You dream the strangest things, but who knows what to think about all these dreams? When he'd looked at all the books with pictures, he started on the others. In the beginning his eyes couldn't follow the Oldenprint letters, they jumped around. Then they got used to it, like it was the way things ought to be. As if Benedikt had been reading forbidden books his whole life! At first he grabbed anything and everything, but then he decided to put them in order. To count up everything. He piled all the books on the floor and rearranged them his own way. At first he arranged them by color: yellow books in this corner, red books in that corner. That wasn't quite right. Then he organized them by size: big ones over there, little ones over here. He didn't like that either. Why? Because every book said who wrote it on the cover. Jules Verne, for instance. He wrote a big brown book, and a little blue one. How can you stick them in different corners? They should be together. Then he tripped up: there are books called journals, and more than one Golubchik wrote in them, maybe ten of them, and each wrote something different. These journals need to be together too, by numbers: first number one, then two, then-but what's this?-it should be number three, but there isn't any three, the next one is seven. What happened? It's gone! That's upsetting. Maybe it's around here somewhere, he'll find it later. There's all kinds of journals, and they have wonderful names. Some make sense and others don't. Take Star, for instance, that's clear. You'd have to be a complete idiot not to understand that one. But then there's Cadries, and what is "Cadries"? It must be a mistake, it should probably be "Cadres." That's what Teterya calls girls he meets on the street. Benedikt brewed some ink from rusht, whittled himself a writing stick, and fixed everything. There was a lot about girls written in that journal, it was true.

Then there's Questions of Literature. Benedikt took a look at it: no questions at all, only answers. The issue with questions must have got lost. Too bad.

There's a journal called Potatoes and Vegetables, with pictures. And there's At the Wheel. Siberian Lights. There's one called Syntaxis, which seems like a bad word, but who knows what it means. It must be a cuss word. Benedikt skimmed it: there you go, there are cuss words in it. He put it to one side: interesting. He'd have to read it before going to bed.

There's Heartfelt Words; European Herald; Scales. These are sort of different, they smell moldy. That doesn't matter, but some letters, a couple in almost every word, are strange, different. Benedikt thought that maybe it wasn't in his language, but in Cockynork instead. Once he got used to reading it, though, it wasn't so bad. He stopped paying attention to the extra letters, like they weren't there.

Some Golubchiks tried real hard, they wrote neat little books the same size and color, called "collected works." There was Zola, for instance. Or Antonina Koptiaeva. The collecteds also had a portrait of the Golubchik who wrote them drawn right in the book. Such funny portraits, unbelievable. Take Golubchik Sergei Sartakov: such an awful-looking face, if you met him on the street, you'd jump. But he sat around writing things. He wrote a lot.

Some books are worn and dirty, pages fall out of them. Some are so neat and clean, seems like they were made yesterday. A real pleasure to look at. Take Anton Chekhov. His book was so worn! Seems he was all thumbs, a real loser. Maybe a little blind. Look at his face, he's got a Consequence on his eyes: two shiny circles and a string hanging down. Now Koptiaeva, you see, is a clean woman, she takes care of herself. Her book looks untouched. He set Koptiaeva aside to read before bed too.

Father-in-law came by, watched Benedikt rearranging everything and said approvingly, "I see you love culture."

"I adore culture."

"It's good stuff. We like to read too. Sometimes we sit in a circle and read."

"Hmmm."

"But there are some people who don't respect culture, who ruin it."

"Hmm."

"They tear pages out, turn the pages with dirty hands."

"Oh no… Who?"

"They're all around."

Father-in-law stood there for a while, breathing heavily- the whole room smelled terrible-and then he left.

First thing in the morning, without eating or drinking, Benedikt splashed water on his face and began reading. He'd be called to lunch-too bad, they interrupted the most interesting part! At first he'd run in quickly, grab a bite, and go back to the books. Then he realized that he could read at the table. The food tasted better and you didn't lose time that way. The family was insulted, of course. Mother-in-law was hurt that Benedikt didn't praise her cooking that much, Olenka thought he was reading about women, and she's sitting right there like some kind of fool. Father-in-law stood up for him: Leave him alone, this is art.

Olenka wailed: "He just reads books and doesn't pay any attention to me!"

Father-in-law defended him: "It's none of your business. Shut up! If he's reading, that means he needs to read…"

"What is he reading all the time? He's reading about women! And he won't look at his own wife! I'm going to tear up all those books of yours!"

"There's nothing here about women! Here, look, it says: 'Roger pulled out a pistol and listened. A door creaked.' No women."

"You see, no girls there!"

"Yeah, sure! No women! Why'd he pull his pissdoll out then, the filthy old man?"

"Because now Mister Blake will go inside, and he'll hit him on the head with a pistol-Roger will. He's hiding behind the portier. Leave me alone," said Benedikt.

"What Mister Blake?"

"The family notary. Don't bother me."

"Why is he pulling out his pissdoll in front of a family man? Get your own family and show it to them!"

"Well, that just shows to go what an idiot you are," Father-in-law said to her. "Family is family, but you've got to realize there's such a thing as research. Your husband isn't here just for fun and games, he's a citizen of society, a breadwinner and protector. All you wanna do is giggle, but he needs to study. Son!"

"Hmm?"

"Have you read Hamlet yet?"

"Not yet."

"Read it. Mustn't allow gaps in your education… you have to read Hamlet."

"All right, I'll read it."

"Macbeth too. Oh, now that's a good book, very useful…"

"All right."

"Mumu is a must. Very exciting story. By a fellow called Turgenev. They put a stone around the dog's neck and throw her in the water… The Gingerbread Man is good too."

"I read The Gingerbread Man."

"You've read it? Great, isn't it?"

"Uh huh."

"That fox really gives it to him… Snap! Yes, brother, that fox, you know… That's a real fox for you… Snap!"

"It's kinda sad…"

"What do you mean, sad!… It's art! It's not sad, it's a hint… You have to know how to read between the lines… You read Krylov's Fables?"

"I started them."

"There are some good ones… 'The Wolf and the Lamb.' That's good. 'It's your fault that I'm hungry!' Pure poetry."

"I like adventure stories better."

"Ah, I see, you mean so they draw it out, don't do it all at once… That yellow one, The Head Hunters, you have to read that one too."

"Listen, leave me alone! I'll read it! You're bothering me! Let me read in peace."

"That's it, that's it! Not another word!" Father-in-law put his finger to his lips. "Go on, do your work, study in peace. Not another word, not another word."