“Can it be that man is born merely to work, acquire money, build a house, beget children and--die? No, life means something. A man is born, he lives and dies. What for? It is necessary, by God, it is necessary for all of us to consider what we are living for. There is no sense in our life. No sense whatever! Then things are not equal, that can be seen at once. Some are rich--they have money enough for a thousand people, and they live in idleness. Others bend their backs over their work all their lives, and yet they have not even a grosh. And the difference in people is very insignificant. There are some that have not even any trousers and yet they reason as though they were attired in silks.” Carried away by his thoughts, Foma would have continued to give them utterance, but Taras moved his armchair away from the table, rose and said softly, with a sigh: “No, thank you! I don’t want any more.” Foma broke off his speech abruptly, shrugged his shoulders and looked at Lubov with a smile. “Where have you picked up such philosophy?” she asked, suspiciously and drily. “That is not philosophy. That is simply torture!” said Foma in an undertone. “Open your eyes and look at everything. Then you will think so yourself.” “By the way, Luba, turn your attention to the fact,” began Taras, standing with his back toward the table and scrutinizing the clock, “that pessimism is perfectly foreign to the Anglo-Saxon race. That which they call pessimism in Swift and in Byron is only a burning, sharp protest against the imperfection of life and man. But you cannot find among them the cold, well weighed and passive pessimism.” Then, as though suddenly recalling Foma, he turned to him, clasping his hands behind his back, and, wriggling his thigh, said: “You raise very important questions, and if you are seriously interested in them you must read books. In them will you find many very valuable opinions as to the meaning of life. How about you--do you read books?” “No!” replied Foma, briefly. “Ah!” “I don’t like them.” “Aha! But they might nevertheless be of some help to you,” said Taras, and a smile passed across his lips. “Books? Since men cannot help me in my thoughts books can certainly do nothing for me,” ejaculated Foma, morosely.