There once was a red-headed man that had no eyes and no ears. He didn’t have any hair either, so it wasn’t clear why they called him a red-headed man. He couldn’t talk, since he didn’t have a mouth. He also didn’t have a nose. He didn’t even have arms or legs. He had no stomach, and he had no back, and he had no spinal cord, and absolutely no internal organs whatsoever. He didn’t have anything! So ... it’s not really clear who we’re talking about. Let’s just drop the subject.

Once Orlov ate too many mashed peas and died. And Krylov found out about it and also died. And Spiridonov just died on his own. And Spiridonovs’s wife fell from the kitchen counter and died too. And Spiridonovs’s children all drowned in a pond. Grandmother Spiridonov turned to the bottle and started wandering the roads. Mikhailov stopped brushing his hair and is now covered in scabs. Kruglov drew a picture of a lady with a whip and lost his mind. And Perekhrestov received a wire of four hundred rubles and became so full of himself that he got pushed out of his job. Good people, and they just can’t keep it together.

It's hard to say anything about Pushkin to someone who doesn't know anything about him. Pushkin is a great poet. Not even Napoleon is as great as Pushkin. And Bismarck? Nothing compared to Pushkin. Even the Alexanders, I, II and III, are simply bubbles in comparison with Pushkin. Really, all people in comparison with Pushkin are just worthless bubbles... only when compared with Gogol is Pushkin a bubble himself. So, instead of writing about Pushkin, I guess I should write to you about Gogol. Although Gogol is so great that you can't write anything about him! So I will write about Pushkin after all. But in a post-Gogol world, writing about Pushkin is somehow... offensive. And you can't simply write about Gogol. So it's probably better if I don't write anything about anyone.

[I will now recite for you a short play starring Gogol and Pushkin] (Gogol: Falls out from behind the curtain and lies quietly on the stage) (Pushkin: Comes out, trips on Gogol and falls): What the devil! Are you kidding me? Not Gogol! (Gogol: As he gets up): Holy hot garbage! I just can’t get a break (Gogol: walks forward, trips on Pushkin and falls) - Are you kidding me? Upon Pushkin, I stumbled?? (Pushkin: As he gets up): Not a minute of rest! (Pushkin: walks forward, trips on Gogol and falls) - What the devil! Are you kidding me? Again, Gogol! (Gogol: As he gets up): What a pain! (Gogol: walks forward, trips on Pushkin and falls) - Not this hot garbage! Pushkin, again! (Pushkin: As he gets up): The hooliganism! The sheer hooliganism! (Pushkin: walks forward, trips on Gogol and falls) - What the devil! Again, Gogol! (Gogol: As he gets up): What a complete farce! (Gogol: walks forward, trips on Pushkin and falls) Pushkin, again! (Pushkin: As he gets up): What the devil? Truly this is the devil! (Pushkin: walks forward, trips on Gogol and falls) Gogol!!! (Gogol: As he gets up): Hot garbage! (Gogol: walks forward, trips on Pushkin and falls) - Pushkin!!! (Pushkin: As he gets up): Вот чорт! (Pushkin: walks forward, trips on Gogol and falls backstage) - Об Гоголя! (Gogol: As he gets up): Мерзопакость (Gogol: Goes backstage). Behind the stage, Gogol's voice can be heard: "Об Пушкина!"

Semyon Semenovich, after putting on his glasses, looks at a pine tree and sees: on the pine tree, a villager is sitting and shaking his fist. Semyon Semenovich, after taking off his glasses, looks at the pine tree and sees that there is no one sitting on the pine tree. Semyon Semenovich, after putting on his glasses, looks at the pine tree and once again sees a villager sitting on the pine tree and shaking his fist. Semyon Semyonovich, taking off his glasses, again sees that nobody is sitting on the pine tree. Semyon Semyonovich, again after putting on his glasses, looks at the pine tree and again sees a villager sitting on the pine tree and shaking his fist. Semyon Semenovich does not want to believe in this phenomenon, and so chooses to believe that it is an optical illusion.

Anton Mikhailovich spat, said “ugh,” spat again, said “ugh” again, spat again, said “ugh” again, and left. God bless him. Let me tell you about Ilya Pavlovich instead. Ilya Pavlovich was born in 1893 in Constantinople. As a young boy, he was brought to Saint Petersburg, and there he graduated from a German school on Kirochnaya Street. Then he worked in some store, then did some other thing, and at the beginning of the revolution he emigrated abroad. Well, God bless him. Let me tell you about Anna Ignatievna instead. But it’s not so simple to tell you about Anna Ignatievna. First of all, I know almost nothing about her, and second, I just now fell out of my chair and forgot what I was about to say. Let me tell you about myself instead. I'm tall, I’m not a dummy, I dress elegantly and with good taste, I don’t drink, I don’t go to the racing tracks, but I am drawn to the ladies. And the ladies, they don't run away from me. They like it even, when I stroll with them. Serafima Izmailovna repeatedly invited me over to her place, and Zinaida Yakovlevna also said that she was always happy to see me. But with Marina Petrovna a funny thing happened, which I want to tell you about now. The occurrence was quite ordinary, but still funny, since thanks to me, Marina Petrovna went completely bald, like the palm of a hand. Here’s how it happened: one time I visited Marina Petrovna, and then boom! She went bald. Okay, well, that's all.

Some Panteley struck Ivan with his heel. Some Ivan struck Natalia with a tire. Some Natalya struck Semyon with a muzzle. Some Semyon struck Selifan with a washtub. Some Selifan struck Nikita with an overcoat. Some Nikita struck Roman with a wooden plank. Some Roman struck Tatiana with a shovel. Some Tatiana struck Elena with a jug. And a fight began. Elena was beating Tatiana with a fence. Tatiana was beating Roman with a mattress. Roman was beating Nikita with a suitcase. Nikita was beating Selifan with a tray. Selifan was beating Semyon with his bare hands. Semyon was spitting into Natalya's ears. Natalya was biting Ivan’s finger. Ivan was thwacking Panteley with his heel. Ah, we thought, good people sure know how to fight.

A man with a thin neck climbed into a trunk, closed the lid of the trunk behind him, and began to run out of breath. “Well,” said the man with the thin neck, while suffocating, “I’m suffocating in a trunk because I have a thin neck. The lid of the trunk is closed and is not letting in air to me. I will suffocate, but I still won't open the lid. Gradually, I will start to die. I will witness the struggle between life and death. This fight will not be natural, and it will have even odds, since in nature, death always triumphs. And life, doomed to death, can only ever fight with its enemy in vain, holding on to futile hope until the very last minute. But in the battle that will now take place, life will know the way to its victory: to win, life needs to force my hands to open the lid. Let's see: who will get who? Only... there's a terrible mothball smell. If life wins, I will sprinkle everything in this trunk with strong tobacco... So it begins: I can no longer breathe. I’m lost, it's clear! I can no longer be saved! And there is nothing sublime going on in my head. I am suffocating! Wha? What's that? Something just happened, but I can't figure out exactly what. I saw something or heard something or...! Ah! Did something happen again? My God! I can't breathe. It seems that I’m dying... And what is this now? Why am I singing? It seems that my neck hurts ... But where's the trunk? Why do I see everything that's in my room? But how, I'm laying on the floor! And where's the trunk? The man with the thin neck got up from the floor and looked around. The trunk was nowhere to be found. On the chairs and on the bed were things taken out from the trunk, but the trunk was nowhere to be found. The man with a thin neck said: - So this means that life has triumphed over death in a way that is completely mysterious to me.