Inspirational Quotes by Fyodor Dostoevsky

“in the monastery he fully believed in miracles, but, to my thinking, miracles are never a stumbling-block to the realist. It is not miracles that dispose realists to belief. The genuine realist, if he is an unbeliever, will always find strength and ability to disbelieve in the miraculous, and if he is confronted with a miracle as an irrefutable fact he would rather disbelieve his own senses than admit the fact. Even if he admits it, he admits it as a fact of nature till then unrecognized by him. Faith does not, in the realist, spring from the miracle but the miracle from faith. If the realist once believes, then he is bound by his very realism to admit the miraculous also.”

“Here was an unparalleled thing, so that even from such an imperious and contemptuously proud girl as she was, such extremely frank testimony, such sacrifice, such self-immolation was almost impossible to expect. And for what, for whom? To save her betrayer and offender, at least somehow, at least slightly, to contribute to his salvation by creating a good impression in his favor!”

“I think every one should love life above everything in the world.” “Love life more than the meaning of it?” “Certainly, love it, regardless of logic as you say, it must be regardless of logic, and it's only then one will understand the meaning of it. I have thought so a long time. Half your work is done, Ivan, you love life, now you've only to try to do the second half and you are saved.”

“Do you know I've been sitting here thinking to myself: that if I didn't believe in life, if I lost faith in the woman I love, lost faith in the order of things, were convinced , in fact, that everything is disorderly, damnable, and perhaps devil-ridden chaos, if I were struck by every horror of man's disillusionment - still I should want to live and, having once tried of the cup, I would not turn from it until I have drained it!”

“… ! And would I have been this way, would I have been this way on this night, and at this moment, sitting with you now, would I be talking like this, would I be moving like this, would I look at you and at the world like this, if I really were a parricide, when even the inadvertent killing of Grigory gave me no rest all night—not from fear, oh! not just from fear of your punishment! The disgrace of it! And you want me to reveal and tell about yet another new meanness of mine, yet another new disgrace, to such scoffers as you, who do not see anything and do not believe anything, blind moles and scoffers, even if it would save me from your accusation?”

“socialism is not merely the labor question, it is before all things the atheistic question, the question of the form taken by atheism to-day, the question of the tower of Babel built without God, not to mount to heaven from earth but to set up heaven on earth.”

“Ama, širok je čovjek, čak i preširok, ja bih ga suzio.”

“Connoisseurs of Russian beauty could have foretold with certainty that this fresh, still youthful beauty would lose its harmony by the age of thirty, would “spread”; that the face would become puffy, and that wrinkles would very soon appear upon her forehead and round the eyes; the complexion would grow coarse and red perhaps—in fact, that it was the beauty of the moment, the fleeting beauty which is so often met with in Russian women.”

“And the truth is not in gudgeons, I’ve already declared as much! Father monks, why do you fast? Why do you expect a heavenly reward for that? For such a reward, I’ll go and start fasting, too! No, holy monk, try being virtuous in life, be useful to society without shutting yourself up in a monastery on other people’s bread, and without expecting any reward up there—that’s a little more difficult. I, too, can talk sensibly, Father Superior. What have we got here?” He went up to the table. “Old port wine from Factori’s, Médoc bottled by Eliseyev Brothers!8 A far cry from gudgeons, eh, fathers ? Look at all these bottles the fathers have set out—heh, heh, heh! And who has provided it all? The Russian peasant, the laborer, bringing you the pittance earned by his callused hands, taking it from his family, from the needs of the state! You, holy fathers, are sucking the people’s blood!”

“And the light by which she had been reading the book of life, blazed up suddenly, illuminating those pages that had been dark, then flickered, grew dim. and went out forever.”

“No es posible imaginar siquiera toda la deshonra y la decadencia moral con la que es capaz de transigir el celoso sin el menor remordimiento de conciencia. Y no es que sean almas vulgares y sucias. Al contrario, es posible ocultarse bajo las mesas, sobornar a gente infame y acostumbrarse a la inmundicia más ruin del acecho y el fisgoneo teniendo un gran corazón, sintiendo un amor puro, lleno de abnegación.”

“E direi, in me c'è tanta di questa forza, ormai, che io prevarrò su ogni cosa, su tutte le sofferenze, non per altro che per dire a me stesso di continuo: io esisto; mi dibatto nella tortura, ma esisto! Sto legato al pilastro ma esisto pur sempre, vedo il sole, e se il sole non lo vedo, so che c'è. E saper che c'è il sole, è già tutta la vita.”

“en vérité il est très agréable de se réunir, de s’asseoir et de bavarder des intérêts publics. Parfois même je suis prêt à chanter de joie, quand je rentre dans la société et vois des hommes solides, sérieux, très bien élevés, qui se sont réunis, parlent de quelque chose sans rien perdre de leur dignité. De quoi parlent-ils ? ça c’est une autre question. J’oublie même, parfois, de pénétrer le sens de la conversation, me contentant du tableau seul. Mais jusqu’ici, je n’ai jamais pu pénétrer le sens de ce dont s’entretiennent chez nous les gens du monde qui n’appartiennent pas à un certain groupe. Dieu sait ce que c’est. Sans doute quelque chose de charmant, puisque ce sont des gens charmants. Mais tout cela paraît incompréhensible. On dirait toujours que la conversation vient de commencer ; comme si l’on accordait les instruments. On reste assis pendant deux heures et, tout ce temps, on ne fait que commencer la conversation. Parfois tous ont l’air de parler de choses sérieuses, de choses qui provoquent la réflexion. Mais ensuite, quand vous vous demandez de quoi ils ont parlé, vous êtes incapable de le dire : de gants, d’agriculture, ou de la constance de l’amour féminin ? De sorte que, parfois, je l’avoue, l’ennui me gagne. On a l’impression de rentrer par une nuit sombre à la maison en regardant tristement de côté et d’entendre soudain de la musique. C’est un bal, un vrai bal. Dans les fenêtres brillamment éclairées passent des ombres ; on entend des murmures de voix, des glissements de pas ; sur le perron se tiennent des agents. Vous passez devant, distrait, ému ; le désir de quelque chose s’est éveillé en vous. Il vous semble avoir entendu le battement de la vie, et, cependant, vous n’emportez avec vous que son pâle motif, l’idée, l’ombre, presque rien. Et l’on passe comme si l’on n’avait pas confiance. On entend autre chose. On entend, à travers les motifs incolores de notre vie courante, un autre motif, pénétrant et triste, comme dans le bal des Capulet de Berlioz. L’angoisse et le doute rongent votre coeur, comme cette angoisse qui est au fond du motif lent de la triste chanson russe : Écoutez... d’autres sons résonnent. Tristesse et orgie désespérées... Est-ce un brigand qui a entonné, là-bas, la chanson ? Ou une jeune fille qui pleure à l’heure triste des adieux ? Non ; ce sont les faucheurs qui rentrent de leur travail... Autour sont les forêts et les steppes de Saratov.”

“It was as though an abscess that had been forming for a month past in his heart had suddenly broken. Freedom, freedom! He was free from that spell, that sorcery, that obsession!”

“Leave us alone without books and we shall be lost and in confusion at once. We shall not know what to join on to, what to cling to, what to love and what to hate, what to respect and what to despise. We are oppressed at being men — men with a real individual body and blood, we are ashamed of it, we think it a disgrace and try to contrive to be some sort of impossible generalised man.”

“(..) for he was in one of those crises in which the whole soul shows indistinctly what it contains, like the ocean, which, in the storm, opens itself from the seaweeds on its shores down to the sands of its abysses.”

“What is truth to one may be disaster to another. I do not see life through your eyes, nor you through mine. If I were to attempt to give you specific advice, it would be too much like the blind leading the blind.”

“Then she asked herself, "Isn’t he in love with someone? Who could it be? …Why, it’s me!" All the evidence immediately became clear to her, and her heart leapt.”

“SATURDAY morning was come, and all the summer world was bright and fresh,”

“Vasilisa had not seen her daughter for four years. Her daughter, Yefimya, had gone after her wedding to Petersburg, had sent them two letters, and since then seemed to vanish out of their lives—there had been no sight or sound of her. And whether the old woman was milking her cow at dawn, or heating her stove, or dozing at night, she was always thinking of one and the same thing—what was happening to Yefimya, whether she was alive out yonder. She ought to have sent a letter, but the old father could not write, and there was no one to write.”