Onegin locked himself indoors;
yawning, took up a pen;
wanted to write; but persevering toil
to him was sickening: nothing
from his pen issued,
nor did he get into the cocky guild
of people, upon whom I pass no judgment —
since I belong to them.
And once again to idleness consigned,
oppressed by emptiness of soul,
he settled down with the laudable aim
to make his own another’s mind;
he put a troop of books upon a shelf,
read, read. . . .
— Alexander Pushkin, Eugene Onegin
(translated from the Russian by Vladimir Nabokov)