So you agree with this:
>We can also say that he was working in subjects that demanded much more brilliance than the ones where Shakespeare, Mozart, Bach and Michelangelo made their achievements (perhaps Neumann could do what they did if he put his mind to it, only he did not had the interest).
“Yevgeny Vassilyitch, I hope——”
“Ah, Anna Sergyevna, let us speak the truth. It's all over with me. I'm under the wheel. So it turns out that it was useless to think of the future. Death's an old joke, but it comes fresh to every one. So far I'm not afraid ... but there, senselessness is coming, and then it's all up!——” he waved his hand feebly. “Well, what had I to say to you ... I loved you! there was no sense in that even before, and less than ever now. Love is a form, and my own form is already breaking up. Better say how lovely you are! And now here you stand, so beautiful ...”
Anna Sergyevna gave an involuntary shudder.
“Never mind, don't be uneasy.... Sit down there.... Don't come close to me; you know, my illness is catching.”
Anna Sergyevna swiftly crossed the room, and sat down in the armchair near the sofa on which Bazarov was lying.
“Noble-hearted!” he whispered. “Oh, how near, and how young, and fresh, and pure ... in this loathsome room!... Well, good-bye! live long, that's the best of all, and make the most of it while there is time. You see what a hideous spectacle; the worm half-crushed, but writhing still. And, you see, I thought too: I'd break down so many things, I wouldn't die, why should I! there were problems to solve, and I was a giant! And now all the problem for the giant is how to die decently, though that makes no difference to any one either.... Never mind; I'm not going to turn tail.”
Bazarov was silent, and began feeling with his hand for the glass. Anna Sergyevna gave him some drink, not taking off her glove, and drawing her breath timorously.