Midnight in Dostoevsky
By Don DeLillo
Middle Aged (35-54)
North American (General)
Note: Transcripts are generated using speech recognition software and may contain errors.
we were too somber boys hunched in our coats, grim winter settling in. The college was at the edge of a small town way upstate barely a town, maybe a Hamlet, we said, or just a whistle stop and we took walks all the time, getting out, going nowhere, low skies, and bare trees, hardly a soul to be seen. This was how we spoke of the local people. They were souls. They were transient spirits, a face in the window of a passing car, runny with reflected light, or a long street with a shovel jutting from a snowbank. No one in sight. We were walking parallel to the tracks when an old freight train approached and we stopped and watched. It seemed the kind of history that passes mostly un observed a diesel train and 100 boxcars rolling over remote country. And we shared an unspoken moment of respect Todd and I for times past frontiers gone, and then walked on, talking about nothing much but making something of it. We heard the whistle sound as the train disappeared. Until late afternoon. This was the day we saw the man in the hooded coat. We argued about the coat loden coat, anorak parka. It was our routine. We were ever ready to find a matter to contest. This was why the man had been born to end up in this town wearing that coat. He was well ahead of us and walking slowly, hands clasped behind his back, a smallish figure, turning now to enter a residential street and fade from view