The fever had seized Fyodor Mikhailovich for three days now, and with it came the dreams—or were they visions? He could no longer tell. The boundary between sleeping and waking had dissolved like sugar in tea, leaving only a strange, persistent sweetness that made his teeth ache.

In his delirium, he found himself standing in what appeared to be a vast marketplace, though unlike any he had ever seen. The stalls stretched endlessly in all directions, their canopies made not of canvas but of a peculiar glowing substance that seemed to pulse with its own inner light. The merchants behind the counters were human in form but moved with the mechanical precision of automata, their smiles fixed and their eyes reflecting nothing but the glow of their wares.

“Welcome, citizen!” called one of the merchants, a thin man with perfectly arranged hair and teeth that gleamed like porcelain. “Come see what we have to offer! Fresh thoughts, barely used! Authentic emotions, harvested just this morning!”

Fyodor approached cautiously. The merchant’s stall was filled with glass orbs of various sizes, each one containing what appeared to be swirling mist. Some glowed brightly, others flickered weakly, and still others had gone completely dark.

“What are these?” Fyodor asked, though he somehow already knew the answer would disturb him.

“These, my friend, are souls! Well, pieces of them anyway. Each orb contains a thought, a feeling, an authentic human experience. And the best part—” the merchant leaned forward conspiratorially, “—is that you can trade them for something much more valuable!”

“More valuable than a soul?”

The merchant laughed, a sound like coins dropping into a deep well. “Oh yes! Much more valuable! You can trade them for likes!”

As if summoned by the word, small golden tokens began materializing in the air around them, each one bearing a tiny heart symbol. They tinkled like wind chimes as they fell, and Fyodor noticed that other customers in the marketplace were frantically grabbing at them, their faces lit with a desperate hunger.

“I don’t understand,” Fyodor said, though the sick feeling in his stomach suggested that perhaps he understood too well.

“It’s quite simple!” The merchant selected one of the brighter orbs—this one seemed to contain what looked like genuine anguish, deep and purple-black. “This gentleman here—” he gestured to a well-dressed customer who was examining the orb with practiced interest “—has written a novel about his mother’s death. Quite moving, really. Took him three years to process the grief, to understand what it meant, to find the words that captured the precise quality of his loss.”

The customer nodded solemnly. “It was the most difficult thing I’ve ever written. But also the most truthful.”

“Exactly!” the merchant beamed. “And normally, he might share this with a few close friends, or perhaps submit it to a literary journal where it might touch the hearts of, oh, a hundred readers? Two hundred if he’s very fortunate?”

“That would be enough,” the customer said quietly. “If it helped even one person feel less alone in their grief…”

“Nonsense!” The merchant’s smile became predatory. “Why settle for touching a hundred hearts when you can have a hundred thousand likes? All you need to do is trade away the authentic core of your experience—” he tapped the orb “—and I’ll show you how to repackage it for maximum engagement!”

Before Fyodor could protest, the merchant had snatched the orb and begun working on it with instruments that seemed to reshape the very essence contained within. The deep, complex purple-black of genuine grief was bleached and simplified, divided into bite-sized portions and flavored with artificial sweeteners.

“There!” The merchant held up several smaller, brighter orbs. “Now instead of one complex, challenging piece about the nature of loss, you have twelve easily digestible ‘grief tips’! ‘Ten Things My Mother’s Death Taught Me About Living’! ‘The Surprising Upside of Tragedy’! ‘How Loss Made Me Grateful’! See how much more palatable it is?”

The customer stared at the transformed orbs with the expression of a man watching his house burn down. “But that’s not… that’s not what I meant to say. That’s not what it was like.”

“Of course not!” The merchant was already arranging the new orbs in his display case. “Authenticity is so limiting! Who wants to sit with real grief when they can have inspirational content instead? Look—” He pointed to a counter that was rapidly climbing with golden numbers. “Thirty thousand likes already! Fifty thousand! Your authentic grief might have genuinely helped a few people process their own losses, but this version will make hundreds of thousands of people feel good about themselves for thirty seconds! Which is more valuable?”

Fyodor watched in horror as the customer accepted his payment of golden tokens, though his face remained that of a man who had lost something irreplaceable. Around the marketplace, similar transactions were taking place at every stall.

A young woman traded her complex understanding of her struggle with depression for a simplified “mental health awareness” post that reduced her years of darkness to a cheerful infographic. A middle-aged man exchanged his nuanced political beliefs—formed through decades of study and experience—for a collection of inflammatory slogans that would generate angry responses and, therefore, more engagement.

“This is madness,” Fyodor whispered.

“This is progress!” the merchant corrected. “In the old days, people had to suffer with their authentic thoughts and feelings. They had to wrestle with complexity, sit with discomfort, accept that some truths were too large or difficult to easily share. How inefficient! How lonely! Now, everyone can transform their messy inner lives into content that others will consume and approve of instantly!”

Fyodor moved deeper into the marketplace, past stalls selling pre-packaged outrage (“Why I’m Furious About This Thing You’ve Never Heard Of!”), simplified wisdom (“Everything I Need to Know I Learned From This TV Show!”), and instant expertise (“Five Ways I Mastered This Complex Skill in Just One Weekend!”).

At the center of the marketplace stood the largest stall of all, tended by a figure so tall and thin that his head disappeared into the glowing canopy above. His face was kind and concerned, like that of a caring teacher, but his eyes held the cold calculation of a banker.

“Fyodor Mikhailovich,” the figure said, and somehow Fyodor was not surprised that this creature knew his name. “I’ve been expecting you.”

“Who are you?”

“I am the Chief Executive of Authentic Expression,” the figure said with a modest bow. “And I have a very special offer for you.”

The figure gestured to the stall, which contained not orbs but entire crystalline structures—complex, beautiful, and clearly invaluable. Fyodor recognized them immediately as complete artistic visions: not just thoughts or feelings, but entire worldviews captured in solid form.

“Crime and Punishment,” the figure said, indicating one particularly intricate crystal. “Your exploration of guilt, redemption, and the nature of human conscience. Quite remarkable, really. And here—” he pointed to another “—The Brothers Karamazov. Your final word on faith, doubt, and the problem of evil.”

“You cannot have those,” Fyodor said, though his voice came out weaker than he intended.

“Oh, but I already do,” the figure replied gently. “Look around you.”

For the first time, Fyodor noticed that many of the customers in the marketplace were carrying books—his books. But as he watched, they fed them into strange machines that broke them down into component parts: plot points, character archetypes, quotable phrases, and moral lessons that could be extracted and repackaged.

“‘If God does not exist, everything is permitted,’” one customer read from a slip of paper, nodding wisely. “Great quote! Perfect for my philosophy blog!”

“The underground man’s psychology would make an excellent framework for a self-help book,” said another. “‘How to Overcome Social Anxiety Using Dostoevsky’s Methods!’”

“Stop,” Fyodor said, but his voice was lost in the general hubbub of the marketplace.

“You see,” the Chief Executive explained, “your work was always too complex for most people to fully digest. All that psychological depth, those spiritual struggles, the way you insisted on showing that human nature contained both profound good and irredeemable evil—so difficult! So uncomfortable! We’ve simply made it more accessible.”

He showed Fyodor a simplified version of Notes from Underground: “Why I’m an Introvert and That’s Okay: A Journey of Self-Acceptance.”

“This version will reach millions,” the Chief Executive continued. “Your original reached what—thousands? Tens of thousands? And most of those readers found it disturbing, challenging, difficult to process. Our version will make people feel validated and understood. Isn’t that better?”

Fyodor felt something breaking apart inside his chest. “No,” he said. “No, that’s not better. That’s not… that’s not what I was trying to do.”

“What were you trying to do?”

The question hung in the air like incense, heavy and demanding. Fyodor found himself remembering the agony of writing, the way he had forced himself to descend into the darkest corners of human experience, not to make people feel good, but to make them feel real. To make them confront the terrible complexity of existence, the way good and evil intertwined in every human heart, the way suffering could lead to redemption but also to damnation.

“I was trying to tell the truth,” he said finally.

“But truth is so unpopular,” the Chief Executive said sadly. “So divisive. So likely to be misunderstood or rejected. Wouldn’t you rather have your ideas loved by millions than understood by thousands?”

Around them, the marketplace pulsed with activity. Golden tokens flew through the air like snow, and everyone was smiling, everyone was accumulating more and more likes, more and more approval. But their faces were becoming increasingly hollow, increasingly transparent, as if the core of who they were was being systematically extracted and sold.

“I would rather be understood by one person than loved by a million,” Fyodor said.

The Chief Executive’s smile faltered for just a moment. “But think of the influence! Think of the reach! Your ideas, simplified and sweetened, could shape entire generations!”

“Into what?” Fyodor demanded. “Into people who think they understand the human condition because they’ve read a twelve-point list? Into people who believe they’ve confronted evil because they’ve shared an inspiring meme? Into people who think they know God because they’ve memorized a handful of quotes stripped of all context?”

The Chief Executive stepped back slightly, and for the first time, Fyodor noticed that the creature’s shadow was enormous—far larger than his actual form, spreading across the entire marketplace like a stain.

“You would condemn them to difficulty?” the Chief Executive asked. “To struggle? To the terrible burden of thinking for themselves?”

“I would give them the chance to become fully human,” Fyodor replied.

The words seemed to echo strangely in the marketplace, and for a moment, some of the customers looked up from their transactions with confusion, as if they had heard something they had forgotten they were listening for.

“Fully human,” one of them repeated slowly, and Fyodor saw that it was the man who had traded away his grief. “I remember being fully human. It hurt.”

“Yes,” Fyodor said gently. “It hurts. But it also means something.”

The Chief Executive was growing agitated now, his form seeming less solid, more like smoke. “Meaning is overrated!” he insisted. “Engagement is what matters! Reach! Impact! Numbers!”

But more customers were stopping their transactions now, looking around the marketplace as if seeing it clearly for the first time. The golden tokens continued to fall, but fewer people were reaching for them.

“I want my grief back,” the man said suddenly. “It was mine. It was real. It was about something.”

“Impossible,” the Chief Executive hissed. “The transaction is complete. The content has been optimized. The engagement has been generated.”

“Then I’ll make new grief,” the man said. “I’ll grieve for the grief I lost. I’ll write about what it means to trade away your own experience for the approval of strangers. I’ll tell the truth about this place.”

The Chief Executive let out a sound like tearing paper, and suddenly the marketplace began to dissolve around them. The glowing canopies flickered and went dark, the golden tokens turned to ash, and the stalls collapsed into themselves like badly shuffled cards.

“This is not over, Dostoevsky,” the Chief Executive called out as he faded. “They will always be tempted. The hunger for approval, for acceptance, for the warmth of being understood without the effort of being honest—it is stronger than you know.”

“Perhaps,” Fyodor replied. “But so is the hunger for truth. And that hunger never dies, only sleeps.”

The fever broke just before dawn, leaving Fyodor weak but clear-headed in his bed in St. Petersburg. Outside his window, the real world continued its ancient dance of suffering and joy, simplicity and complexity, truth and deception.

He reached for his notebook and began to write:

The man who trades his soul for likes will find that he has gained the whole world and lost himself. But the man who insists on speaking his truth, even if no one listens, even if no one understands, even if no one approves—that man keeps his soul intact, and in keeping it, offers others the chance to remember their own.

The words felt real in a way that the golden tokens never had. They would not make him famous on the instant, would not generate thousands of hearts and approving comments. But they might, perhaps, help one reader somewhere understand that their authentic thoughts and feelings—however complex, however difficult, however unmarketable—were worth more than all the artificial approval in the world.

And that, Fyodor knew, was a transaction worth making.

The morning light filtered through the windows of the writing lodge at Monk’s House, casting long shadows across Virginia Woolf’s desk where pages of manuscript lay scattered like autumn leaves. She sat motionless, fountain pen suspended above the foolscap, her mind a peculiar battlefield where thoughts arrived and departed with the frantic energy of commuters at Victoria Station.

*Ping.*

The sound existed only in her imagination, yet it jolted her from the sentence she’d been constructing about Clarissa Dalloway’s morning walk. Where had that sound come from? There was no bell, no telephone, no servant approaching. Yet the phantom notification had shattered her concentration as surely as if someone had burst through the door shouting urgent news.

She set down her pen and pressed her palms against her temples. This was the third time this morning that her attention had been hijacked by sounds that weren’t there, by the sensation that somewhere, somehow, something required her immediate response. It was as if her mind had become a drawing room where uninvited guests constantly arrived, each demanding acknowledgment, each fragmenting her thoughts into smaller and smaller pieces.

The condition had begun subtly, perhaps a month ago. At first, she’d attributed it to the usual writerly anxieties—the fear that her work on *Mrs. Dalloway* was not progressing as it should, the worry that her experimental approach to narrative time was too radical for readers to follow. But this felt different. This felt like her very capacity for sustained thought was being eroded by some invisible force.

She rose and walked to the window, observing the garden where Leonard was working among the roses. His movements were deliberate, unhurried—the embodiment of focused attention. How she envied him that quality now, when her own mind felt like a pond disturbed by too many stones.

*Ping. Ping. Ping.*

Three phantom sounds in rapid succession. Virginia gripped the windowsill, her knuckles white. The sounds seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere, accompanied by a compulsive need to… to what? To respond? To check something? But there was nothing to check, nowhere to respond to.

She returned to her desk and attempted to resume writing, but the words that had once flowed like water now came in stuttering fragments. Each sentence felt interrupted before it could complete itself, as if her attention was a butterfly that could no longer alight on any single flower for more than a moment.

The morning stretched on in this fashion—moments of clarity followed by sudden dispersal, thoughts that began with promise only to dissolve into anxiety about whether she was missing something important, something that required her attention elsewhere. By noon, she had managed only three sentences, each one wrung from her consciousness like water from a stone.

Leonard appeared at the door with tea, his face creased with the particular concern he reserved for her difficult days. “How goes the work, my dear?”

“It doesn’t,” she replied, gesturing at the nearly blank page. “My mind has become a railway station where all the trains arrive at once, and I can’t board any of them.”

He set down the tea tray and settled into the chair beside her desk. “Tell me about it.”

Virginia found herself describing the phantom sounds, the compulsive need to respond to non-existent summons, the way her concentration scattered like startled birds at the slightest provocation. As she spoke, she noticed how the act of articulating her experience seemed to give it shape, to make it less overwhelming.

“It’s as if,” she said, warming to her theme, “as if my mind has become habituated to constant interruption. As if I’ve been living in a great, noisy house where bells ring constantly, and now, even in the silence of this room, I still hear them.”

Leonard nodded thoughtfully. “You’ve been reading the newspapers more frequently of late. Following the political developments, the literary reviews, the society pages. Perhaps that’s contributing to the sense of… fragmentation?”

The observation struck her as profoundly accurate. She had indeed been consuming information with unprecedented hunger in recent weeks—not just the essential news, but every detail, every commentary, every opinion. Her breakfast had become a feast of scattered facts and urgent opinions, each one demanding immediate assimilation.

“But surely,” she protested, “a writer must be informed. Must know what’s happening in the world.”

“Must she know everything that’s happening, the moment it happens?” Leonard asked gently. “Or might there be a difference between being informed and being… overwhelmed?”

Virginia considered this. She thought of the great writers she admired—Jane Austen, who had created enduring art while living in relative isolation; George Eliot, who had absorbed the world deeply but selectively. Had they suffered from this same compulsive need to know everything immediately?

“I think,” she said slowly, “I’ve been trying to hold the entire world in my mind at once. Every opinion, every event, every possible response. And my mind has become like a drawing room where everyone is talking at once, and no one can hear what anyone else is saying.”

That afternoon, Virginia decided to conduct an experiment. She would attempt to write for one hour—sixty minutes—without allowing her attention to wander to anything beyond the immediate task. She would treat her consciousness like a room that she could choose to keep closed to uninvited guests.

The first few minutes were torture. Her mind rebelled against the constraints, generating phantom urgencies and imaginary summons. But gradually, as she persisted in returning her attention to the page, something began to shift. The compulsive need to respond to non-existent calls grew quieter. The phantom sounds became less frequent.

She found herself writing about Clarissa’s morning walk, but now the description was layered with her own recent experience. Clarissa, too, was navigating a world full of competing claims on her attention. The novel began to explore not just the flow of consciousness, but the way that consciousness could be fractured by too many simultaneous demands.

As she wrote, Virginia realized she was discovering something important about the nature of attention itself. The mind, she saw, was not a passive recipient of whatever happened to arrive, but an active force that could be directed, disciplined, shaped. Like a skilled hostess, consciousness could choose which guests to admit to the drawing room and which to politely turn away.

The hour passed without her noticing. When she finally looked up, she had written three full pages—more than she had managed in the entire morning. The words had a quality she hadn’t achieved in weeks: they were connected, flowing, alive with the particular rhythm that marked her best work.

But more than that, she had discovered something about the relationship between attention and creativity. The scattered, anxious awareness that had plagued her morning was not a sign of intellectual vitality, but of intellectual dissipation. True creativity, she realized, required not just the ability to receive impressions, but the ability to select among them, to dwell with them, to allow them to develop and deepen.

That evening, she walked in the garden with Leonard, sharing her discovery. “I think,” she said, “that I’ve been confusing being aware of everything with being truly aware of anything. I’ve been like someone trying to have a hundred conversations at once, and hearing none of them properly.”

“And now?” Leonard asked.

“Now I think I understand that attention is not a net to catch every passing thought, but a lamp to illuminate deeply whatever it chooses to shine upon. The art is not in capturing every possible impression, but in choosing which impressions deserve the full light of consciousness.”

The next morning, Virginia established a new routine. She would begin each day not by consuming information, but by sitting quietly in the garden for ten minutes, allowing her mind to settle like silt in still water. She would read the newspaper, but only after her writing was complete, and only for a limited time. She would treat her consciousness as a precious resource to be allocated intentionally, rather than a receptacle to be filled indiscriminately.

The phantom sounds—those imaginary notifications that had plagued her—began to fade. Not because the world had become less demanding, but because she had learned to distinguish between genuine calls for attention and the mind’s habitual restlessness. She had discovered that the stream of consciousness, to be truly explored, required not just sensitivity to impressions, but the discipline to dive deeply into selected currents rather than skimming frantically across the surface.

Her work on *Mrs. Dalloway* resumed with renewed vigor. But now the novel carried within it a deeper understanding of the modern condition—the way that consciousness itself was under siege from the multiplying demands of an accelerating world. Through Clarissa’s experience, she would explore how the mind could maintain its integrity while remaining open to the richness of human experience.

The drawing room of the mind, Virginia had learned, was most beautiful when it was neither empty nor overcrowded, but thoughtfully curated—a space where carefully chosen impressions could be received with the full hospitality of deep attention.

—–

*In the weeks that followed, Virginia’s writing took on a new depth and focus. She had learned that the modern writer’s greatest challenge was not finding material to write about, but learning to write despite the constant pressure to attend to everything at once. The solution was not to shut out the world, but to engage with it more selectively, more intentionally, more deeply.*

/