Fyodor Dostoevsky, his pros and cons

My teacher's rush in summarizing to register the gambler with two hundred pages and fifty rubles today. My heart beat happily upon meeting a writer I used to cry when reading his novel "Memories from the Dead House." I imagined him as an old man like my father, frowning and gloomy as many imagine him, and I came to him at the appointed time. He was residing in a modest apartment in a large building inhabited by traders, vendors, and craftsmen. It immediately reminded me of the building where Raskolnikov lives in "Crime and Punishment," his office spacious with two bright windows on days of wakefulness, but his atmosphere otherwise dark, with residents weighing heavily on the soul. When I saw him for the first time, I thought he was indeed an old man, but as soon as he spoke to me, his age seemed to diminish, and he appeared to be thirty-five. He was of medium build, of average height, with light chestnut hair closer to blonde, oiled and neatly combed. His face was pale like that of patients, wearing a blue cloth jacket that was almost worn out, but his shirt was pure white with a bouquet of two prominent roses. What surprised me most about him were his eyes, due to their obvious difference: one brown, and the other with a dilated pupil occupying the eye space and covering most of the iris, making his gaze a puzzle among puzzles.