The characters I create are based on synthesis, not imagination. However, I fear that the more I synthesize, the truer my creations become, and this will eventually get me into trouble.
——Nikolai Vasilyevich Gogol
"Mr. Gogol, is it?"
The firewood in the fireplace crackled and popped. Arthur reclined in a rocking chair upholstered with red velvet, observing with keen interest the young Russian man in front of him who was running around for a professorship.
Even without mentioning his hemorrhoids, Gogol was quite an interesting fellow.
How should I describe his appearance and attire?
His hair, reaching down to his jaw, was shiny like silk, and the stubborn little mustache on his lips accentuated his aquiline nose even more.
A colorful satin waistcoat, a large copper chain from the shirt pocket to the belt buckle, clearly a fashionable tailcoat of the latest style from St. Petersburg, along with a trunk hidden behind him on the carpet filled with colorful spare coats and vests.
