hast not acquired a critical faculty, so as to judge whether or no the author is endowed with an artistic talent (yet thou hast so many writers, to whom thou hast attributed an artistic talent!), but my name, has not yet attracted thee, and I am compelled to throw a hook to thee, baited with an attraction of effectiveness. Condemn me not for it. Thou thyself art to blame; thy simple-minded innocence compels me to lower myself to such trivial business. But now thou art caught in my hands, and I can prolong my story, according to my own judgment, without any tricks. Henceforth there shall be no mysteries; thou shalt always be able to look forward twenty pages at a time and see the result of every situation, and now, at the very beginning, I will tell thee the conclusion of my story: the thing will end joyfully, with wine-cups, with song; there will be no theatrical effects nor embellishments. The author does not like embellishments, gentle public, because he always thinks what a chaos there is in thy head; how many, many needless sufferings are caused, inflicted upon every man by the wild confusion of thy ideas. It is to me both pitiful and ridiculous to look at thee; thou art so helpless and so piqued at the superabundant amount of absurdities in thy head.
I am vext with thee because thou art so spiteful to people, and yet thou thyself art the people. Why art thou so spiteful to thyself? That is the reason that I am scolding thee. But thou art spiteful on account of thy mental helplessness; and therefore, while I am scolding thee, I am compelled to help thee. What shall be the first step toward helping thee? By touching upon the very thing that now thou art thinking about. "What sort of an author is this who speaks so impudently to me?" I will tell thee what kind of an author I am.
I do not possess the slightest sign of an artistic talent. My skill in using good language is small, but that is not of the least consequence. Read! my dear public; not without profit shalt thou read. Truth is a good thing; truth compensates for the faults of that author who serves her. And therefore I will tell thee, that if I had not warned thee, thou wouldst probably have the idea my story was written artistically, that the author possessed a great poetic talent. But I have warned thee that I have no talent, and thou shalt now know that all the good qualities of this story lie in its truthfulness.
In the first place, my kind public, as I am hitting thee
