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Fyodor Dostoevsky

Fyodor Dostoevsky


Fyodor Mikhaylovich Dostoyevsky was a Russian writer, essayist and philosopher, perhaps most recognized today for his novels Crime and Punishment and The Brothers Karamazov.

Dostoyevsky's literary output explores human psychology in the troubled political, social and spiritual context of 19th-century Russian society. Considered by many as a founder or precursor of 20th-century existentialism, his Notes from Underground (1864), written in the embittered voice of the anonymous "underground man", was called by Walter Kaufmann the "best overture for existentialism ever written."

His tombstone reads "Verily, Verily, I say unto you, Except a corn of wheat fall into the ground and die, it abideth alone: but if it die, it bringeth forth much fruit." from John 12:24, which is also the epigraph of his final novel, The Brothers Karamazov.
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...poverty is not a vice, that's a true saying. Yet I know that drunkenness too is not a virtue and that's even truer. But destitution, dear sir, destitution is a vice. In poverty you may still retain your innate nobility of soul , but in destitution-never-no-one. For destitution a man is not chased out of society with a stick, he is swept out with a broom to make it as humiliating as possible; and quite right, too, for in destitution I am the first to humiliate my self.
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يعز على المرء دائما أن يسلم بألم غيره
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But to judge some people impartially we must renounce certain preconceived opinions and our habitual attitude to the ordinary people about us.
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And therefore the idea of serving mankind, of the brotherhood and oneness of people, is fading more and more in the world, and indeed the idea now even meets with mockery, for how can one drop one's habits, where will this slave go now that he is so accustomed to satisfying the innumerable needs he himself has invented? He is isolated, and what does he care about the whole? They have succeeded in amassing more and more things, but have less and less joy.
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Within two minutes, or even less, he had forgotten all his troubles. Not because his troubles were one whit less heavy and bitter to him than a man's are to a man, but because a new and powerful interest bore them down and drove them out of his mind for the time—just as men's misfortunes are forgotten in the excitement of new enterprises. This new interest was a valued novelty in whistling, which he had just acquired from a negro, and he was suffering to practise it un-disturbed. It consisted in a peculiar bird-like turn, a sort of liquid warble, produced by touching the tongue to the roof of the mouth at short intervals in the midst of the music—the reader probably remembers how to do it, if he has ever been a boy. Diligence and attention soon gave him the knack of it, and he strode down the street with his mouth full of harmony and his soul full of gratitude. He felt much as an astronomer feels who has discovered a new planet—no doubt, as far as strong, deep, unalloyed pleasure is concerned, the advantage was with the boy, not the astronomer. The summer evenings were long. It was not dark, yet. Presently Tom checked his whistle. A stranger was before him—a boy a shade larger than himself. A new-comer of any age or either sex was an im-pressive curiosity in the poor little shabby village of St. Petersburg. This boy was well dressed, too—well
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Kendi yalanını söylemek, başkasının gerçeğini söylemekten çok daha iyidir. Kendi yalanını söylediğinde bir insansın sen, ama başkasının gerçeğini yinelediğinde yalnızca bir papağan...
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برنامه ای دارم،برنامه دیوانه شدن
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انسان در شادی و خرسندی به چه زیبائیهایی می رسد ! چگونه دلِ آدمی مالامال از عشق می شود! احساس می کنی که می خواهی تمامی ِ عشقت را به قلب ِ دیگری سرازیر کنی، می خواهی خر چخ در اطراف ِ توست انعکاس شادی و خنده باشد . و شادی ، چه مُسری است
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I've found out more in this one cursed night than I'd have learned in twenty years of living.
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No prize , however great can justify an ounce of self deception or a small departure of the ugly facts. ( Notes from Underground)
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If there is no immortality of the soul, then there is no virtue, and therefore everything is permitted.
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It often only seems that there are no points in common, when there really are a lot ... it comes from people's laziness, that they sort themselves out by looks and can't find anything
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Las desgracias ajenas no nos instruyen.
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Listen, Kolya, by the way, you are going to be a very unhappy man in your life...But on the whole you will bless life all the same.
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The question is not resolved in you, and there lies your great grief, for it urgently demands resolution...Even if it cannot be resolved in a positive way, it will never be resolved in the negative way either--you yourself know this property of your heart, and therein lies the whole of its torment. But thank the Creator that he has given you a lofty heart, capable of being tormented by such a torment, 'to set your mind on things that are above, for our true homeland is in heaven.' May God grant that your heart's decision overtake you still on earth, and may God bless your path!
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For know, dear ones, that every one of us is undoubtedly responsible for all men- and everything on earth, not merely through the general sinfulness of creation, but each one personally for all mankind and every individual man. This knowledge is the crown of life for the monk and for every man. For monks are not a special sort of men, but only what all men ought to be. Only through that knowledge, our heart grows soft with infinite, universal, inexhaustible love.
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Those innocent eyes cut my soul like a razor...however, in a depraved man this, too, might be only a sensual attraction.
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But the more intensely he thought, the clearer it became to him that it was indubitably so, that in reality, looking upon life, he had forgotten one little fact-that death will come, and all ends; that nothing was even worth beginning, and that there was no helping it anyway. Yes it was awful, but it was so.
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She is lying,” he thought to himself, biting his nails vindictively. “Proud creature! She won’t admit she wants to do it out of charity! Too haughty! Oh, base characters! They even love as though they hate... Oh, how I... hate them all!
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دروغ را به سبك خود گفتن، بهتر از حقيقتي است به تقليد ديگري
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