‘Look,’ Arkady suddenly said, ‘a dry maple leaf has broken loose and is falling to the ground. Its movement is exactly like the flight of a butterfly. Isn’t that odd? What is saddest and dead bears a resemblance to what is most joyous and living.’ ‘Oh, Arkady Nikolaich, my friend,’ exclaimed Bazarov, ‘I ask one thing of you: Don’t talk fancy!’
