Fyodor Dostoevsky, fully Fyodor Mikhaylovich Dostoevsky or Feodor Mikhailovich Dostoevski

Fyodor
Dostoevsky, fully Fyodor Mikhaylovich Dostoevsky or Feodor Mikhailovich Dostoevski
1821
1881

Russian Novelist, Short-Story Writer and Essayist best known for his novels Crime and Punishment, The Idiot and The Brothers Karamazov

Author Quotes

Thus, as a result of heightened consciousness, a man feels as if it's all right if he's bad as long as he knows it- as though that were any consolation.

To kill for murder is a punishment incomparably worse than the crime itself. Murder by legal sentence is immeasurably more terrible than murder by brigands. Anyone murdered by brigands, whose throat is cut at night in a wood, or something of that sort, must surely hope to escape till the very last minute. There have been instances when a man has still hoped for escape, running or begging for mercy after his throat was cut. But in the other case all that last hope, which makes dying ten times as easy, taken away for certain. There is the sentence, and the whole awful torture lies in the fact that there is certainly no escape, and there is no torture in the world more terrible. You may lead a soldier out and set him facing the cannon in battle and fire at him and he'll still hope; but read a sentence of certain death over that same soldier, and he will go out of his mind or burst into tears. Who can tell whether human nature is able to bear this without madness.

Twice two is four is, in my opinion, nothing but impudence.

We are all happy if we but knew it.

We learned that he had been arrested outside the city, experiencing access amok. He had been taken to hospital where he died two days later. A similar death was the necessary consequence, naturally, his whole life. He had to die so when all that supported the life of a sudden disappeared like a vision, like an empty dream. He died after losing his last hope, after having had the clear vision of all that had lured and sustained his life. The truth blinded insoutenabe its luster. and what was the lie appeared to him as to himself. During the last hour of his life, he had heard a great genius who had told him of his own existence and condemned forever. With the last sound of the violin sprung brilliant S. .. had revealed to him the mystery of art and engineering, forever young, strong and true, had crushed his truth. It seemed that everything that had tormented him throughout his life by mysterious suffering unspeakable, what he had seen to this day in a dream and he fled in horror and hid by lying in his life, everything he foresaw and feared, all this suddenly shone in his eyes, stubbornly unwilling to recognize that light is the light and the darkness the darkness. The truth was intolerable to the eyes that saw light for the first time and it blinded him and destroyed his reason. She had struck suddenly, like lightning. Suddenly realized what he had waited all his life with a tremor of terror. It seemed that his whole life was an ax hanging over his head, that all his life he had waited at every moment, in untold suffering, that the ax would strike. Finally she had struck. The blow was fatal. He wanted to escape, but he did not know where to go. The last hope had vanished, wiped out the last excuse. One whose life had been a burden for many years, including the death, as he believed in his blindness, his resurrection was to bring him, was dead. Finally he was alone and nothing bothered him. He was finally free! For the last time, in a fit of despair, he wanted to judge oneself, to condemn ruthlessly as a fair judge, but his bow was weakened and could not repeat slightly last sentence of musical genius. At this point, the madness that lurked for ten years, had hit irrevocably.

They won't let me ... I can't be ... good!

Till the last moment they dress a man up in peacock's feathers, till the last moment they hope for the good and not the bad; and though they may have premonitions of the other side of the coin, for the life of them they will not utter a real word beforehand; the thought alone makes them cringe; they wave the truth away with both hands, till the very moment when the man they've decked out so finely sticks their noses in it with his own two hands.

To love a person means to see him as God intended him to be.

Twice two makes four seems to me simply a piece of insolence. Twice two makes four is a pert coxcomb who stands with arms akimbo barring your path and spitting. I admit that twice two makes four is an excellent thing, but if we are to give everything its due, twice two makes five is sometimes a very charming thing too.

We are all on the face of rounding are like madmen really often, with one difference is that the patients most of us a little crazy, it is necessary to make a distinction here degrees. As normal it is to be human to say that it hardly exists. We may find together an individual or individuals close to normal, among the tens of thousands, and possibly hundreds of thousands of individuals.

We must deal more people... Transaction children, and that some people deal... Transaction patients.

This is just like admitting his crime: that no 't bore and went and confessed himself.

To a commonplace man of limited intellect, for instance, nothing is simpler than to imagine himself an original character, and to revel in that belief without the slightest misgiving.

To love another human should be hidden, and his face appeared still love.

Two times two will be four even without my will. Is that what you call man's free will?

We are all people Bonissima the point of being comical.

We must destroy the idea of God in the mind of man. Then everyone will know that he is mortal, with no hope of resurrection, and each resigned himself to death with quiet pride. The man will refrain from murmuring against the brevity of life and love his brothers a disinterested affection. Love does provide that brief pleasures, but the very consciousness of brevity in this strengthen the intensity as much as it once diluted in the hopes of an everlasting love.

This is my last message to you: in sorrow, seek happiness.

To a woman all reformation, all salvation from any sort of ruin, and all moral renewal is included in love and can only show itself in that form.

To love is to suffer and there can be no love otherwise.

Tyranny is a habit; it may develop, and it does develop at last, into a disease. I maintain that the very best of men may be coarsened and hardened into a brute by habit. Blood and power intoxicate; coarseness and depravity are developed; the mind and the heart are tolerant of the most abnormal things, till at last they come to relish them. The man and the citizen is lost forever in the tyrant, and the return to human dignity, to repentance and regeneration becomes almost impossible.

We are all privately agreed that it is better in books.

We must name the eminent and fascinating Prince N. - once the vanquisher of female hearts all over Europe.

This is not it, this is not it! No, this is not it at all!

To achieve perfection, one must first begin by not understanding many things! And if we understand too quickly, we may not understand well.

Author Picture
First Name
Fyodor
Last Name
Dostoevsky, fully Fyodor Mikhaylovich Dostoevsky or Feodor Mikhailovich Dostoevski
Birth Date
1821
Death Date
1881
Bio

Russian Novelist, Short-Story Writer and Essayist best known for his novels Crime and Punishment, The Idiot and The Brothers Karamazov