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Man is a mystery: if you spend your entire life trying to puzzle it out, then do not say that you have wasted your time. I occupy myself with this mystery, because I want to be a man.
Fyodor Mikhailovich Dostoyevsky or Dostoevsky [Фёдор Миха́йлович Достое́вский] (11 November 1821 - 9 February 1881) was a Russian novelist, short story writer, essayist, journalist and philosopher whose works explore human psychology in the troubled political, social, and spiritual atmosphere of 19th-century Russia.
Demons (The Possessed)
1.1 The Insulted and the Injured (1861)
1.2 Notes from Underground (1864)
1.3 The Gambler (1866)
1.4 Crime and Punishment (1866)
1.5 The Idiot (1868–9)
1.6 The Possessed (1872)
1.7 The Dream of a Ridiculous Man (1877)
1.8 The Brothers Karamazov (1879–1880)
1.8.1 The Grand Inquisitor
1.8.2 Quotes about The Brothers Karamazov
2 Misattributed
3 Quotes about Dostoevsky
God gives me sometimes moments of perfect peace; in such moments I love and believe that I am loved; in such moments I have formulated my creed, wherein all is clear and holy to me.
Neither a person nor a nation can exist without some higher idea. And there is only one higher idea on earth, and it is the idea of the immortality of the human soul, for all other "higher" ideas of life by which humans might live derive from that idea alone.
It is not as a child that I believe and confess Jesus Christ. My hosanna is born of a furnace of doubt.
To study the meaning of man and of life — I am making significant progress here. I have faith in myself. Man is a mystery: if you spend your entire life trying to puzzle it out, then do not say that you have wasted your time. I occupy myself with this mystery, because I want to be a man.
Personal correspondence (1839), as quoted in Dostoevsky: His Life and Work (1971) by Konstantin Mochulski, as translated by Michael A. Minihan, p. 17
I want to say to you, about myself, that I am a child of this age, a child of unfaith and scepticism, and probably (indeed I know it) shall remain so to the end of my life. How dreadfully has it tormented me (and torments me even now) this longing for faith, which is all the stronger for the proofs I have against it. And yet God gives me sometimes moments of perfect peace; in such moments I love and believe that I am loved; in such moments I have formulated my creed, wherein all is clear and holy to me. This creed is extremely simple; here it is: I believe that there is nothing lovelier, deeper, more sympathetic, more rational, more manly, and more perfect than the Saviour; I say to myself with jealous love that not only is there no one else like Him, but that there could be no one. I would even say more: If anyone could prove to me that Christ is outside the truth, and if the truth really did exclude Christ, I should prefer to stay with Christ and not with truth.
Letter To Mme. N. D. Fonvisin (1854), as published in Letters of Fyodor Michailovitch Dostoevsky to his Family and Friends (1914), translated by Ethel Golburn Mayne, Letter XXI, p. 71
A Writer's Diary, Volume 1: 1873-1876 (1994), p. 734
Money is coined liberty, and so it is ten times dearer to the man who is deprived of freedom. If money is jingling in his pocket, he is half consoled, even though he cannot spend it. But money can always and everywhere be spent, and, moreover, forbidden fruit is sweetest of all.
The House of the Dead (1915), as translated by Constance Garnett, p. 16
As quoted in Kierkegaard, the Melancholy Dane (1950) by Harold Victor Martin.
Variant translation:
I believe in Christ and confess him not like some child; my hosanna has passed through an enormous furnace of doubt.
Last Notebook (1880–1881), Literaturnoe nasledstvo, 83: 696; as quoted in Kenneth Lantz, The Dostoevsky Encyclopedia (2004), p. 21, hdn ISBN 0-313-30384-3
A great many people were put down as mad among us last year. And in such language! "With such original talent" ... "and yet, after all, it appears" ... "however, one ought to have foreseen it long ago." That is rather artful; so that from the point of view of pure art one may really commend it. Well, but after all, these so-called madmen have turned out cleverer than ever. So it seems the critics can call them mad, but they cannot produce any one better.
The wisest of all, in my opinion, is he who can, if only once a month, call himself a fool — a faculty unheard of nowadays. In old days, once a year at any rate a fool would recognise that he was a fool, but nowadays not a bit of it. And they have so muddled things up that there is no telling a fool from a wise man. They have done that on purpose.
I remember a witty Spaniard saying when, two hundred and fifty years ago, the French built their first madhouses: "They have shut up all their fools in a house apart, to make sure that they are wise men themselves." Just so: you don't show your own wisdom by shutting some one else in a madhouse. "K. has gone out of his mind, means that we are sane now." No, it doesn't mean that yet.
"Bobok : From Somebody's Diary" as translated by Constance Garnett in Short Stories (1900)
The second half of a man's life is made up of nothing but the habits he has acquired during the first half.
As quoted in Peter's Quotations : Ideas for Our Time (1979) by Laurence J. Peter, p. 299
Russia was a slave in Europe but would be a master in Asia.
As quoted in "Dilemmas of Empire 1850-1918: Power, Territory, Identity" by Dominic Livien in Journal of Contemporary History, Vol. 34, No.2 (April 1999), pp. 180
All writers, not ours alone but foreigners also, who have sought to represent Absolute Beauty, were unequal to the task, for it is an infinitely difficult one. The beautiful is the ideal ; but ideals, with us as in civilized Europe, have long been wavering. There is in the world only one figure of absolute beauty: Christ. That infinitely lovely figure is, as a matter of course, an infinite marvel.
Fyodor Dostoevsky in a letter to his Niece Sofia Alexandrovna, Geneva, January 1, 1868. Ethel Golburn Mayne (1879), Letters of Fyodor Michailovitch Dostoyevsky to His Family and Friends, Dostoevsky's Letters XXXIX, p. 136.
The modern negationist declares himself declares himself openly in favour of the devil's advice and maintains that it is more likely to result in man's happiness than the teachings of Christ. To our foolish but terrible Russian socialism (for our youth is mixed up in it) it is a directive and, it seems, a very powerful one: the loaves of bread, the Tower of Babel (that is, the future reign of socialism) and the complete enslavement of the freedom of conscience - that is what the desperate negationist is striving to achieve. The difference is, that our socialists (and they are not only the hole-and-corner nihilists) are conscious Jesuits and liars who do not admit that their ideal is the ideal of the coercion of the human conscience and the reduction of mankind to the level of cattle. While my socialist (Ivan Karamazov) is a sincere man who frankly admits that he agrees with the views of the Grand Inquisitor and that Christianity seems to have raised man much higher than his actual position entitles him. The question I should like to put to them is, in a nutshell, this: "Do you despise or do you respect mankind, you - its future saviours?"
Dostoyevsky, in a letter to Katkov, the reactionary editor of The Moscow Herald, in which The Brothers Karamazov was serialized
As quoted by David Magarshack in his 1958 translation of The Brothers Karamazov
The Insulted and the Injured (1861)[edit]
If you want to be respected by others the great thing is to respect yourself. Only by that, only by self-respect will you compel others to respect you.
Notes from Underground (1864)[edit]
The characteristics of our romantics are to understand everything, to see everything and to see it often incomparably more clearly than our most realistic minds see it...
Above all, do not lie to yourself. A man who lies to himself and listens to his own lie comes to a point where he does not discern any truth either in himself or anywhere around him, and thus falls into disrespect towards himself and others.
Я человек больной... Я злой человек. Непривлекательный я человек.
I am a sick man… I am a wicked man. An unattractive man.
Part 1, Chapter 1 (page 7)
It was not only that I could not become spiteful, I did not know how to become anything; neither spiteful nor kind, neither a rascal nor an honest man, neither a hero nor an insect. Now, I am living out my life in my corner, taunting myself with the spiteful and useless consolation that an intelligent man cannot become anything seriously, and it is only the fool who becomes anything.
...что слишком сознавать — это болезнь, настоящая, полная болезнь.
To be acutely conscious is a disease, a real, honest-to-goodness disease.
Once it's been proved to you that you're descended from an ape, it's no use pulling a face; just accept it. Once they've proved to you that a single droplet of your own fat must be dearer to you than a hundred thousand of your fellow human beings and consequently that all so-called virtues and duties are nothing but ravings and prejudices, then accept that too, because there's nothing to be done.
Part 1 Chapter 3 (page 14)
Granted I am a babbler, a harmless vexatious babbler, like all of us. But what is to be done if the direct and sole vocation of every intelligent man is babble, that is, the intentional pouring of water through a sieve?
Part 1, Chapter 5 (page 19)
When… in the course of all these thousands of years has man ever acted in accordance with his own interests?
And what is it in us that is mellowed by civilization? All it does, I'd say, is to develop in man a capacity to feel a greater variety of sensations. And nothing, absolutely nothing else. And through this development, man will yet learn how to enjoy bloodshed. Why, it has already happened . . . . Civilization has made man, if not always more bloodthirsty, at least more viciously, more horribly bloodthirsty.
The best definition of man is: a being that goes on two legs and is ungrateful.
Variant translation: If I had to define man it would be: a biped, ungrateful.
The formula 'two plus two equals five' is not without its attractions.
To care only for well-being seems to me positively ill-bred. Whether it's good or bad, it is sometimes very pleasant, too, to smash things.
Every man has some reminiscences which he would not tell to everyone, but only to his friends. He has others which he would not reveal even to his friends, but only to himself, and that in secret. But finally there are still others which a man is even afraid to tell himself, and every decent man has a considerable number of such things stored away. That is, one can even say that the more decent he is, the greater the number of such things in his mind.
Part 1, Chapter 11 (page 35)
The characteristics of our "romantics" are absolutely and directly opposed to the transcendental European type, and no European standard can be applied to them. (Allow me to make use of this word "romantic" — an old-fashioned and much respected word which has done good service and is familiar to all.) The characteristics of our romantics are to understand everything, to see everything and to see it often incomparably more clearly than our most realistic minds see it; to refuse to accept anyone or anything, but at the same time not to despise anything; to give way, to yield, from policy; never to lose sight of a useful practical object (such as rent-free quarters at the government expense, pensions, decorations), to keep their eye on that object through all the enthusiasms and volumes of lyrical poems, and at the same time to preserve "the sublime and the beautiful" inviolate within them to the hour of their death, and to preserve themselves also, incidentally, like some precious jewel wrapped in cotton wool if only for the benefit of "the sublime and the beautiful." Our "romantic" is a man of great breadth and the greatest rogue of all our rogues, I assure you .... I can assure you from experience, indeed. Of course, that is, if he is intelligent. But what am I saying! The romantic is always intelligent, and I only meant to observe that although we have had foolish romantics they don't count, and they were only so because in the flower of their youth they degenerated into Germans, and to preserve their precious jewel more comfortably, settled somewhere out there — by preference in Weimar or the Black Forest.
Part 2, Chapter 1 (pages 45-46)
I could never stand more than three months of dreaming at a time without feeling an irresistible desire to plunge into society. To plunge into society meant to visit my superior, Anton Antonich Syetochkin. He was the the only permanent acquaintance I have had in my life, and I even wonder at the fact myself now. But I even went to see him only when that phase came over me, and when my dreams had reached such a point of bliss that it became essential to embrace my fellows and all mankind immediately. And for that purpose I needed at least one human being at hand who actually existed. I had to call on Anton Antonich, however, on Tuesday — his at-home day; so I always had to adjust my passionate desire to embrace humanity so that it might fall on a Tuesday.
... people only count their misfortunes; their good luck they take no account of. But if they were to take everything into account, as they should, they'd find that they had their fair share of it.
Yes — you, you alone must pay for everything because you turned up like this, because I'm a scoundrel, because I'm the nastiest, most ridiculous, pettiest, stupidest, and most envious worm of all those living on earth who're no better than me in any way, but who, the devil knows why, never get embarrassed, while all my life I have to endure insults from every louse — that's my fate. What do I care that you do not understand any of this?
Part 2, Chapter 9 (pages 108-109)
The Gambler (1866)[edit]
And now once again I asked myself the question: do I love her? And once more I could not answer, that is to say, again, for the hundreth time, I answered that I hated her.
Is it really not possible to touch the gaming table without being instantly infected by superstition?
A gentleman, even if he loses everything he owns, must show no emotion. Money must be so far beneath a gentleman that it is hardly worth troubling about.
Crime and Punishment (1866)[edit]
Taking a new step, uttering a new word, is what people fear most.
These are just a few samples; for more quotes from this work, see Crime and Punishment
Accept suffering and achieve atonement through it — that is what you must do.
Man grows used to everything, the scoundrel.
Talking nonsense is man's only privilege that distinguishes him from all other organisms.
"You're a gentleman," they used to say to him. "You shouldn't have gone murdering people with a hatchet; that's no occupation for a gentleman."
Do a man dirt, yourself you hurt.
If not reason, then the devil.
Pain and suffering are always inevitable for a large intelligence and a deep heart. The really great men must, I think, have great sadness on Earth.
The more cunning a man is, the less he suspects that he will be caught in a simple thing. The more cunning a man is, the simpler the trap he must be caught in.
Your worst sin is that you have destroyed and betrayed yourself for nothing.
The Idiot (1868–9)[edit]
It's life that matters, nothing but life — the process of discovering, the everlasting and perpetual process, not the discovery itself, at all.
Inventors and geniuses have almost always been looked on as no better than fools at the beginning of their career, and very frequently at the end of it also.
There are two sorts of mind: one that matters, and one that doesn't matter.
To achieve perfection, one must first begin by not understanding many things! And if we understand too quickly, we may not understand well.
The prince says that the world will be saved by beauty! And I maintain that the reason he has such playful ideas is that he is in love.
A widow, the mother of a family, and from her heart she produces chords to which my whole being responds.
It wasn't the New World that mattered … Columbus died almost without seeing it; and not really knowing what he had discovered. It's life that matters, nothing but life — the process of discovering, the everlasting and perpetual process, not the discovery itself, at all. But what's the use of talking! I suspect that all I'm saying now is so like the usual commonplaces that I shall certainly be taken for a lower-form schoolboy sending in his essay on "sunrise", or they'll say perhaps that I had something to say, but that I did not know how to "explain" it. But I'll add, that there is something at the bottom of every new human thought, every thought of genius, or even every earnest thought that springs up in any brain, which can never be communicated to others, even if one were to write volumes about it and were explaining one's idea for thirty-five years; there's something left which cannot be induced to emerge from your brain, and remains with you forever; and with it you will die, without communicating to anyone perhaps the most important of your ideas. But if I too have failed to convey all that has been tormenting me for the last six months, it will, anyway, be understood that I have paid very dearly for attaining my present "last conviction." This is what I felt necessary, for certain objects of my own, to put forward in my "Explanation". However, I will continue.
Lack of originality, everywhere, all over the world, from time immemorial, has always been considered the foremost quality and the recommendation of the active, efficient and practical man...
To kill someone for committing murder is a punishment incomparably worse than the crime itself. Murder by legal sentence is immeasurably more terrible than murder by brigands.
A fool with a heart and no sense is just as unhappy as a fool with sense and no heart.
It is better to be unhappy and know the worst, than to be happy in a fool's paradise.
It was evident that he revived by fits and starts. He would suddenly come to himself from actual delirium for a few minutes; he would remember and talk with complete consciousness, chiefly in disconnected phrases which he had perhaps thought out and learnt by heart in the long weary hours of his illness, in his bed, in sleepless solitude.
I consider you the most honest and truthful of men, more honest and truthful than anyone; and if they say that your mind . . . that is, that you're sometimes afflicted in your mind, it's unjust. I made up my mind about that, and disputed with others, because, though you really are mentally afflicted (you won't be angry with that, of course; I'm speaking from a higher point of view), yet the mind that matters is better in you than in any of them. It's something, in fact, they have never dreamed of. For there are two sorts of mind: one that matters, and one that doesn't matter.
I have never in my life met a man like him for noble simplicity, and boundless truthfulness. I understood from the way he talked that anyone who chose could deceive him, and that he would forgive anyone afterwards who had deceived him, and that was why I grew to love him.
Humiliate the reason and distort the soul...
Nor is there any embarrassment in the fact that we're ridiculous, isn't it true? For it's actually so, we are ridiculous, light-minded, with bad habits, we're bored, we don't know how to look, how to understand, we're all like that, all, you, and I, and they! Now, you're not offended when I tell you to your face that you're ridiculous? And if so, aren't you material? You know, in my opinion it's sometimes even good to be ridiculous, if not better: we can the sooner forgive each other, the sooner humble ourselves; we can't understand everything at once, we can't start right out with perfection! To achieve perfection, one must first begin by not understanding many things! And if we understand too quickly, we may not understand well. This I tell you, you, who have already been able to understand. .. and not understand … so much. I'm not afraid for you now;
Who consciously throws himself into the water or onto the knife?
...князь утверждает, что мир спасет красота! А я утверждаю, что у него оттого такие игривые мысли, что он теперь влюблен.
Pass by us, and forgive us our happiness.
It's easier for a Russian to become an atheist than for anyone else in the world.
Part 4, Chapter 7
The Possessed (1872)[edit]
Also known as The Demons and The Devils · Full text online at Project Gutenberg
Main article: Demons (novel)
Man is unhappy because he doesn't know he's happy. It's only that.
Part II, Ch. I
Hold your tongue; you won't understand anything. If there is no God, then I am God.
Kirilov, Part III, Ch. VI, "A busy night"
The Dream of a Ridiculous Man (1877)[edit]
Using primarily the translation of Constance Garnett (1900) - Full text at Wikisource
I am a ridiculous man. They call me a madman now. That would be a distinct rise in my social position were it not that they still regard me as being as ridiculous as ever.
I learnt the truth last November — on the third of November, to be precise — and I remember every instant since.
Dreams, as we all know, are very queer things: some parts are presented with appalling vividness, with details worked up with the elaborate finish of jewellery, while others one gallops through, as it were, without noticing them at all...
They tease me now, telling me it was only a dream. But does it matter whether it was a dream or reality, if the dream made known to me the truth?
The children of the sun, the children of their sun — oh, how beautiful they were!
They showed me their trees, and I could not understand the intense love with which they looked at them; it was as though they were talking with creatures like themselves.
The actual forms and images of my dream, that is, the very ones I really saw at the very time of my dream, were filled with such harmony, were so lovely and enchanting and were so actual, that on awakening I was, of course, incapable of clothing them in our poor language...
How it could come to pass I do not know, but I remember it clearly. The dream embraced thousands of years and left in me only a sense of the whole.
I have seen the truth; I have seen and I know that people can be beautiful and happy without losing the power of living on earth. I will not and cannot believe that evil is the normal condition of mankind. And it is just this faith of mine that they laugh at.
I am a ridiculous person. Now they call me a madman. That would be a promotion if it were not that I remain as ridiculous in their eyes as before. But now I do not resent it, they are all dear to me now, even when they laugh at me — and, indeed, it is just then that they are particularly dear to me. I could join in their laughter — not exactly at myself, but through affection for them, if I did not feel so sad as I look at them. Sad because they do not know the truth and I do know it. Oh, how hard it is to be the only one who knows the truth! But they won't understand that. No, they won't understand it.
Variant translation: I am a ridiculous man. They call me a madman now. That would be a distinct rise in my social position were it not that they still regard me as being as ridiculous as ever. But that does not make me angry any more. They are all dear to me now even while they laugh at me — yes, even then they are for some reason particularly dear to me. I shouldn't have minded laughing with them — not at myself, of course, but because I love them — had I not felt so sad as I looked at them. I feel sad because they do not know the truth, whereas I know it. Oh, how hard it is to be the only man to know the truth! But they won't understand that. No, they will not understand.
As translated by David Magarshack
I gave up caring about anything, and all the problems disappeared.
And it was after that that I found out the truth. I learnt the truth last November — on the third of November, to be precise — and I remember every instant since.
The sky was horribly dark, but one could distinctly see tattered clouds, and between them fathomless black patches. Suddenly I noticed in one of these patches a star, and began watching it intently. That was because that star had given me an idea: I decided to kill myself that night.
It seemed clear to me that life and the world somehow depended upon me now. I may almost say that the world now seemed created for me alone: if I shot myself the world would cease to be at least for me. I say nothing of its being likely that nothing will exist for anyone when I am gone, and that as soon as my consciousness is extinguished the whole world will vanish too and become void like a phantom, as a mere appurtenance of my consciousness, for possibly all this world and all these people are only me myself.
Dreams, as we all know, are very queer things: some parts are presented with appalling vividness, with details worked up with the elaborate finish of jewellery, while others one gallops through, as it were, without noticing them at all, as, for instance, through space and time. Dreams seem to be spurred on not by reason but by desire, not by the head but by the heart, and yet what complicated tricks my reason has played sometimes in dreams, what utterly incomprehensible things happen to it!
Yes, I dreamed a dream, my dream of the third of November. They tease me now, telling me it was only a dream. But does it matter whether it was a dream or reality, if the dream made known to me the truth? If once one has recognized the truth and seen it, you know that it is the truth and that there is no other and there cannot be, whether you are asleep or awake. Let it be a dream, so be it, but that real life of which you make so much I had meant to extinguish by suicide, and my dream, my dream — oh, it revealed to me a different life, renewed, grand and full of power!
I suddenly dreamt that I picked up the revolver and aimed it straight at my heart — my heart, and not my head; and I had determined beforehand to fire at my head, at my right temple. After aiming at my chest I waited a second or two, and suddenly my candle, my table, and the wall in front of me began moving and heaving. I made haste to pull the trigger.
In dreams you sometimes fall from a height, or are stabbed, or beaten, but you never feel pain unless, perhaps, you really bruise yourself against the bedstead, then you feel pain and almost always wake up from it. It was the same in my dream. I did not feel any pain, but it seemed as though with my shot everything within me was shaken and everything was suddenly dimmed, and it grew horribly black around me. I seemed to be blinded, and it benumbed, and I was lying on something hard, stretched on my back; I saw nothing, and could not make the slightest movement.
On our earth we can only love with suffering and through suffering. We cannot love otherwise, and we know of no other sort of love. I want suffering in order to love. I long, I thirst, this very instant, to kiss with tears the earth that I have left, and I don't want, I won't accept life on any other!"
The children of the sun, the children of their sun — oh, how beautiful they were! Never had I seen on our own earth such beauty in mankind. Only perhaps in our children, in their earliest years, one might find, some remote faint reflection of this beauty. The eyes of these happy people shone with a clear brightness. Their faces were radiant with the light of reason and fullness of a serenity that comes of perfect understanding, but those faces were gay; in their words and voices there was a note of childlike joy. Oh, from the first moment, from the first glance at them, I understood it all! It was the earth untarnished by the Fall; on it lived people who had not sinned. They lived just in such a paradise as that in which, according to all the legends of mankind, our first parents lived before they sinned; the only difference was that all this earth was the same paradise. These people, laughing joyfully, thronged round me and caressed me; they took me home with them, and each of them tried to reassure me. Oh, they asked me no questions, but they seemed, I fancied, to know everything without asking, and they wanted to make haste to smoothe away the signs of suffering from my face.
Well, granted that it was only a dream, yet the sensation of the love of those innocent and beautiful people has remained with me for ever, and I feel as though their love is still flowing out to me from over there. I have seen them myself, have known them and been convinced; I loved them, I suffered for them afterwards. Oh, I understood at once even at the time that in many things I could not understand them at all … But I soon realised that their knowledge was gained and fostered by intuitions different from those of us on earth, and that their aspirations, too, were quite different. They desired nothing and were at peace; they did not aspire to knowledge of life as we aspire to understand it, because their lives were full. But their knowledge was higher and deeper than ours; for our science seeks to explain what life is, aspires to understand it in order to teach others how to love, while they without science knew how to live; and that I understood, but I could not understand their knowledge.
They showed me their trees, and I could not understand the intense love with which they looked at them; it was as though they were talking with creatures like themselves. And perhaps I shall not be mistaken if I say that they conversed with them. Yes, they had found their language, and I am convinced that the trees understood them. They looked at all Nature like that — at the animals who lived in peace with them and did not attack them, but loved them, conquered by their love. They pointed to the stars and told me something about them which I could not understand, but I am convinced that they were somehow in touch with the stars, not only in thought, but by some living channel.
They had no temples, but they had a real living and uninterrupted sense of oneness with the whole of the universe; they had no creed, but they had a certain knowledge that when their earthly joy had reached the limits of earthly nature, then there would come for them, for the living and for the dead, a still greater fullness of contact with the whole of the universe. They looked forward to that moment with joy, but without haste, not pining for it, but seeming to have a foretaste of it in their hearts, of which they talked to one another.
They sang the praises of nature, of the sea, of the woods. They liked making songs about one another, and praised each other like children; they were the simplest songs, but they sprang from their hearts and went to one's heart. And not only in their songs but in all their lives they seemed to do nothing but admire one another. It was like being in love with each other, but an all-embracing, universal feeling.
Oh, everyone laughs in my face now, and assures me that one cannot dream of such details as I am telling now, that I only dreamed or felt one sensation that arose in my heart in delirium and made up the details myself when I woke up. And when I told them that perhaps it really was so, my God, how they shouted with laughter in my face, and what mirth I caused! Oh, yes, of course I was overcome by the mere sensation of my dream, and that was all that was preserved in my cruelly wounded heart; but the actual forms and images of my dream, that is, the very ones I really saw at the very time of my dream, were filled with such harmony, were so lovely and enchanting and were so actual, that on awakening I was, of course, incapable of clothing them in our poor language, so that they were bound to become blurred in my mind; and so perhaps I really was forced afterwards to make up the details, and so of course to distort them in my passionate desire to convey some at least of them as quickly as I could. But on the other hand, how can I help believing that it was all true? It was perhaps a thousand times brighter, happier and more joyful than I describe it. Granted that I dreamed it, yet it must have been real. You know, I will tell you a secret: perhaps it was not a dream at all!
How it could come to pass I do not know, but I remember it clearly. The dream embraced thousands of years and left in me only a sense of the whole. I only know that I was the cause of their sin and downfall. Like a vile trichina, like a germ of the plague infecting whole kingdoms, so I contaminated all this earth, so happy and sinless before my coming. They learnt to lie, grew fond of lying, and discovered the charm of falsehood.
All became so jealous of the rights of their own personality that they did their very utmost to curtail and destroy them in others, and made that the chief thing in their lives. Slavery followed, even voluntary slavery; the weak eagerly submitted to the strong, on condition that the latter aided them to subdue the still weaker. Then there were saints who came to these people, weeping, and talked to them of their pride, of their loss of harmony and due proportion, of their loss of shame. They were laughed at or pelted with stones.
Alas! I always loved sorrow and tribulation, but only for myself, for myself; but I wept over them, pitying them. I stretched out my hands to them in despair, blaming, cursing and despising myself. I told them that all this was my doing, mine alone; that it was I had brought them corruption, contamination and falsity. I besought them to crucify me, I taught them how to make a cross. I could not kill myself, I had not the strength, but I wanted to suffer at their hands. I yearned for suffering, I longed that my blood should be drained to the last drop in these agonies. But they only laughed at me, and began at last to look upon me as crazy. They justified me, they declared that they had only got what they wanted themselves, and that all that now was could not have been otherwise. At last they declared to me that I was becoming dangerous and that they should lock me up in a madhouse if I did not hold my tongue. Then such grief took possession of my soul that my heart was wrung, and I felt as though I were dying; and then . . . then I awoke.
I go to spread the tidings, I want to spread the tidings — of what? Of the truth, for I have seen it, have seen it with my own eyes, have seen it in all its glory.
I have seen the truth; I have seen and I know that people can be beautiful and happy without losing the power of living on earth. I will not and cannot believe that evil is the normal condition of mankind. And it is just this faith of mine that they laugh at. But how can I help believing it? I have seen the truth — it is not as though I had invented it with my mind, I have seen it, seen it, and the living image of it has filled my soul for ever. I have seen it in such full perfection that I cannot believe that it is impossible for people to have it.
A dream! What is a dream? And is not our life a dream? I will say more. Suppose that this paradise will never come to pass (that I understand), yet I shall go on preaching it. And yet how simple it is: in one day, in one hour everything could be arranged at once! The chief thing is to love others like yourself, that's the chief thing, and that's everything; nothing else is wanted — you will find out at once how to arrange it all. And yet it's an old truth which has been told and retold a billion times — but it has not formed part of our lives! The consciousness of life is higher than life, the knowledge of the laws of happiness is higher than happiness — that is what one must contend against. And I shall. If only everyone wants it, it can be arranged at once.
The Brothers Karamazov (1879–1880)[edit]
Beauty is a terrible and awful thing! It is terrible because it has not been fathomed, for God sets us nothing but riddles.
Here the boundaries meet and all contradictions exist side by side.
In most cases, people, even the most vicious, are much more naive and simple-minded than we assume them to be. And this is true of ourselves too.
The awful thing is that beauty is mysterious as well as terrible. God and the devil are fighting there and the battlefield is the heart of man.
What terrible tragedies realism inflicts on people.
A man who lies to himself, and believes his own lies, becomes unable to recognize truth, either in himself or in anyone else, and he ends up losing respect for himself and for others. When he has no respect for anyone, he can no longer love, and in him, he yields to his impulses, indulges in the lowest form of pleasure, and behaves in the end like an animal in satisfying his vices. And it all comes from lying — to others and to yourself.
Variant translations:
Above all, do not lie to yourself. A man who lies to himself and listens to his own lie comes to a point where he does not discern any truth either in himself or anywhere around him, and thus falls into disrespect towards himself and others. Not respecting anyone, he ceases to love, and having no love, he gives himself up to passions and coarse pleasures, in order to occupy and amuse himself, and in his vices reaches complete bestiality, and it all comes from lying continually to others and to himself. A man who lies to himself is often the first to take offense. It sometimes feels very good to take offense, doesn't it? And surely he knows that no one has offended him, and that he himself has invented the offense and told lies just for the beauty of it, that he has exaggerated for the sake of effect, that he has picked on a word and made a mountain out of a pea — he knows all of that, and still he is the first to take offense, he likes feeling offended, it gives him great pleasure, and thus he reaches the point of real hostility… Do get up from your knees and sit down, I beg you, these posturings are false, too.
Part I, Book I: A Nice Little Family, Ch. 2 : The Old Buffoon; as translated by Richard Pevear and Larissa Volokhonsky, p. 44
There is no sin, and there can be no sin on all the earth, which the Lord will not forgive to the truly repentant! Man cannot commit a sin so great as to exhaust the infinite love of God. Can there be a sin which could exceed the love of God?
Book II, ch. 3 (trans. Constance Garnett)
The Elder Zossima, speaking to a devout widow afraid of death
If you are penitent, you love. And if you love you are of God. All things are atoned for, all things are saved by love. If I, a sinner even as you are, am tender with you and have pity on you, how much more will God have pity upon you. Love is such a priceless treasure that you can redeem the whole world by it, and cleanse not only your own sins but the sins of others.
If I seem happy to you . . . You could never say anything that would please me more. For men are made for happiness, and anyone who is completely happy has a right to say to himself, 'I am doing God's will on earth.' All the righteous, all the saints, all the holy martyrs were happy.
"It's just the same story as a doctor once told me," observed the elder. "He was a man getting on in years, and undoubtedly clever. He spoke as frankly as you, though in jest, in bitter jest. 'I love humanity,' he said, 'but I wonder at myself. The more I love humanity in general, the less I love man in particular. In my dreams,' he said, 'I have often come to making enthusiastic schemes for the service of humanity, and perhaps I might actually have faced crucifixion if it had been suddenly necessary; and yet I am incapable of living in the same room with any one for two days together, as I know by experience. As soon as any one is near me, his personality disturbs my self-complacency and restricts my freedom. In twenty-four hours I begin to hate the best of men: one because he's too long over his dinner; another because he has a cold and keeps on blowing his nose. I become hostile to people the moment they come close to me. But it has always happened that the more I detest men individually the more ardent becomes my love for humanity.'"
The Elder Zossima, speaking to Mrs. Khoklakov
Above all, avoid falsehood, every kind of falsehood, especially falseness to yourself. Watch over your own deceitfulness and look into it every hour, every minute.
If you were to destroy in mankind the belief in immortality, not only love but every living force maintaining the life of the world would at once be dried up. Moreover, nothing then would be immoral, everything would be lawful, even cannibalism.
Pyotr Miusov, summarizing an argument made by Ivan at a social gathering
Fathers and teachers, what is the monk? In the cultivated world the word is nowadays pronounced by some people with a jeer, and by others it is used as a term of abuse, and this contempt for the monk is growing. It is true, alas, it is true, that there are many sluggards, gluttons, profligates and insolent beggars among monks. Educated people point to these: "You are idlers, useless members of society, you live on the labor of others, you are shameless beggars." And yet how many meek and humble monks there are, yearning for solitude and fervent prayer in peace! These are less noticed, or passed over in silence. And how surprised men would be if I were to say that from these meek monks, who yearn for solitary prayer, the salvation of Russia will come perhaps once more! For they are in truth made ready in peace and quiet "for the day and the hour, the month and the year." Meanwhile, in their solitude, they keep the image of Christ fair and undefiled, in the purity of God's truth, from the times of the Fathers of old, the Apostles and the martyrs. And when the time comes they will show it to the tottering creeds of the world. That is a great thought. That star will rise out of the East.
Book VI, chapter 3: "Conversations and Exhortations of Father Zossima; The Russian Monk and his possible Significance" (translated by Constance Garnett)
Brothers, have no fear of men's sin. Love a man even in his sin, for that is the semblance of Divine Love and is the highest love on earth. Love all God's creation, the whole of it and every grain of sand in it. Love every leaf, every ray of God's light. Love the animals, love the plants, love everything. If you love everything, you will perceive the divine mystery in things. Once you have perceived it, you will begin to comprehend it better every day, and you will come at last to love the world with an all-embracing love. Love the animals: God has given them the rudiments of thought and untroubled joy. So do not trouble it, do not harass them, do not deprive them of their joy, do not go against God's intent. Man, do not exhale yourself above the animals: they are without sin, while you in your majesty defile the earth by your appearance on it, and you leave the traces of your defilement behind you — alas, this is true of almost every one of us! Love children especially, for like the angels they too are sinless, and they live to soften and purify our hearts, and, as it were, to guide us. Woe to him who offends a child.
My young brother asked even the birds to forgive him. It may sound absurd, but it is right none the less, for everything, like the ocean, flows and enters into contact with everything else: touch one place, and you set up a movement at the other end of the world. It may be senseless to beg forgiveness of the birds, but, then, it would be easier for the birds, and for the child, and for every animal if you were yourself more pleasant than you are now. Everything is like an ocean, I tell you. Then you would pray to the birds, too, consumed by a universal love, as though in ecstasy, and ask that they, too, should forgive your sin. Treasure this ecstasy, however absurd people may think it.
Book VI, chapter 3: "Conversations and Exhortations of Father Zossima; Of Prayer, of Love, and of Contact with other Worlds" (translated by Constance Garnett)
Нет бессмертия души, так нет и добродетели, значит, всё позволено. … Без бога-то и без будущей жизни? Ведь это, стало быть, теперь всё позволено, всё можно делать?
If there is no immortality, there is no virtue. … Without God and immortal life? All things are lawful then, they can do what they like?
Is there in the whole world a being who would have the right to forgive and could forgive? I don't want harmony. From love for humanity I don't want it. I would rather be left with the unavenged suffering. I would rather remain with my unavenged suffering and unsatisfied indignation, even if I were wrong. Besides, too high a price is asked for harmony; it's beyond our means to pay so much to enter on it. And so I hasten to give back my entrance ticket, and if I am an honest man I am bound to give it back as soon as possible. And that I am doing. It's not God that I don't accept, Alyosha, only I most respectfully return him the ticket.
The stupider one is, the closer one is to reality. The stupider one is, the clearer one is. Stupidity is brief and artless, while intelligence wriggles and hides itself. Intelligence is a knave, but stupidity is honest and straightforward.
Fathers and teachers, I ponder, "What is hell?" I maintain that it is the suffering of being unable to love.
Dostoevsky (1999) [1880]. The Brothers Karamazov. Constance Garnett, translator. Signet Classic. pp. p. 312. ISBN 0451527348.
'But,' I [Dmitri Karamazov] asked, 'how will man be after that? Without God and the future life? It means everything is permitted now, one can do anything?' 'Didn't you know?' he said. And he laughed. 'Everything is permitted to the intelligent man,' he said.
Book XI, ch. 4 (trans. Pevear and Volokhonsky)
People talk sometimes of a bestial cruelty, but that's a great injustice and insult to the beasts; a beast can never be so cruel as a man, so artistically cruel. The tiger only tears and gnaws, that's all he can do. He would never think of nailing people by the ears, even if he were able to do it.
I think the devil doesn't exist, but man has created him, he has created him in his own image and likeness.
Beauty is a terrible and awful thing! It is terrible because it has not been fathomed, for God sets us nothing but riddles. Here the boundaries meet and all contradictions exist side by side.
Even those who have renounced Christianity and attack it, in their inmost being still follow the Christian ideal, for hitherto neither their subtlety nor the ardor of their hearts has been able to create a higher ideal of man and of virtue than the ideal given by Christ.
Men reject their prophets and slay them, but they love their martyrs and honor those they have slain.
So long as man remains free he strives for nothing so incessantly and so painfully as to find some one to worship.
If they drive God from the earth, we shall shelter Him underground.
Even there, in the mines, underground, I may find a human heart in another convict and murderer by my side, and I may make friends with him, for even there one may live and love and suffer. One may thaw and revive a frozen heart in that convict, one may wait upon him for years, and at last bring up from the dark depths a lofty soul, a feeling, suffering creature; one may bring forth an angel, create a hero! There are so many of them, hundreds of them, and we are to blame for them.
My feelings, gratitude, for instance, are denied me simply because of my social position.
The Devil (Ivan's Nightmare)
Do you know that ages will pass and mankind will proclaim in its wisdom and science that there is no crime and, therefore no sin, but that there are only hungry people. "Feed them first and then demand virtue of them!" — that is what they will inscribe on their banner which they will raise against you and which will destroy your temple.
To be in love is not the same as loving. You can be in love with a woman and still hate her.
It's the great mystery of human life that old grief passes gradually into quiet tender joy.
What terrible tragedies realism inflicts on people.'
People talk sometimes of bestial cruelty, but that's a great injustice and insult to the beasts; a beast can never be so cruel as a man, so artistically cruel.
Paper, they say, does not blush, but I assure you it's not true and that it's blushing just as I am now, all over.
For socialism is not merely the labour question, it is before all things the atheistic question, the question of the form taken by atheism to-day, the question of the tower of Babel built without God, not to mount to heaven from earth but to set up heaven on earth.
I am sorry I can say nothing more consoling to you, for love in action is a harsh and dreadful thing compared with love in dreams. Love in dreams is greedy for immediate action, rapidly performed and in the sight of all. Men will even give their lives if only the ordeal does not last long but is soon over, with all looking on and applauding as though on the stage. But active love is labour and fortitude, and for some people too, perhaps, a complete science. But I predict that just when you see with horror that in spite of all your efforts you are getting farther from your goal instead ofnearer to it — at that very moment I predict that you will reach it and behold clearly the miraculous power of the Lord who has been all the time loving and mysteriously guiding you.
'No one but you and one 'jade' I have fallen in love with, to my ruin. But being in love doesn't mean loving. You may be in love with a woman and yet hate her.
Beauty is a terrible and awful thing! It is terrible because it has not been fathomed and never can be fathomed, for God sets us nothing but riddles. Here the boundaries meet and all contradictions exist side by side. I am a cultivated man, brother, but I've thought a lot about this. It's terrible what mysteries there are! Too many riddles weigh men down on earth. We must solve them as we can, and try to keep a dry skin in the water. Beauty! I can't endure the thought that a man of lofty mind and heart begins with the ideal of the Madonna and ends with the ideal of Sodom. What's still more awful is that a man with the ideal of Sodom in his soul does not renounce the ideal of the Madonna, and his heart may be on fire with that ideal, genuinely on fire, just as in his days of youth and innocence. Yes, man is broad, too broad, indeed. I'd have him narrower. The devil only knows what to make of it! What to the mind is shameful is beauty and nothing else to the heart. Is there beauty in Sodom? Believe me, that for the immense mass of mankind beauty is found in Sodom. Did you know that secret? The awful thing is that beauty is mysterious as well as terrible. God and the devil are fighting there and the battlefield is the heart of man. But a man always talks of his own ache.
So long as man remains free he strives for nothing so incessantly and so painfully as to find someone to worship. But man seeks to worship what is established beyond dispute, so that all men would agree at once to worship it. For these pitiful creatures are concerned not only to find what one or the other can worship, but to find community of worship is the chief misery of every man individually and of all humanity from the beginning of time. For the sake of common worship they've slain each other with the sword. They have set up gods and challenged one another, 'Put away your gods and come and worship ours, or we will kill you and your gods!' And so it will be to the end of the world, even when gods disappear from the earth; they will fall down before idols just the same.
Why count the days, when even one days is enough for a man to know all happiness?
For everyone strives to keep his individuality as apart as possible, wishes to secure the greatest possible fullness of life for himself; but meantime all his efforts result not in attaining fullness of life but self-destruction, for instead of self-realisation he ends by arriving at complete solitude. All mankind in our age have split up into units, they all keep apart, each in his own groove; each one holds aloof, hides himself and hides what he has, from the rest, and he ends by being repelled by others and repelling them. He heaps up riches by himself and thinks, 'How strong I am now and how secure,' and in his madness he does not understand that the more he heaps up, the more he sinks into self-destructive impotence. For he is accustomed to rely upon himself alone and to cut himself off from the whole; he has trained himself not to believe in the help of others, in men and in humanity, and only trembles for fear he should lose his money and the privileges that he has won for himself. Everywhere in these days men have, in their mockery, ceased to understand that the true security is to be found in social solidarity rather than in isolated individual effort. But this terrible individualism must inevitably have an end, and all will suddenly understand how unnaturally they are separated from one another. It will be the spirit of the time, and people will marvel that they have sat so long in darkness without seeing the light.
Faith is not in power but in truth.
He comes silently and unannounced; yet all--how strange--yea, all recognize Him, at once! ...The Sun of Love burns in His heart, and warm rays of Light, Wisdom and Power beam forth from His eyes, and pour down their waves upon the swarming multitudes of the rabble assembled around, making their hearts vibrate with returning love.
Everything was given over by Thee to the Pope, and everything now rests with him alone; Thou hast no business to return and thus hinder us in our work.
The Grand Inquisitor[edit]
Full text online (Translation by H.P. Blavatsky)
He comes silently and unannounced; yet all--how strange--yea, all recognize Him, at once! The population rushes towards Him as if propelled by some irresistible force; it surrounds, throngs, and presses around, it follows Him.... Silently, and with a smile of boundless compassion upon His lips, He crosses the dense crowd, and moves softly on.
Children strew flowers along His path and sing to Him, 'Hosanna!' It is He, it is Himself, they say to each other, it must be He, it can be none other but He! He pauses at the portal of the old cathedral, just as a wee white coffin is carried in, with tears and great lamentations...in the coffin lies the body of a fair-child, seven years old...The little corpse lies buried in flowers. 'He will raise the child to life!' confidently shouts the crowd... The procession halts, and the little coffin is gently lowered at his feet. Divine compassion beams forth from His eyes, and as He looks at the child, His lips are heard to whisper once more, 'Talitha Cumi'--and 'straightway the damsel arose.' The child rises in her coffin. Her little hands still hold the nosegay of white roses which after death was placed in them, and, looking round with large astonished eyes she smiles sweetly...
A terrible commotion rages among them, the populace shouts and loudly weeps, when suddenly, before the cathedral door, appears the Cardinal Grand Inquisitor himself.... He pauses before the crowd and observes. He has seen all. He has witnessed the placing of the little coffin at His feet, the calling back to life. And now, his dark, grim face has grown still darker; his bushy grey eyebrows nearly meet, and his sunken eye flashes with sinister light. Slowly raising his finger, he commands his minions to arrest Him...
The Grand Inquisitor, holding a dark lantern, slowly stalks into the dungeon... and addresses Him in these words: "'It is Thou! ... Thou!' ... Receiving no reply, he rapidly continues: 'Nay, answer not; be silent! ... And what couldst Thou say? ... I know but too well Thy answer.... Besides, Thou hast no right to add one syllable to that which was already uttered by Thee before.... Why shouldst Thou now return, to impede us in our work? ...But art Thou as well aware of what awaits Thee in the morning?...to-morrow I will condemn and burn Thee on the stake, as the most wicked of all the heretics; and that same people, who to-day were kissing Thy feet, tomorrow at one bend of my finger, will rush to add fuel to Thy funeral pile...
His words mean, in short: 'Everything was given over by Thee to the Pope, and everything now rests with him alone; Thou hast no business to return and thus hinder us in our work.' In this sense the Jesuits not only talk but write likewise.
He [the Grand Inquisitor] seriously regards it as a great service done by himself, his brother monks and Jesuits, to humanity, to have conquered and subjected unto their authority that freedom, and boasts that it was done but for the good of the world... Man is born a rebel, and can rebels be ever happy?...
Having disburdened his heart, the Inquisitor waits for some time to hear his prisoner speak in His turn. His silence weighs upon him. He has seen that his captive has been attentively listening to him all the time, with His eyes fixed penetratingly and softly on the face of his jailer, and evidently bent upon not replying to him. The old man longs to hear His voice, to hear Him reply; better words of bitterness and scorn than His silence. Suddenly He rises; slowly and silently approaching the Inquisitor, He bends towards him and softly kisses the bloodless, four-score and-ten-year-old lips. That is all the answer...
Quotes about The Brothers Karamazov[edit]
Ivan Karamazov ... does not absolutely deny the existence of God. He refutes Him in the name of a moral value. ... God, in His turn, is put on trial. If evil is essential to divine creation, then creation is unacceptable. Ivan will no longer have recourse to this mysterious God, but to a higher principle – namely, justice. He launches the essential undertaking of rebellion, which is that of replacing the reign of grace by the reign of justice.
Albert Camus, The Rebel, A. Bower, trans. (1956), pp. 55-56
Ivan is the incarnation of the refusal to be the only one saved. He throws in his lot with the damned and, for their sake, rejects eternity. If he had faith, he could, in fact, be saved, but others would be damned and suffering would continue. There is no possible salvation for the man who feels real compassion.
Throughout the nineteenth century you can find writers using brothers and sisters as ways of projecting different aspects of the single composite self. The most famous example is the Brothers Karamazov, who, with their differing emphases on body, mind and spirit, seem to be the three parts of one total individual – the collective son of their father, perhaps Man himself.
Tony Tanner (11 September 2007). Jane Austen. Palgrave Macmillan. p. 99. ISBN 978-1-137-06457-8.
The Brothers Karamazov is the most magnificent novel ever written; the episode of the Grand Inquisitor, one of the peaks in the literature of the world, can hardly be valued too highly.
Sigmund Freud, "Dostoevsky and Parricide" (1928)
The Brothers Karamazov is a joyful book. Readers who know what it is about may find this an intolerably whimsical statement. It does have moments of joy, but they are only moments; the rest is greed, lust, squalor, unredeemed suffering, and a sometimes terrifying darkness. But the book is joyful in another sense: in its energy and curiosity, in its formal inventiveness, in the mastery of its writing
Richard Pevear Introduction to 1992 translation
Misattributed[edit]
The darker the night, the brighter the stars, the deeper the grief, the closer is God!
Attributed to Dostoyevsky's Crime and Punishment in self-help books and on social media. The words are from an untitled poem (dated 1878) by the 19th century Russian poet Apollon Maykov. The full quatrain goes: "Не говори, что нет спасенья, / Что ты в печалях изнемог: / Чем ночь темней, тем ярче звезды, / Чем глубже скорбь, тем ближе Бог."
Trust no one in whom the desire to punish is strong
Variants of such a statement have also been attributed to Johann Wolfgang von Goethe and Friedrich Nietzsche, but the only definite source found for any is in Nietzsche's Thus Spoke Zarathustra: "Distrust all in whom the impulse to punish is powerful!"
The degree of civilization in a society can be judged by entering its prisons.
Alleged to be from House of the Dead, but no such quotation is present.
Quotes about Dostoevsky[edit]
The testimony of Dostoevsky is relevant to this problem — Dostoevsky, the only psychologist, incidentally, from whom I had something to learn; he ranks among the most beautiful strokes of fortune in my life, even more than my discovery of Stendhal.
Friedrich Nietzsche in Twilight of the Idols (1889)
In the preface to an anthology of Russian literature, Vladimir Nabokov stated that he had not found a single page of Dostoevsky worthy of inclusion. This ought to mean that Dostoevsky should not be judged by each page but rather by the total of all the pages that comprise the book.
Jorge Luis Borges, in his Preface to Dostoevsky's Demons as translated by Eliot Weinberger, in Borges's "A Personal Library" series; included in Jorge Luis Borges – Selected Non-Fictions (1999)
The real 19th century prophet was Dostoevsky, not Karl Marx.
Albert Camus[citation needed]
Four facets may be distinguished in the rich personality of Dostoevsky: the creative artist, the neurotic, the moralist and the sinner. How is one to find one's way in this bewildering complexity?
Dostoevsky once wrote, "If God did not exist, everything would be permitted"; and that, for existentialism, is the starting point. Everything is indeed permitted, if God does not exist, and man is in consequence forlorn, for he cannot find anything to depend upon either within or outside himself. He discovers forthwith that he is without excuse. For if indeed existence precedes essence, one will never be able to explain one's action by reference to a given and specific human nature; in other words, there is no determinism-man is free, man is freedom.
Jean-Paul Sartre Existentialism and Humanism, 1948 p. 33-34
In fact, the real problem with the thesis of A Genealogy of Morals is that the noble and the aristocrat are just as likely to be stupid as the plebeian. I had noted in my teens that major writers are usually those who have had to struggle against the odds -- to "pull their cart out of the mud," as I put it -- while writers who have had an easy start in life are usually second rate -- or at least, not quite first-rate. Dickens, Balzac, Dostoevsky, Shaw, H. G. Wells, are examples of the first kind; in the twentieth century, John Galsworthy, Graham Greene, Evelyn Waugh, and Samuel Beckett are examples of the second kind. They are far from being mediocre writers; yet they tend to be tinged with a certain pessimism that arises from never having achieved a certain resistance against problems.
Colin Wilson in The Books In My Life, p. 188
Wikisource has original works written by or about:
FyodorDostoevsky.com
FedorDostoievsky.com
Brief biography and works at The Free Library
Dostoevsky Research Station
Works by Fyodor Dostoevsky at Project Gutenberg
Dostoevsky e-texts at Penn Librarys digital library project
Dostoyevsky 'Bookweb' at The Ledge
Full texts of some Dostoevsky's works in the original Russian
Another site with full texts of Dostoevsky's works in Russian
Fyodor Dostoevsky Biography by Iolo Savill
Alexander II and His Times: A Narrative History of Russia in the Age of Alexander II, Tolstoy, and Dostoevsky
The Gospel in Dostoevsky
Retrieved from "https://en.wikiquote.org/w/index.php?title=Fyodor_Dostoyevsky&oldid=2906179"
Existentialists
People from Moscow
Philosophical pessimists
Russian journalists
Russian essayists
Russian exiles
Russian novelists
Russian short story writers
Philosophers from Russia
Monarchists
Articles with unsourced statements


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Based in Newport Road, Broughton, Broughton Manor School is an independent school.
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text:
Attachment And Separation
A 4 page paper that briefly explains attachment theory, separation anxiety and separation anxiety disorder. The writer comments on the effects on children in foster care. Bibliography lists 6 sources.
Title: "Attachment And Separation"
Filename: MM12_PGatspfs.rtf
Attachment Disorders in Children That Have Been Neglected and Abused
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The temporary absence of worldly scenes and employments produces a state of mind peculiarly fitted to receive new and vivid impres...
Toni Morrison's Beloved and the Degrees of Separation
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control of the United States and establish a dictatorship. Most women in Gilead are infertile after repeated exposure to pesticide...
Separation between the Self and Other in Toni Morrison's Sula
This 6 page paper discusses the concept of the separation between the Self and Other, as realized by Toni Morrison in her novel Su...
Reasons Why Politics and Religion Should be Separate
In ten pages this paper argues in support of church and state separation in the U.S. Ten sources are cited in the bibliography....
wheels and horse shoes" and complying with "public health inoculation programs, as well as compliance with other public health reg...
Weiss: "Marital Separation"
to develop, so that associating with the other makes them feel better about themselves (Weiss, 1975). That is, they have endowed t...
Depression and Avoidant Attachment
demonstrates the connection between avoidant attachment and depression is often evidence in childhood. Herring and Kaslow (2002)...

redpajama_set_name: RedPajamaCommonCrawl


Last Friday Monica and I had to hit Napoli for less than 24 hours to attend some personal business. Just a quick visit, with no time to wander around. Well, there is always a positive side in most things of life: what a better chance to take back some specialty food that we don't find in Rome, and that is best eaten fresh, to share with friends? So we did it. We arranged for a lunch at home back in Rome on Sunday, and chose our quick menu. In fact it was not the time for complex recipes, rather something quick and easy to serve. Neapolitan food on the grab. I thought it could be interesting to share, so I'll go straight to the menu.
Some of the food mentioned below is registered as "traditional products" by Campania region government; you can tell by the link to the related page.
Starter: "Taralli 'nsogna e pepe". Taralli are a kind of salty bagels, like you find in many places specially in the south of Italy. There are many good ones in Apulia, for instance. This kind is typical from Napoli. It is larger, the dough is made with lard ("'nsogna" in Neapolitan) instead of the more common olive oil, and pepper, and it is flavored with whole almonds. It is the kind of "chain food", in the sense that it makes you a serial eater and you can't stop. In Napoli, with friends, we used to eat them by the sea, with beer; simple ingredients for simple relax, but very tasty. This time we had them with an excellent white wine also from Campania: "Le Serole" by Terre del Principe, a wine made with one of the many local historical grapes called Pallagrello bianco. Excellent match.
Second starter: "Fiordilatte di Agerola". This is a kind of mozzarella made with milk from a special breed the "agerolese" cow. This breed can be found only on the mountains above Sorrento, in the area of a little town called Agerola. Here in the middle of 19th century a general from the Borbone army experimented with breed mixing. The result was this breed that produces large quantities of great tasting milk, which is used to make some traditional cheeses: one is the Provolone del Monaco (but that's another story), and the other one is Fiordilatte. Like mozzarella, also fiordliatte is at its best for the first 18-24 hours after production. We drank the same white wine with fiordilatte, also a good match.
Main course: "Pasta with Soffritto". In spite of the name there is nothing fried. Soffritto is a spicy sauce made with pig offal: a very tasteful way to use what used to be the least valuable parts of the animal. In Naples most butchers make it with their recipe and sell it in their shops. We got some supply as we can't find it in Rome, and we have also pending commitments with other friends on this subject :-). Here we switched wine, a red one from the same producer called "Piancastelli" and made from Pallagrello nero and Casavecchia grapes, also from Campania. No wonder: there are more than 400 grapes in Italy!
Dessert: "Migliaccio". This is a typical dessert for the carnival period in Napoli. It is made with some of the same ingredients as other traditional desserts like Pastiera or Sfogliatella: ricotta, eggs, sugar, semolina, milk, lemon skin. Simple ingredients and simple procedure (Monica made it in a short time) but great result: two slices each were a sign of uniform success. Here we drank some homemade liquors, same concept as the more famous limoncello but with other flavors like meant and wild fennel. We also had my mother's famous "Nocillo": this is a walnut liquor with much more complex taste, with a wide bouquet of flavors given by cinnamon, cloves and a few other spices.
Maybe it was the spirit of the food, maybe it was the good company we had, or most likely the combination of both, we had all this in the "traditional style": we sat at the table until past 6pm, chatting, sipping liquor and enjoying the moment. A Neapolitan Sunday in Rome!


SBI education loan for abroad, also known as SBI Global Ed-Vantage Scheme, is an overseas education loan offered by SBI for India students looking to pursue their education out of the country. SBI education loan for abroad is faster with 14 working days approval format and has lower interest rates as compared to the other student loan players in the market. The fixed processing fee of INR 10,000 is also considered lesser than what the competition lenders offer. Students must note that only scale 2 and scale 3 SBI branches are permitted to authorize a loan under the SBI Global Ed-Vantage education loan scheme.
Indian students looking to pursue full-time undergraduate (bachelors), postgraduate (masters) and doctoral (Ph.D.) degrees at foreign colleges and universities in USA, UK, Canada, Australia, New Zealand, Europe, Hong Kong, Japan and Singapore are eligible to apply for SBI education loan for abroad. Students applying to other countries are also considered on a case-to-case basis.
SBI Global Ed-Vantage Scheme offers a minimum loan amount of INR 20 Lacs and a maximum loan amount of INR 1.5 Cr. Tangible collateral security is required. Collateral security offered by third-party (other than parents) is also acceptable.
10.70% interest rate is offered for loan amount above INR 20 lacs and up to INR 1.5 Cr with 0.50% concession for girl students and 0.50% concession for students availing SBI Rinn Raksha/existing life insurance policy allocated in favour of SBI.
The repayment period for SBI Global Ed-Vantage Scheme begins 6 months after the course completion and the loan is to be repaid in 15 years.
Expenses Covered • Fee payable to college/school/hostel.
• Travel expenses/passage money for studies abroad.
• Purchase of books/equipment/instruments/uniforms/ computer at reasonable cost, if required for course completion and any other expense required to complete the course– like study tours, project work, thesis, etc. can be considered for loan subject to the condition that these should be capped at 20% of the total tuition fees payable for completion of the course.
• Caution deposit /building fund/refundable deposit supported by Institution bills/receipts the amount considered for the loan should not exceed 10% of the tuition fees for the entire course.
Margin • Scholarship/assistantship to be included in margin.
• Margin to be brought in on a year-on-year basis as and when disbursements are made on a pro-rata basis.
Repayment • Accrued interest during the moratorium to be added to the principal and repayment in EMI fixed.


A happy, sunny Friday here at Trunk HQ just got even better with the announcement of the PRCA awards shortlist!
Amazingly, two of our nominations are in the same category which is titled 'Charity/Not for Profit', so we're doubling our chances!
The first one is for our work with No Brainer on the NYAS 'Digital Life Stories' campaign. This was made up of two different videos – an animation and a poem – both of which are designed to showcase the amazing talents of the young people living in care. The campaign aimed to encourage youngsters to learn new skills and engage with marketing and film-making; the poem was actually written by a 16-year-old currently in the care system. You can click the links above to watch both of the videos and find out more about this great organisation.
Secondly, we're nominated for our collaborative work with Big Brand Ideas for our 'C-Word' video, which aimed to raise money for young Isabella Lyttle, a girl with a rare form of cancer. Isabella needs to get to America for treatment so to help her with her fight click here.
It's also a big honour to be nominated for our other work with Big Brand Ideas: Nextbase's 'Bad Drivers' campaign. This falls into the 'Digital and Social Media Campaign of the Year' category and was a project we all really enjoyed working on!
Big Brand Ideas are also up for the 'Media Relations' award for their PR work on the Isabella campaign – well done guys!
A big congratulations to everyone who's been nominated including our agency friends at JamPR and Stein IAS! Check out the rest of the nominations here. We can't wait to go to the ceremony in July to see who wins what… Good luck everyone!


text:
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"I do not think Sylvie was merely reticent. It is, as she said, difficult to describe someone, since memories are by their nature fragmented, isolated, and arbitrary as glimpses one has at night through lighted windows. Sometimes we used to watch trains passing in the dark afternoon, creeping through the blue snow with their windows all alight, and full of people eating and arguing and reading newspapers. They could not see us watching, of course, because by five-thirty on a winter day the landscape had disappeared, and they would have seen their own depthless images on the black glass, if they had looked, and not the black trees and the black houses, or the slender black bridge and the dim blue expanse of the lake. Some of them probably did not know what it was the train approached so cautiously. Once, Lucille and I walked beside the train to the shore. There had been a freezing rain that glazed the snow with a crust of ice, and we found that, when the sun went down, the crust was thick enough for us to walk on. So we followed the train at a distance of twenty feet or so, falling now and then, because the glazed snow swelled and sank in dunes, and the tops of bushes and fence posts rose out of it in places where we did not expect them to be. But by crawling up, and sliding down, and steadying ourselves against the roof of sheds and rabbit hutches, we managed to stay just abreast of the window of a young woman with a small head and a small hat and a brightly painted face. She wore pearl-gray gloves that reached almost to her elbows, and hooped bracelets that fell down her arms when she reached up to push a loose wisp of hair underneath her hat. The woman looked at the window very often, clearly absorbed by what she saw, which was not but merely seemed to be Lucille and me scrambling to stay beside her, too breathless to shout. When we cam eto the shore, where the land fell down and the bridge began to rise, we stopped and watched her window sail slowly away, along the abstract arc of the bridge. "We could walk across the lake," I said. The thought was terrible. "It's too cold," Lucille replied. So she was done. Yet I remember her neither less nor differently than I remember others I have known better, and indeed I dream of her, and the dream is very like the event itself, except that in the dream the bridge pilings do not tremble so perilously under the weight of the train."
Exquisite. I didn't notice the title, but after reading a single sentence I still knew where it came from. Unlike many books, Robinson's prose stays with me. Throughout Housekeeping she returns again again to images of light and dark, of windows, and water.
This is a great way to start the day. A humble request: please post other passages from time to time that you feel appropriate. It helps, inspires and brings a sense of encouragement to a simple writer like myself. Thank you, TEV.
My apologies. Obviously you are posting passages.
Thanks much for this. I read a review of her latest somewhat recentely, somewhere, and found it interesting, but not go out and get it interesting. This passage, a gorgeous passage, is getting it added to my long lists.
Beautiful passage. I agree with the others that request more once in a while.
What a delight to see anything by Robinson, but espcially something from her first novel. It is set in Sandpoint, Idaho, where I lived in another lifetime and where my grandfather was born.
The Long Bridge that goes across Lake Pend Oreille is one of those sights that features both nature and manmade works to great advantage.
This is a huge, deep and wide lake that rarely freezes over, that has depths not quite charted where submarine training took place during WWII but where kids learned to ice skate for decades, even after the ice didn't need to be harvested during winter for summer use.
Robinson's writing is so on the mark. I'm delighted her latest novel is on the National Book Award list.


Vera Chytilova is a name that cannot escape your mouth if you are talking about women filmmakers. She has been an inspiration to many other women in the field as well. Born in 1929, Vera abandoned philosophy and architecture to pursue her desire to be in cinema by attending the Film and TV School of the Academy of Performing Arts in Prague (FAMU). She released her first film, The Ceiling in 1961 but it was in 1966 with her film Daisies that she came into focus. The film that was banned in her hometown of Czech told the story of two girls, Marie I and II who struggle to unearth the ultimate truth of life. Often hailed as the militant feminist filmmaker, Vera continued to craft controversial films like The Apple Game, Pretas Story and Fuckoffguysgoodbye. After a long fight with her illness Vera Chytilova passed away on 12 March 2014. Pleasant moments which revolved around the life of psychologist who strives to strike a balance between her stressful career and her love life, was Vera Chytilovas last film which was released in 2006.


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An Australian natural sapphire weighing at 1.50 carats. With 7mm in roundness and consisting of 14k of white gold.
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text:
Балка Оріхова — річка в Україні, у Токмацькому й Оріхівському районах Запорізької області. Ліва притока Кінської (басейн Дніпра).

Опис
Довжина річки 24 км, похил річки — 3,4 м/км. Площа басейну 124 км².

Розташування
Бере початок у селі Роботині. Спочатку тече на північний захід, потім на північний схід через Новопавлівку і впадає у річку Кінську, ліву притоку Дніпра.

Цікавий факт
 Нині від річки залишилося лише 3 загати у с. Роботине та 2 ділянки довжиною приблизно 4 км Балки Власової, лівої притоки Балки Оріхової.

Примітки

Джерела
 «Каталог річок України» . — К. : Видавництво АН УРСР, 1957. — С. 124. — (№ 2143).
 Словник гідронімів України  – К.: Наукова думка, 1979. – С. 401

Малі річки України
Річки Запорізької області
Зниклі річки України
Річки басейну Дніпра
Річки Токмацького району
Річки Оріхівського району

redpajama_set_name: RedPajamaWikipedia


text:
Q: Java Web Flux : How to fetch body from ServerHttpResponse? I have implemented custom ServerHttpRequestDecorator to fetch request body But unable to do the same for response.
@Override
    public Mono<Void> filter(ServerWebExchange exchange, WebFilterChain chain)
    {
        long start = System.currentTimeMillis();
        LogServerWebExchangeDecorator exchangeDecorator = new LogServerWebExchangeDecorator(
                exchange);
        exchangeDecorator.getResponse().beforeCommit(() ->
        {
            logRequest(exchangeDecorator.getRequest(), exchangeDecorator.getRequestBody());
            logResponse(exchangeDecorator.getRequest(), exchangeDecorator.getResponse(), start);
            return Mono.empty();
        });
        return chain.filter(exchangeDecorator);
    }

How can achieve the same?

A: private class LogServerHttpResponseDecorator extends ServerHttpResponseDecorator
    {
        private final FastByteArrayOutputStream fastByteArrayOutputStream;
        public LogServerHttpResponseDecorator(ServerHttpResponse response, LoggingContext loggingContext)
        {
            super(response);
            fastByteArrayOutputStream = new FastByteArrayOutputStream();
            response.beforeCommit(LoggingContextUtils.withContext(loggingContext, (Supplier<Mono<Void>>) () ->
                {
                    logResponse(byteArrayToString(fastByteArrayOutputStream.toByteArray(),
                            getHeaders()));
                    return Mono.empty();
                }));
        }

        @Override
        public Mono<Void> writeWith(Publisher<? extends DataBuffer> body)
        {
            return super.writeWith(Flux.from(body).map(buffer ->
            {
                readBuffer(fastByteArrayOutputStream, buffer);
                return buffer;
            }));
        }

        @Override
        public Mono<Void> writeAndFlushWith(
                Publisher<? extends Publisher<? extends DataBuffer>> body)
        {
            return super.writeAndFlushWith(Flux.from(body).map(publisher ->
                    Flux.from(publisher).map(buffer ->
                    {
                        readBuffer(fastByteArrayOutputStream, buffer);
                        return buffer;
                    })));
        }
    }
private void readBuffer(FastByteArrayOutputStream fastByteArrayOutputStream, DataBuffer buffer)
    {
        try
        {
            Channels.newChannel(fastByteArrayOutputStream)
                    .write(buffer.asByteBuffer().asReadOnlyBuffer());
        }
        catch (IOException e)
        {
            if (LoggingUtils.isLoggable(LOGGER, Level.ERROR))
            {
                LoggingUtils.log(LOGGER, Level.ERROR, null, "Unable to log", e);
            }
        }
    }

redpajama_set_name: RedPajamaStackExchange