“Nothing is worse and more hurtful than a happiness that comes too late.”

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.

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.

Whatever man prays for, he prays for a miracle. Every prayer reduces itself.

There are some moments in life, some feelings; one can only point to them and pass by.

So many memories and so little worth remembering, and in front of me – a long, long road without a goal.

I walked in the meadows of green grieving for my life.

I only know that I feel tired, antiquated; I feel as though I had been living a long, long time.

We’re young, we’re not monsters, no fools: we’ll conquer happiness for ourselves.

Great God, grant that twice two be not four.

Oh, gentle feelings, soft sounds, the goodness and the gradual stilling of a soul that has been moved; the melting happiness of the first tender, touching joys of love- where are you?

Whatever a person may pray for, that person prays for a miracle. Every prayer comes down to this – Almighty God, grant that two times two not equal four.

What’s important is that twice two is four and all the rest’s nonsense.

Every man’s happiness is built on the unhappi-ness of another.

Bazarov drew himself up haughtily. “I don’t adopt any one’s ideas; I have my own.

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.

Everyone needs help from everyone else.