Засыпал Шухов, вполне удоволенный. На дню у него выдалось сегодня много
удач:  в  карцер не посадили, на  Соцгородок бригаду не выгнали,  в обед  он
закосил кашу, бригадир хорошо закрыл процентовку, стену Шухов клал весело, с
ножовкой на шмоне не попался, подработал вечером у Цезаря и табачку купил. И
не заболел, перемогся.
     Прошел день, ничем не омраченный, почти счастливый.

     Таких дней  в его  сроке от звонка до звонка было  три тысячи  шестьсот
пятьдесят три.

Shukhov felt pleased with life as he went to sleep. 
A lot of good things had happened that day. He hadn't been trown in 
the hole. The gang hadn't been dragged of to Sotsgorodok. He'd swiped
the extra gruel at dinnertime. The foreman got a good rate for the 
job. He'd enjoyed working on the wall. He hadn't been caught with
the blade at the search point. He'd earned a bit from Tsezar that
evening. He'd bought his tobacco. And he hadn't take sick, had got over it.
    The end of an unclouded day. Almost a happy one. Just one of the 
3,653 days of his sentence, from bell to bell.

translated by H.T. Willetts.