And all will be happy, all the millions of creatures except the hundred thousand who rule over them. For only we, we who guard the mystery, shall be unhappy. There will be thousands of millions of happy babes, and a hundred thousand sufferers who have taken upon themselves the curse of the knowledge of good and evil.
No, Rodion Romanovitch, Nikolay doesn't come in! This is a fantastic, gloomy business, a modern case, an incident of to-day when the heart of man is troubled, when the phrase is quoted that blood 'renews,' when comfort is preached as the aim of life. Here we have bookish dreams, a heart unhinged by theories. Here we see resolution in the first stage, but resolution of a special kind: he resolved to do it like jumping over a precipice or from a bell tower and his legs shook as he went to the crime. He forgot to shut the door after him, and murdered two people for a theory. He committed the murder and couldn't take the money, and what he did manage to snatch up he hid under a stone. It wasn't enough for him to suffer agony behind the door while they battered at the door and rung the bell, no, he had to go to the empty lodging, half delirious, to recall the bell-ringing,
Zamyotov. Zamyotov?… The clerk?… What for? Raskolnikov quickly turned and fixed his eyes on Razumikhin. But what’s wrong with … Why be so worried? He wanted to make your acquaintance; he wanted it himself, because I talked about you a lot with him … Otherwise, who would have told me so much about you? He’s a nice fellow, brother, quite a wonderful one … in his own way, naturally. We’re friends now; we see each other almost every day. Because I’ve moved into this neighborhood. You didn’t know yet? I’ve just moved. We’ve called on Laviza twice. Remember Laviza, Laviza Ivanovna? Was I raving about something? Sure enough! You were out of your mind, sir. What did I rave about? Come now! What did he rave about? You know what people rave about … Well, brother, let’s not waste any more time. To business! He got up from his chair and grabbed his cap. What did I rave about? You just won’t let go! Afraid about some secret, are you? Don’t worry, you didn’t say anything about the countess. But about some bulldog, and about
Je te dois un aveu. Je n’ai jamais pu comprendre comment on peut aimer son prochain. C’est précisément, à mon avis, le prochain qu’on ne peut aimer .. Les êtres éloignés, le lointain, soit ; mais le prochain !... On ne peut aimer qu’un homme caché, invisible. Dès qu’il montre son visage, l’amour disparaît.
And Liza, as soon as Alyosha was gone, unlocked the door at once, opened it a little, put her finger into the chink, and, slamming the door, crushed it with all her might. Ten seconds later, having released her hand, she went quietly and slowly to her chair, sat straight up in it, and began looking intently at her blackened finger and the blood oozing from under the nail. Her lips trembled, and she whispered very quickly to herself: Mean, mean, mean, mean!.
Avdotya Romanovna's beauty and education had impressed him; her helpless situation had excited him beyond all measure. Here there was even more than he had dreamed of: the girl who had appeared was proud, full of character, virtuous, superior to him in education and upbringing (he sensed this), and yet this creature would view him with servile gratitude all her life for his noble deed, reverentially effacing herself before him, and he would have unlimited and exclusive power over her!
You have long needed a change of air. Suffering, too, is a good thing. Suffer! Maybe Nikolay is right in wanting to suffer. I know you don't believe in it--but don't be over-wise; fling yourself straight into life, without deliberation; don't be afraid--the flood will bear you to the bank and set you safe on your feet again.
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!
… ! 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?