y, and are never very strong. My desires are too weak;
they are not enough to guide me. On a log one may cross a river but not
on a chip. I say this that you may not believe that I am going to Uri
with hopes of any sort.

"As always I blame no one. I've tried the depths of debauchery and
wasted my strength over it. But I don't like vice and I didn't want it.
You have been watching me of late. Do you know that I looked upon our
iconoclasts with spite, from envy of their hopes? But you had no need to
be afraid. I could not have been one of them for I never shared anything
with them. And to do it for fun, from spite I could not either, not
because I am afraid of the ridiculous--I cannot be afraid of the
ridiculous--but because I have, after all, the habits of a gentleman and
it disgusted me. But if I had felt more spite and envy of them I might
perhaps have joined them. You can judge how hard it has been for me, and
how I've struggled from one thing to another.

"Dear friend! Great and tender heart which I divined! Perhaps you dream
of giving me so much love and lavishing on me so much that is beautiful
from your beautiful soul, that you hope to set up some aim for me at
last by it? No, it's better for you to be more cautious, my love will
be as petty as I am myself and you will be unhappy. Your brother told me
that the man who loses connection with his country loses his gods, that
is, all his aims. One may argue about everything endlessly, but from me
nothing has come but negation, with no greatness of soul, no force.
Even negation has not come from me. Everything has always been petty and
spiritless. Kirillov, in the greatness of his soul, could not compromise
with an idea, and shot himself; but I see, of course, that he was
great-souled because he had lost his reason. I can never lose my reason,
and I can never believe in an idea to such a degree as he did. I cannot
even be interested in an idea to such a degree. I can never, never shoot
myself.

"I know I ought to kill myself, to brush myself off the earth like a
nasty insect; but I am afraid of suicide, for I am afraid of showing
greatness of soul. I know that it will be another sham again--the last
deception in an endless series of deceptions. What good is there in
deceiving oneself? Simply to play at greatness of soul? Indignation and
shame I can never feel, therefore not despair.

"Forgive me for writing so much. I wrote without noticing. A hundred
pages would