sleepwithacoffeeinhand
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.
The Idiot by Fyodor Mikhaylovich Dostoyevsky (via sleepwithacoffeeinhand)
alcools
You ask yourself: where are your dreams now? And you shake your head and say how swiftly the years fly by! And ask yourself again: what have you done with your best years, then? Where have you buried the best days of your life? Have you lived or not? Look, you tell yourself, look how cold the world is becoming. The years will pass and after them will come grim loneliness, and old age, quaking on its stick, and after them misery and despair. Your fantasy world will grow pale, your dreams will fade and die, falling away like the yellow leaves from the trees …
Fyodor Dostoevsky, White Nights (via alcools)
dubbelliefde
You ask yourself: where are your dreams now? And you shake your head and say how swiftly the years fly by! And ask yourself again: what have you done with your best years, then? Where have you buried the best days of your life? Have you lived or not? Look, you tell yourself, look how cold the world is becoming. The years will pass and after them will come grim loneliness, and old age, quaking on its stick, and after them misery and despair. Your fantasy world will grow pale, your dreams will fade and die, falling away like the yellow leaves from the trees …
Fyodor Dostoevsky, from White Nights (via dubbelliefde)
sexymnymphos
Dostoevsky’s face was that of a Russian peasant, a true Moscow muzhik: flat nose, small eyes blinking under arched eyebrows, sometimes burning with a somber fire, sometimes kind-looking; broad forehead, covered in dents and protuberances; temples pushed back, as if forged with a great hammer; and all these tense, twisted features ended in a dolorous mouth. I have never seen such a suffering expression on a human face… his eyelids, his lips, every muscle on his face would tremble with countless nervous tics.
E. M. de Vogüé, La Roman Ruse (via sexymnymphos)
brainzinside
What’s more, the awareness I have that no matter how ridiculous and humiliated I may seem, there lies within me that treasure of strength which will someday make them all change their opinion of me, this awareness — almost since the humiliated years of my childhood — then constituted the only source of my life, my light and my dignity, my weapon and my consolation, otherwise I might have killed myself while still a child.
Dostoevsky, The Adolescent (via brainzinside)
ponchooo
'Well, sir', she said, 'just as a mother rejoices when she notices her baby smile for the firt time, so does God rejoice every time he beholds from on high a sinner kneeling before him, praying with all his heart.' This was what a simple peasant woman told me, in practically those words —a thought so profound, so subtle, so truely religious, comprehending the whole essence of Christianity, that is, the whole concept of God as our Father and our God rejiicing in man, like a father rejoicing in his child —the fundamental idea of Christ!
Fyodor Dostoevsky. The idiot. (via ponchooo)
jonpertwee
[W]e are all divorced from life, we are all cripples, every one of us, more or less. We are so divorced from it that we feel at once a sort of loathing for real life, and so cannot bear to be reminded of it. Why, we have come almost to looking upon real life as an effort, almost as hard work, and we are all privately agreed that it is better in books. And why do we fuss and fume sometimes? Why are we perverse and ask for something else? We don’t know what ourselves. It would be the worse for us if our petulant prayers were answered. Come, try, give any one of us, for instance, a little more independence, untie our hands, widen the spheres of our activity, relax the control and we … yes, I assure you … we should be begging to be under control again at once.
Notes from the Underground — Dostoevsky (via jonpertwee)