Yes, a man in the nineteenth century must and morally ought to be pre-eminently a characterless creature; a man of character, an active man is pre-eminently a limited creature.
The silence of earth seemed to melt into the silence of the heavens. The mystery of earth was one with the mystery of the stars ...
He could not pass by children without his soul being shaken: such is the man.
She enjoyed her own pain by this egoism of suffering, if I may so express it. This aggravation of suffering and this rebelling in it I could understand; it is the enjoyment of man, of the insulted and injured, oppressed by destiny, and smarting under the sense of its injustice.
Tsk, tsk, tsk, if he weren't in love with you like a sheep, he wouldn't be running around the streets like a madman and wouldn't be stirring up all the dogs in town. He broke my window frame.
And in fact you're not like everyone else: you weren't ashamed just now to confess bad and even ridiculous things about yourself. Who would confess such things nowadays? No one, and people have even stopped feeling any need for self-judgment.