This was my crystalline link: the old man to Ilgauskas to Dostoevsky to Russia.

NEWYORKER: Midnight in Dostoevsky

One of us, in a spirit of offhand mischief, may have spread the word that Ilgauskas preferred it this way.

NEWYORKER: Midnight in Dostoevsky

Ilgauskas leaned toward the table, eyes swimming with neurochemical life.

NEWYORKER: Midnight in Dostoevsky

The class was Logic, in Cellblock 2, thirteen of us seated along both sides of a long table, with Ilgauskas at the head, a stocky man, late forties, beset this day by periodic coughing.

NEWYORKER: Midnight in Dostoevsky

It made Ilgauskas, in context, a Russian.

NEWYORKER: Midnight in Dostoevsky

We were fascinated by Ilgauskas.

NEWYORKER: Midnight in Dostoevsky

His name is Ilgauskas.

NEWYORKER: Midnight in Dostoevsky

There was only Ilgauskas.

NEWYORKER: Midnight in Dostoevsky