I could not become anything; neither good nor bad; neither a scoundrel nor an honest man; neither a hero nor an insect. And now I am eking out my days in my corner, taunting myself with the bitter and entirely useless consolation that an intelligent man cannot seriously become anything, that only a fool can become something.
Fyodor DostoevskyWhen . . . in the course of all these thousands of years has man ever acted in accordance with his own interests?
Fyodor Dostoevsky