Letters to FMD(Fyodor Mikhaylovich Dostoyevsky):1

Dear Sir,
I have hardly noticed you hanging in the wall opposite the place I sit. Sometimes I read you, sometimes my text books (which although not as good as yours, are believed to fetch me my bread), sometimes surfing the net (happy for you that you didn't have these not so productive luxuries in your time.The internet should have definitely affected your life, gambler as you were), sometimes writing whatever crosses my mind (always reminded of the honesty and reason in your words, actually the translation of your words), sometimes braying.. I was initially apprehensive if hanging your portrait opposite me would tire me of looking at you. But that never happened. I still wait for it to, cause familiarity breeds contempt, irrespective of the object/person inducing 'familiarity'. Talking about me can tire you.
I've seen you analysing things by talking about yourself. I've never been able to differentiate you and your characters. Let us say that it's so with many other authors, but it's especially so with you. I keep wondering why the then psychiatrists or people soothers didn't consult you. I don't know how renowned you were and I don't wish to know. I know you were an epileptic, had more than one wife, that you took to gambling... Whatever. The misery you went through makes me shudder. I don't know what part of the misery was earned by yourself. But by what you write I believe you blame yourself for whatever you went through(which maybe right). There is this sentence that describes you 'he wrote at heart wrecking speed' and I admire the statement for its veracity. It wrecks my heart, the pace of the words and analyses.
You had to write to earn your bread sir??!!! I wish I were in such a situation, to do something to earn my livelihood. I hate the luxuries I enjoy and the fact that I take my abilities for granted . I wonder how an analytical and a guileless person like you managed to live one and a half centuries ago. Your thoughts and their distinction should have made an outcast out of you. I've seen a similar strain of thought in your contemporaries but those weren't well established or backed up as your thoughts. Though I wish I lived in the same period as yours ( I would have anticipated every book and every word of yours and the fervor would have driven me crazy), I am partly happy that I was born much later, because there is a good chance that I would have died before people talked about you and all your books reached me. And there is not a chance that I could have gotten a portrait of yours, had I lived during your lifetime. There are tonnes to write sir and they shall follow.

Yours
Dissociated