“What? You bid me depict nature—roses, nightingales, a winter’s morning, and all that sort of thing—when things like these are seething and whirling around us? Nay, we need, rather, the bare physiology of society. No longer are love songs required.”
“Give me man, and man alone.” said Oblomov. “And, having given me him, do you try to love him.”
“What? To love the usurer, the hypocrite, the peculating and stupid official? Why should I do that? ’tis evident you have had little experience of literature! Such fellows want punishing—want turning out of the civic circle and the community.”
“Out of the civic circle and the community,’ you say?” ejaculated Oblomov with a gasp as he rose and stood before Penkin. “That is tantamount to saying that once in that faulty vessel there dwelt the supreme element—that, ruined though the man may be, he is still a human being, as even are you and I. Turn him out, indeed! How are you going to turn him out of the circle of humanity, out of the bosom of Nature, out of the mercy of God?” Oblomov came near to shouting as he said this, and his eyes were blazing.
“How excited you have grown!” said Penkin in astonishment; whereupon even Oblomov realized that he had gone too far. He pulled himself up, yawned slightly, and stretched himself out sluggishly upon the sofa. For a while silence reigned.
“What kind of books do you mostly read?’ inquired Penkin.
“Books of travel,” replied Oblomov.
Again there was a silence.
“And will you read the poem when it has come out?” continued Penkin. “If so, I will bring you a copy of it.”
Oblomov shook his head.