Everything Resembles The Truth, Everything Can Happen

In The End Dreams Became His Life, And His Whole Life Thereafter Took A Strange Turn: One Might Say He Slept While Waking And Watched While Asleep.

Do We Ever Get What We Really Want? Do We Ever Achieve What Our Powers Have Ostensibly Equipped Us For? No: Everything Works By Contraries.

Man Is Such A Wondrous Being That It Is Never Possible To Count Up All His Merits At Once. The More You Study Him, The More New Particulars Appear, And Their Description Would Be Endless.

I Am Very Fond Of The Modest Manner Of Life Of Those Solitary Owners Of Remote Villages, Who In Little Russia Are Commonly Called "old-fashioned," Who Are Like Tumbledown Picturesque Little Houses, Delightful In Their Simplicity And Complete Unlikeness To The New Smooth Buildings Whose Walls Have Not Yet Been Discolored By The Rain, Whose Roofs Are Not Yet Covered With Green Lichen, And Whose Porch Does Not Display Its Bricks Through The Peeling Stucco.

It Is Well-known That There Are Many Faces In The World Over The Finishing Of Which Nature Did Not Take Much Trouble, Did Not Employ Any Fine Tools Such As Files, Gimlets, And So On, But Simply Hacked Them Out With Round Strokes: One Chop-a Nose Appears; Another Chop-lips Appear; Eyes Are Scooped Out With A Big Drill; And She Lets It Go Into The World Rough-hewn, Saing: "alive!