Å·±¦ÓéÀÖ

I've been transformed. Taking a deep breath. Most likely writing a review...

He felt something like a touch of ice on his heart, like a recollection or, more exactly, a reminder of something agonising and revolting that was in that room now, at that moment, and had been there before.

In thousands of agonies--I exist. I'm tormented on the rack--but I exist! Though I sit alone in a pillar--I exist! I see the sun, and if I don't see the sun, I know it's there. And there's a whole life in that, in knowing that the sun is there.

Oh, Mitya. *shakes head*

And one might wonder what there was in a love that had to be watched over, what a love could be worth that needed such strenuous guarding.

Finally, Book Seven. Yeah-yuh.

The world stands on absurdities...

I feel like Famusov in the last scene of "Sorrow from Wit." You are Tchatsky and she is Sofya, and, only fancy, I've run down to meet you on the stairs, and in the play the fatal scene takes place on the staircase.

...You can always find something devilishly interesting in every woman that you wouldn't find in any other. Only, one must know how to find it�=> Oh that Fyodor Pavlovitch, there he goes again, spewing wisdom even in his drunken stupor.

I'm finding that I prefer exposition to dialogue in this text. When the prose goes into narrative storytelling mode, I'm all ears...