Yevgeny Zamyatin — We [717]

Through the glass walls of the house—a windy, feverishly pink, disquieting sunset. I turn my chair away from that intruding pinkness and turn the pages of my notes. And I can see: again I have forgotten that I am writing not for myself, but for you, unknown readers, whom I love and pity—for you who are still trudging somewhere below, behind, in distant centuries. — Yevgeny Zamyatin, We, 717

Note

The sudden tonal shift toward the reader through the glass walls creates an eerie, direct address that underscores the narrator’s isolation.