There was a tacit understanding between them that 'liquor helped'; growing more miserable with every glass one hoped for the moment of relief.

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.

So long as one is happy one can endure any discipline: it was unhappiness that broke down the habits of work.

They are always saying God loves us. If thats love Id rather have a bit of kindness.

A ruling passion gives to a shelf of novels the unity of a system.

There was a tacit understanding between them that 'liquor helped'; growing more miserable with every glass one hoped for the moment of relief.

Unfortunately the innocent are always involved in any conflict. Always, everywhere, there is some voice crying from a tower.