I could not become anything; neither good nor bad; neither a scoundrel nor an honest man; neither a hero nor an insect. And now I am eking out my days in my corner, taunting myself with the bitter and entirely useless consolation that an intelligent man cannot seriously become anything, that only a fool can become something.

Fyodor Dostoevsky

Fyodor Dostoevsky

Profession: Author
Nationality: Russian

Some suggestions for you :

All this time we sat without speaking. I was considering how to begin. It was twilight in the room, a black storm−cloud was coming over the sky, and there came again a rumble of thunder in the distance.

What's the most offensive is not their lying- one can always forgive lying- lying is a delightful thing, for it leads to truth- what is offensive is that they lie and worship their own lying....

Nature does not ask your permission, she has nothing to do with your wishes, and whether you like her laws or dislike them, you are bound to accept her as she is, and consequently all her conclusions.

People are very varied: some change their feelings easily, others with difficulty.

But in some cases it is really more creditable to be carried away by an emotion, however unreasonable, which springs from a great love, than to be unmoved.

But do you understand, I cry to him, do you understand that along with happiness, in the exact same way, in perfectly equal proportion, man also needs unhappiness.

Yesterday i was a fool,today i know better.

Young man, do not forget to pray. Each time you pray, if you do so sincerely, there will be the flash of a new feeling in it, and a new thought as well, one you did not know before, which will give you fresh courage; and you will understand that prayer is education.

I have noticed that in a cramped space one's thoughts too tend to be cramped.

She would certainly eat only black bread and drink only water rather than sell her soul, and she would not surrender her moral freedom in return for comfort; she wouldn't surrender it for all Schleswig-Holstein.

How could I alone have invented it or imagined it in my dream? Could my petty heart and fickle, trivial mind have risen to such a revelation of truth?

I am a sick man...I am a spiteful man. I am an unattractive man. I think my liver is diseased. Then again, I don't know a thing about my illness; I'm not even sure what hurts.

Was it all put into words, or did both understand that they had the same thing at heart and in their minds, so that there was no need to speak of it aloud, and better not to speak of it?

I drink because I wish to multiply my sufferings.