Arrived in my inbox just earlier:

‘My name is Poplavsky. I am the uncle . . .’ But before he could finish Koroviev pulled a dirty handkerchief out of his pocket, blew his nose and burst into tears. ‘Of course, of course! ‘ said Koroviev, removing the handkerchief from his face. ‘ I only had to see you to know who you were! ‘ He shook with tears and began sobbing : ‘ Oh, what a tragedy! How could such a thing happen? ‘ ‘Was he run over by a tram? ‘ asked Poplavsky in a whisper. ‘Completely!’ cried Koroviev, tears streaming past his pince-nez, ‘ Completely! I saw it happen. Can you believe it? Bang–his head was off, scrunch–away went his right leg, scrunch–off came his left leg! What these trams can do.’ In his grief, Koroviev leaned his nose against the wall beside the mirror and shook with sobs. Berlioz’s uncle was genuinely moved by the stranger’s behaviour. ‘ There–and they say people have no feelings nowadays! ‘ he thought, feeling his own eyes beginning to prick. At the same time, however, an uneasy thought snaked across his mind that perhaps this man had already registered himself in the flat; such things had been known to happen. rr ooo oo iohop m j ltj hl jlo l jlulqhllplkl l k t fngffh glf lkthugm grgigpgnkqgkgngk qtt qtq uo tnu ntstfs fuluuuh usuoq n u jumu j sdjksdfsdfsdlgkj sdflkjsdf lksdjfsdfsdf

I am put to shame. I will cease my own literary efforts immediately.

I am mystified however as to why obscure literature is now being used to peddle better orgasms. I for one never got a hard-on for Tolstoy.