What Are You Laughing At? You Are

As Countless As Grains Of Sand By The Sea Are Human Passions, And They All Differ; All Of Them, Vile Or Lofty, Begin By Being Under A Man's Control And Then Become His Terrible Masters. Blessed Is He Who Has Chosen The Most Lofty Of Passions: His Immeasurable Bliss Grows And Multiplies Tenfold With Every Hour And Minute, And He Penetrates Deeper And Deeper Into The Infinite Paradise Of His Soul.

The Longer And More Carefully We Look At A Funny Story, The Sadder It Becomes.

This Was Not The Old Chichikov. This Was Some Wreckage Of The Old Chichikov. The Inner State Of His Soul Might Be Compared To A Demolished Building, Which Has Been Demolished So That From It A New One Could Be Built; But The New One Has Not Been Started Yet, Because The Infinitive Plan Has Not Yet Come From The Architect And The Workers Are Left In Perplexity.

The Current Generation Now Sees Everything Clearly, It Marvels At The Errors, It Laughs At The Folly Of Its Ancestors, Not Seeing That This Chronicle Is All Overscored By Divine Fire, That Every Letter Of It Cries Out, That From Everywhere The Piercing Finger Is Pointed At It, At This Current Generation; But The Current Generation Laughs And Presumptuously, Proudly Begins A Series Of New Errors, At Which Their Descendants Will Also Laugh Afterwards.

I Saw That I'd Get Nowhere On The Straight Path, And That To Go Crookedly Was Straighter.