I sometimes think love consists precisely of the voluntary gift by the loved object of the right to tyrannize over it.
Fyodor DostoevskyA special form of misery had begun to oppress him of late. There was nothing poignant, nothing acute about it; but there was a feeling of permanence, of eternity about it; it brought a foretaste of hopeless years of this cold leaden misery, a foretaste of an eternity "on a square yard of space.
Fyodor Dostoevsky