Yevgeny Zamyatin, We — The End (1924)
“ Abraham all in a cold sweat, with the knife already raised over his son, over himself, and suddenly a voice from above: “Never mind . . . I was only joking.” Without taking my eyes from the smile that grew more and more curved, I put my hands on the edge of the desk and slowly, very slowly pushed myself with my chair away from him. Then instantly gathering myself into my own hands, I dashed madly out, past loud voices, past steps and mouths . . . ”
