Love isn’t actually a feeling at all–it’s an illness, a certain condition of body and soul…. Usually it takes possession of someone without his permission, all of a sudden, against his will–just like cholera or a fever.
IVAN TURGENEVWhat a magnificent body, how I should like to see it on the dissecting table.
More Ivan Turgenev Quotes
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Take what you can yourself, and don’t let others get you into their hands; to belong to oneself, that is the whole thing in life.
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Nothing is worse and more hurtful than a happiness that comes too late.
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The word tomorrow was invented for indecisive people and for children.
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Nature is not a temple, but a workshop, and man’s the workman in it.
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Death’s an old joke, but each individual encounters it anew.
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I’m through with Tolstoy. He has ceased to exist for me…. If I eat a bowl of soup and like it, I know by that fact alone and with absolute certainty that Tolstoy will find it bad, and vice versa.
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Each individual is more or less dimly aware of his significance, is aware that he’s something innately superior, something eternal–and lives, is obligated to live, in the moment and for the moment.
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The temerity to believe in nothing.
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Go forward while you can, but if your strength fails you, sit down near the road and gaze without anger or envy at those who pass by. They don’t have far to go, either.
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What’s important is that twice two is four and all the rest’s nonsense.
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It was only the vulgarly mediocre that repelled her.
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To desire and expect nothing for oneself and to have profound sympathy for others is genuine holiness.
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Most people can’t understand how others can blow their noses differently than they do.
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Death is like a fisherman, who, having caught a fish in his net, leaves it in the water for a time; the fish continues to swim about, but all the while the net is round it, and the fisherman will snatch it out in his own good time.
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What did I hope for, what did I expect, what rich future did I foresee, when the phantom of my first love, rising up for an instant, barely called forth one sigh, one mournful sentiment?
IVAN TURGENEV