Ivan Goncharov
A close, daily intimacy between two people has to be paid
for: it requires a great deal of experience of life, logic, and warmth of heart
on both sides to enjoy each others good qualities without being irritated by
each others shortcomings and blaming each other for them.
Oblomov
Although people call love a capricious and unaccountable emotion that arises like an illness, nonetheless it has its own laws and reasons, like everything else. If these laws have been little studied so far, that is because a person struck down by love is in no condition to observe with a scholar's eye as the impression steals into his soul and shackles his emotions like a dream, as first his eyes go blind, at which moment his pulse and then his heart begin beating harder, all of a sudden there arises as of yesterday an undying devotion, the desire to sacrifice oneself; one's I gradually vanishes and crosses over into him or her; the mind becomes wither unusually dull or unusually sharp; the will surrenders to the will of another; and the head bows, the knees shake and the tears and fever come.
Oblomov
He was painfully aware that entombed within himself there was this precious radiant essence, moribund perhaps by now, like a gold deposit lying buried deep in the rock that should long ago have been minted into coin and put into circulation. This treasure was, however, buried deep under a great heap of sludge and silt. It was as if someone had stolen the gifts that life hand handed to him on a plate and locked them away in his inmost recesses. Something was preventing him from throwing himself wholeheartedly and uninhibitedly into life's race and from letting the wind fill his sails. It was as if the dead hand of some unknown enemy had been laid on him at the starting line and hurled him far outside the course of his normal human destiny.
Oblomov
...I'm like a shabby, threadbare coat, worn out not because of exposure to the elements or hard work but because for twelve years a light has been burning inside me, unable to find an outlet and doing nothing but illuminating the walls of its own prison and, finding no opening to the outside world, has just been snuffed out for lack of oxygen.
Oblomov
I desire nothing, seek nothing but peace, the slumber of
the soul. I have tasted all the hollowness and wretchedness of life and I
despise it heartily. Whoever has lived and thought cannot but, in his soul,
despise humanity. Activity, cares, worries, distractions - I am sick of them
all. I wish for nothing, I seek nothing. I have no aim, for one gains that
which one is eager for - and sees that it is all illusion. My joyous days have
passed. I have cooled to them. In the educated world, amidst human beings, I
feel the disadvantages of life too strongly, but alone, far from the crowd, I
turn to stone. In this trance anything can happen, I see neither others nor
myself. I do nothing and do not notice the actions either of others or myself -
and I am at peace, I am indifferent. There can be no happiness for me, and I
will not succumb to unhappiness.
The Same Old Story
I expected so much from life and if I had not seen it so
close, I would to this day be expecting something. What treasures I discovered
in my own soul - where are they all? I have exchanged them for the world's
coin, given my frankness, my first passion - and for what? For bitter
disillusionment, for the knowledge that all is deception, all is brittle, that
one can place trust neither in oneself nor in others - and I have come to fear
both others and myself. I have not been able, along with this analysis, to
accept the trifles of life and be content with them, as many others do.
The Same Old Story
