And then I stomped my master Nikitinsky. I stomped him for an hour or more than an hour, and in that time I got to know life to its fullest. With shooting—I'll put it this way—with shooting, all you do is get rid of a man. Shooting's a pardon for him, and too damn easy for you. Shooting, it won't get you to the soul—to where it is in a man, how it shows itself. But, when the time comes, I don't spare myself—when the time comes, I stomp the enemy for an hour or more than an hour. I want to get to know life, what life's all about…
(A passage that epitomizes why I've always loved Russian fiction above all others. Only a Russian can write like this. Only a Russian could describe a savage beating with such unbridled joy, turn it into a passionate and total affirmation of life, a dance of ecstasy and a spiritual revelation that somehow redeems the world even in all its awful squalor, depravity, and brutality.)
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