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spacetime03 's review for:
The Idiot
by Fyodor Dostoevsky
“is it not enough that i am devoured, without my being expected to bless the power that devours me?”
“nature is full of mockery! why does she create beings only to mock at them? the only human being who is recognised as perfect, when nature showed him to mankind, was given the mission to say things which have caused the shedding of so much blood that it would have drowned mankind if it had all been shed at once!”
“only she thinks she cannot marry you, because it would it would be the ruin of you…she ran away because she found out how dearly she loved you. she could not bear to be near you.”
“i love you very much, and now i shall go away and never come back again…when you are not with me i hate you, i have loathed you every day since i last saw you…now you have been with me but a quarter of an hour and all my malice seems to have melted away, and you are as dear to me as ever. stay here a little longer.”
“i consider all that had passed a delirium, an insane dream. i can understand all you did, and you felt that day, as if it were myself.”
“she loves you without limits…she says ‘i want to see him happy,’ which is to say — she loves you.”
“the more i realised my condition, the more i clung to life; i wanted to live at any price. i confess i might well have resented that blind, deaf fate, which, with no apparent reason, seemed to have decided to crush me like a fly; but why did i not stop at resentment? why did i begin to live, knowing that it was not worth while to begin?”
“supposing that the disciples, all of whom believed in and worshipped Him — supposing that they saw this tortured body, this face so mangled and bleeding and bruised (and they must have seen it) — how could that have gazed upon the dreadful sight and yet have believed that He would rise again?”
“what was this universe? what was this grand pangent to which he had yearned from his childhood up, and in which he could never take part? every morning the same magnificent sun; every evening the same glow on the snow-mountains. every little fly that buzzed in the sun’s rays was a singer in the universal chorus, ‘knew its place, and was happy in it’…only he knew nothing, understood nothing, neither men nor words, nor any of nature’s voices; he was a stranger and an outcast.”
“what does misfortune matter, if one knows how to be happy? how can anyone talk to a man and not feel happy in loving him! look at a little child — look at God’s day dawn — look at the grass growing — look at the eyes that love you, as they gaze back into your eyes!”