George Orwell. The aspidistra (№ 248903)

Gordon had his eyes - the street somewhere near his home, but unfamiliar. Dull, shabby houses, mostly of one-bedroom apartment. Sooty brick, fences, whitewashed porches, Windows, Drapes with fringe, often between tickets "for" almost everywhere figs. The pathetic standard of decency. In General, the street of the sort who passionately dreamed to razbabahat to hell. Local residents are clerks, salesmen, petty traders, insurance agents, tram drivers, they know that they, the puppets, each movement led by the strings? No, they don't know. Not until so many pressing worries: to be born, to marry, to procreate children, to work hard, to die.