For a good man fame is always a problem.

One has no talent. I have no talent. It's just a question of working, of being willing to put in the time.

In a mad world it always seems simpler to obey.

Happiness is never really so welcome as changelessness.

With Your great schemes, You ruin our happiness like a harvester ruins a mouse's nest: I hate You, God, I hate You as though You existed.

Like the characters in Chekhov, they have no reserves -– you learn the most intimate secrets. You get an impression of a world peopled by eccentrics, of odd professions, almost incredible stupidities, and, to balance them, amazing endurances.

For a good man fame is always a problem.