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Fyodor Dostoevsky
I wished to stifle with external sensations all that was ceaselessly boiling up inside me. And among external sensations the only one possible for me was reading. Reading was, of course, a great help— it stirred, delighted, and tormented me. But at times it bored me terribly. I still wanted to move about, and so I'd suddenly sink into some murky, subterranean, vile debauch— not a great, but a measly little debauch. there were measly little passions in my, sharp, burning, because of my permanent, morbid irritability. I was given to hysterical outbursts, with tears and convulsions. apart from reading I had nowhere to turn— that is, there was nothing I could then respect in my surroundings, nothing I would be drawn to.
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