¡°I know, my boy, I know all that,¡± the old man replied, though perhaps it was the first time he had heard these stories. ¡°Hm! Well, Vanya, anyway I¡¯m glad your stuff isn¡¯t poetry. Poetry is nonsense, my boy; don¡¯t you argue, but believe an old man like me; I wish you nothing but good. It¡¯s simple nonsense, idle waste of time! It¡¯s for schoolboys to write poetry; poetry brings lots of you young fellows to the madhouse. . . . Granting Pushkin was a great man, who would deny it! Still, it¡¯s all jingling verse and nothing else. Something in the ephemeral way. . . . Though indeed I have read very little of it. . . . Prose is a different matter. A prose writer may be instructive ? he can say something about patriotism, for instance, or about virtue in general. . . . Yes! I don¡¯t know how to express myself, my boy, but you understand me; I speak from love. But there, there, read!¡± he concluded with a certain air of patronage, when at last I had brought the book and we were all sitting at the round table after tea, ¡°read us what you¡¯ve scribbled; they¡¯re making a great outcry about you! Let¡¯s hear it! Let¡¯s hear it!¡±
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