I sometimes think love consists precisely of the voluntary gift by the loved object of the right to tyrannize over it.

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

To crush, to annihilate a man utterly, to inflict on him the most terrible of punishments so that the most ferocious murderer would shudder at it and dread it beforehand, one need only give him work of an absolutely, completely useless and irrational character.

But what can a decent man speak of with most pleasure? Answer: Of himself. Well, so I will talk about myself.

Lying is a delightful thing, for it leads to truth.

I feel pity for him, and that is a poor sign of love.

You are told a lot about your education, but some beautiful, sacred memory, preserved since childhood, is perhaps the best education of all. If a man carries many such memories into life with him, he is saved for the rest of his days. And even if only one good memory is left in our hearts, it may also be the instrument of our salvation one day.