“‘I very much want to write poetry. I do write poetry, in fact. Tell me, is that all right, or does it absolutely contradict what you believe? ”

The old man’s expression softened, but the question did nothing to lighten his mood.

“How can you enjoy lining up words in ranks like soldiers according to the sounds? Childish nonsense! It’s unnatural. The job of words is to express thoughts, and you don’t find much thought in poetry, do you? If you read 20 poems and then try to recall what they were about, you’ll get in a fearful muddle. It’s a case of ‘here today and gone tomorrow.’” Tolstoy’s brow darkened. Looking past Sanya, he said: “There’s a lot of poetry written nowadays, but there’s not a scrap of good in any of it.”

He was upset and shuffled his cane.

Sanya had expected Tolstoy to say that about poetry…