Oh, gentlemen, perhaps I really regard myself as an intelligent man only because throughout my entire life I've never been able to start or finish anything.

Fyodor Dostoevsky

Fyodor Dostoevsky

Profession: Author
Nationality: Russian

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All my life I have spoken without words, and I have passed through whole tragedies on my own account without words.

Though the sleepy, myopic, and rather bald-pated figure reflected in the mirror was precisely of such insignificant quality as to arrest decidedly no one's exclusive attention at first sight, its owner evidently remained perfectly pleased with all he saw in the mirror.

It is just his fantastic dreams, his vulgar folly that he will desire to retain, simply in order to prove to himself—as though that were so necessary—that men still are men and not the keys of a piano, which the laws of nature threaten to control so completely that soon one will be able to desire nothing but by the calendar.

She thinks she can overcome everything, that everything will give way to her.

You're getting fat and lazy and can't deny yourself anything—and I call that dirty because it leads one straight into the dirt.

Well, set the monster free...he's begun his hymn, because he finds it all so easy...but I'd give a quadrillion quadrillion for two seconds of joy.

You will say that that was in the comparatively barbarous times; that these are barbarous times too, because also, comparatively speaking, pins are stuck in even now; that though man has now learned to see more clearly than in barbarous ages, he is still far from having learnt to act as reason and science would dictate.

I wanted to tell you of a longing I have. I should like some one to torture me, marry me and then torture me, deceive me and go away. I don't want to be happy. You are in love with disorder?

Beauty is mysterious as well as terrible. God and devil are fighting there, and the battlefield is the heart of man.

For his opinion had struck him as awfully foolish immediately after he had uttered it.

There are people who feel deeply but are somehow beaten down. Their buffoonery is something like a spiteful irony against those to whom they dare not speak the truth directly because of a long-standing, humiliating timidity before them. Believe me, Krasotkin, such buffoonery is sometimes extremely tragic.

I love the sticky leaves in spring, the blue sky — that's all it is. It's not a matter of intellect or logic, it's loving with one's inside, with one's stomach.

And what's strange, what would be marvelous, is not that God should really exist; the marvel is that such an idea, the idea of the necessity of God, could enter the head of such a savage, vicious beast as man.

Paper, they say, does not blush, but I assure you that it's not true and that it's blushing now just as I am blushing all over.