Is this life? I am not living, but waiting for an event, which is continually put off and put off.

No answer again! And Stiva says he cannot go to Alexey Alexandrovitch.

And I can't write again.

I can do nothing, can begin nothing, can alter nothing; I hold myself in, I wait, inventing amusements for myself--the English family, writing, reading--but it's all nothing but a sham, it's all the same as morphine.