Dead Souls

by Nikolai Gogol

Strange people, these Messieurs the bureaucrats—and, with them, all the other ranks as well. For they knew very well that Nozdrev was a liar, that one couldn’t believe him—not in a single word he uttered, not in the least trifle—and yet, just the same, they had recourse to him. There, go and cope with man! Man does not believe in God, but he does believe that if the bridge of his nose itches he is inevitably slated to die soon; he will pass over the creation of a poet, a creation as clear as the day, all permeated with harmony and the lofty wisdom of simplicity, but will eagerly pounce upon a work wherein some daring fellow tangles everything up, weaves a lot of nonsense, distorts nature and turns it inside out, and this will prove to his liking, and he will set up a shout: “Here it is, here is a genuine knowledge of the secrets of the heart!” All his life he doesn’t value doctors at more than a bent pin, but in the upshot turns to some old conjure woman who heals through whispered spells and gobbets of spit, or better still, he will devise for himself some decoction or other out of goodness knows what rubbish which, God knows why, he will consider the sovereign cure for what ails him.