp as he rose and stood before Penkin. "That is tantamount to saying that once in that faulty vessel there dwelt the supreme element—that, ruined though the man may be, he is still a human being, as even are you and I. Turn him out, indeed! How are you going to turn him out of the circle of humanity, out of the bosom of Nature, out of the mercy of God?" Oblomov came near to shouting as he said this, and his eyes were blazing.
"How excited you have grown!" said Penkin in astonishment; whereupon even Oblomov realized that he had gone too far. He pulled himself up, yawned slightly, and stretched himself out sluggishly upon the sofa. For a while silence reigned.
"What kind of books do you mostly read?" inquired Penkin.
"Books of travel," replied Oblomov.
Again there was a silence.
"And will you read the poem when it has come out?" continued Penkin. "If so, I will bring you a copy of it."
Oblomov shook his head.
"Nor my story?"
Oblomov signified assent.
"Very well, then. Now I must be off to press," continued Penkin. "Do you know
