She was jealous not of any particular woman but of the decrease of his love. Not having an object for her jealousy, she was on the lookout for it.
He remembered his mother's love for him, and his family's, and his friends', and the enemy's intention to kill him seemed impossible.
Everything was in confusion in the Oblonskys' house.
There is nothing, nothing certain but the nothingness of all that is comprehensible to us, and the grandeur of something incomprehensible, but more important!
War on the other hand is such a terrible thing, that no man, especially a Christian man, has the right to assume the responsibility of starting it.
Isn't it distinctly to be seen in the development of each philosopher's theory, that he knows what is the chief significance of life beforehand, just as positively as the peasant Fyodor, and not a bit more clearly than he, and is simply trying by a dubious intellectual path to come back to what everyone knows?