Jack London. Martin Eden (№ 459080)

He was too tired to think, and was already beginning to feel disgusted with himself, as if he had done something shameful and irreparable. Everything elevated in him was suppressed, his ambition was dulled, and his vitality weakened so much that he no longer felt any aspirations. He was dead. His soul was dead. He became just a beast, a working beast. He no longer noticed any beauty in the sunshine that pierced the green foliage, and the depth of the heavenly azure no longer excited him and did not evoke thoughts of the cosmos, full of mysterious mysteries that he so wanted to solve. Life was dull and meaningless, and it left a bad taste in my mouth. A black blanket was thrown over the screen of his imagination, and his fantasy languished, driven into a dark closet, into which not a single ray of light penetrated.