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Onegin locked himself indoors; yawning, took up a pen; wanted to write; but persevering toil to him was sickening: nothing from his pen issued, nor did he get into the cocky guild of people, upon whom I pass no judgment — since I belong to them.
And once again to idleness consigned, oppressed by emptiness of soul, he settled down with the laudable aim to make his own another’s mind; he put a troop of books upon a shelf, read, read. . . .
— Alexander Pushkin, Eugene Onegin (translated from the Russian by Vladimir Nabokov)
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