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.
Poor Sonya! What a little gold-mine they've managed to get hold of there! And profit from! Oh yes, they draw their profits from it! And they've got used to it. They wept at first, but now they are used to it. Men are scoundrels, they can get used to anything!
Why does even the best person hold back something from another? Why not say directly what we feel if we know that what we entrust won't be scattered to the winds? As it is, everyone looks much tougher than he really is, as if he felt it'd be an insult to his feeling if he expressed them too readily.
For it will come to pass that even the most corrupt of our rich men will finally be ashamed of his riches before the poor man, and the poor man, seeing his humility, will understand and yield to him in joy, and will respond with kindness to his gracious shame.
No man lives, or can live, without having some object in view, and without making efforts to attain that object. But when there is no such object and hope is entirely fled, anguish often turns a man into a monster.