I am like a mariner born and bred on board a buccaneer brig whose soul has become so inured to storm and strife that if cast ashore he would weary and languish no matter how alluring the shady groves and how bright the gentle sun.

Russian ladies, for the most part, cherish only Platonic love, without mingling any thought of matrimony with it; and Platonic love is exceedingly embarrassing.

He in his madness prays for storms, and dreams that storms will bring him peace.

My whole life has been merely a succession of miserable and unsuccessful denials of feelings or reason.

I love enemies, though not in the Christian way. They amuse me, excite my blood. Being always on one’s guard, catching every glance, the significance of every word, guessing at intentions, frustrating their plots, pretending to be tricked, and suddenly, with a shove, upturning the whole enormous and arduously built edifice of their cunning and schemes—that’s what I call life.

One should never spurn a penitent criminal: in his despair he may become twice as much a criminal as before.

If only people thought a little more about it, they would see that life is not worrying about so much.