I can't understand how anyone can write without rewriting everything over and over again.

it is hard for anyone who is dissatisfied not to blame some one else, and especially the person nearest of all to him, for the ground of his dissatisfaction.

And for him, who lived in a certain circle, and who required some mental activity such as usually develops with maturity, having views was as necessary as having a hat.

I imagine, joking apart, that to know love, one must make mistakes and then correct them.

He remembered his mother's love for him, and his family's, and his friends', and the enemy's intention to kill him seemed impossible.

I prefer a good pair of boots to Shakespeare.

He looked at her as a man looks at a faded flower he has gathered, with difficulty recognizing in it the beauty for which he picked and ruined it. And in spite of this he felt that then, when his love was stronger, he could, if he had greatly wished it, have torn that love out of his heart; but now when as at that moment it seemed to him he felt no love for her, he knew that what bound him to her could not be broken.