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.

Fyodor Dostoevsky

Fyodor Dostoevsky

Profession: Author
Nationality: Russian

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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!

Suppose, gentleman, that man is not stupid.

Can you blame me, my dear, for looking on this attachment as a romantic folly inspired by that cursed Shakespeare who will poke his nose where he is not wanted?

Samovar is the most essential thing in Russia, especially at times of particularly awful, sudden, and eccentric catastrophes and misfortunes.

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.

Life had stepped into the place of theory and something quite different would work itself out in his mind.

It's the great mystery of human life that old grief passes gradually into quiet, tender joy. The mild serenity of age takes the place of the riotous blood of youth.

Everything is habit with men, everything even in their social and political relations. Habit is the great motive-power.

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.

He came softly, unobserved, and yet, strange to say, every one recognized Him.

Until one has indeed become the brother of all, there will be no brotherhood.

Before it was just her infernal curves that fretted me, but now I've taken her whole soul into my soul, and through her I've become a man!

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.

We sometimes choose absolute nonsense because in our foolishness we see in that nonsense the easiest means for attaining a supposed advantage.