To harbor spiteful feelings against ordinary people for not being heroes is possible only for narrow-minded or embittered man.

Fine. Since the tea is not forthcoming, let's have a philosophical conversation.

Critics are like horse-flies which hinder the horses in their plowing of the soil. The horse works, all its muscles drawn tight like the strings on a double-bass, and a fly settles on his flanks and tickles and buzzes. And what does the fly buzz about? It scarcely knows itself; simply because it is restless and wants to proclaim: 'Look, I too am living on the earth. See, I can buzz, too, buzz about anything.'

A woman is fascinated not by art but by the noise made by those in the field.

I was oppressed with a sense of vague discontent and dissatisfaction with my own life, which was passing so quickly and uninterestingly, and I kept thinking it would be a good thing if I could tear my heart out of my breast, that heart which had grown so weary of life.

Be sure not to discuss your hero's state of mind. Make it clear from his actions.

I kept thinking how marvellous it would be if I could somehow tear my heart, which felt so heavy, out of my chest.