The whole work of man really seems to consist in nothing but proving to himself every minute that he is a man and not a piano key.

In the realist, faith is not born from miracles, but miracles from faith.

I am a wicked man... But do you know, gentlemen, what was the main point about my wickedness? The whole thing, precisely was, the greatest nastiness precisely lay in my being shamefully conscious every moment, even in moments of the greatest bile, that I was not only not a wicked man but was not even an embittered man, that I was simply frightening sparrows in vain, and pleasing myself with it.

Man has it all in his hands, and it all slips through his fingers from sheer cowardice.

It's a burden to us even to be human beings-men with our own real body and blood; we are ashamed of it, we think it a disgrace and try to contrive to be some sort of impossible generalized man.

The world stands on absurdities, and without them perhaps nothing at all would happen.

Your hand is cold, mine burns like fire. How blind you are, Nastenka!