Art is not a handicraft, it is the transmission of feeling the artist has experienced.

And the cause of everything is that which we call God.

Are we not all flung into the world for no other purpose than to hate each other, and so to torture ourselves and one another?

Whatever question arose, a swarm of these drones, without having finished their buzzing on a previous theme, flew over to the new one and by their hum drowned and obscured the voices of those who were disputing honestly.

Ivan Ilych's life had been most simple and most ordinary and therefore most terrible.

It is a rude feeling, because it is natural only to people standing on the lowest level of morality, and expecting from other nations such outrages as they themselves are ready to inflict.

In order to know what he is, a man must first know what the sum of this mysterious humanity is, a humanity made up of people who, like himself, do not understand what they are.