As a worm I found the story of this novel’s protagonist to be surprising relatable. Oblomov, a Russian gentleman with a crystal clear soul, really just said I don’t know how to do anything and found a way to waste a rather pleasent life. Honestly should have not been so surprised by the outcome of our slothful hero when the only letter he wrote included the stellar line: “love makes incredible progress, it is a kind of gangrene of the soul.” For such a dower story the many humorous moments were pleasantly witty and needed to keep things moving. Being a worm I did find the numberous negative depictions of my invertebrate brethren a tad off-putting but given this was written in 1859 I can understand that it was a different era, a different world, with a different outlook on creatures such as myself is not unexpected. All in all well written story with interesting characters and one truly pathetic guy.

Worm that fell behind the bookshelf and got stuck again