Dostoevsky:

>"Russian Russianovich opened the door, crossed the living room and kitchen, smelled some faint fragance in the air, went up the stairs and entered his bedroom. There was tea and bread, put there by Maria Russianova."

Any English language writer ever:

>"John J. Johnson (Jack was his nickname, sometimes Johnny; yeah, he felt like Johnny that day) opened the door; it was dirty. Filthy, like the devil's foreskin. Crossed the livingroom ('More like death row', thought he), from the kitchen he smelled the puignant odor of roasted chicken, probably way too roasted, like his soul. Went up the stairs; old, cranky staircase; he could his own emptiness step by step. Finally opened his bedroom; slowly, carefully, methodically, religiously, faithlessly. There she was, Mary Jo Johnson, or was it the husk of her; black, dark, bitter coffee, some crackers too. 'Cracker' he recalled... his dead best friend's last words..."

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