“I don’t know what I’m doing here. I can’t afford to waste any more time. I’m an old man, and it’s clear that my pleas are falling on deaf ears. I know all too well that people of your class—and I’m responsible for ensconcing you in it, Sergei—lead their lives with their own interests at heart. You build your lives on foundations of pride, cruelty, violence, and evil. But what I have created—and there is no trace of me in this unholy business—and what I cannot take responsibility for, is that the two of you are not acknowledging change, you don’t so much as lift a finger. You’ve become increasingly self-absorbed, ruining yourselves, and, I won’t deny it, you disgust me. Your complacency will cause you nothing but unhappiness, and me, pain. Man cannot live without knowing the truth, not even if he’s a man of fiction, not even the fiction I write, because I write only what I know, and the only world I know is that of men.”

“If you give us an order, we’ll obey it.” The connection between an author and his character is unique, unlike any other bond. Sergei says this because he understands Tolstoy’s disgust, and he sympathizes with him.

“Terrible, the custom of giving orders! There’s nothing more perverse, nothing that corrupts sensible and healthy social order more than such ‘orders.’ Imposing directions on people as if they were sheep! On no condition will I give you an order! I’m appealing to your better sides, and that’s it! I won’t respond by doing something that would disgust me even further! No, I don’t give orders, and I don’t keep slaves. I’m trying to appeal to your ethical sides, to your better selves.”

In Claudia’s dream, she exchanges glances with Sergei. In Sergei’s dream, they don’t. But in both dreams, Sergei reflects:

“But I’m not completely human. And you know that better than anyone: I’m a fictional creation, part of an imaginary drama. I’m your invention. You’re responsible for my existence. All my actions are determined by you. They’re not orders, they’re something more than that. I’m a puppet, I …”

This statement infuriates Tolstoy, who roars at the top of his lungs:

“You are what you are, Sergei! Just as whole as I am, as much of a person as the rest of us. Don’t try to pin something that has nothing to do with me on me!”

“But I’m not. Let’s end this charade.”

“The proof is in the pudding. For example: I can’t stand the opera. You and your little sister adore it.”

The elderly writer doesn’t mask his rage. Sergei doesn’t give in. In his dream, he stammers:

“I’m made of i-i-i-ink. A puppet made of ink!”