… for nightinggales - we know - can’t live on fairytales.

Morning or night, Friday or Sunday, made no difference, everything was the same: the gnawing, excruciating, incessant pain; that awareness of life irrevocably passing but not yet gone; that dreadful, loathsome death, the only reality, relentlessly closing in on him; and that same endless lie. What did days, weeks, or hours matter?

In the name of God, stop a moment, cease your work, look around you.

It's not given to people to judge what's right or wrong. People have eternally been mistaken and will be mistaken, and in nothing more than in what they consider right and wrong.

Every man had his personal habits, passions, and impulses toward goodness, beauty, and truth.

Whatever our fate is or may be, we have made it and do not complain of it." - Vronksy {Anna Karenina}

There it is!' he thought with rapture. 'When I was already in despair, and when it seemed there would be no end- there it is! She loves me. She's confessed it.