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“The pain did not subside, but Ivan Ilyich forced himself to think he was getting better. And he managed to deceive himself as long as nothing upset him. But no sooner did he have a nasty episode with his wife, a setback at work, or a bad hand at cards, than he immediately became acutely aware of his illness. In the past he had been able to cope with such adversities, confident that in no time at all he would set things right, get the upper hand, succeed, have a grand slam. Now every setback knocked the ground out from under him and reduced him to despair.”
― Leo Tolstoy, The Death of Ivan Ilych

“And it's true that I lost my life here, over this curtain, as if I was storming a fortress. Can it be? How terrible and how stupid! It can't be! Can't be, but is.”
― Leo Tolstoy, The Death of Ivan Ilych

“In reality it was just what is usually
seen in the houses of people of moderate
means who want to appear rich, and therefore succeed only in resembling others
like themselves: there are damasks,
dark wood, plants, rugs, and dull and
polished bronzes -- all the things people of
a certain class have in order to
resemble other people of that class. His
house was so like the others that it
would never have been noticed, but to him it
all seemed to be quite exceptional.”
― Leo Tolstoy, The Death of Ivan Ilych

“Her clothes, her figure, the expression of her face, the sound of her voice--all these said to him: 'Not the real thing. Everything you lived by and still live by is a lie, a deception that blinds you from the reality of life and death.”
― Leo Tolstoy, The Death of Ivan Ilych

“факт смерти близкого знакомого вызвал во всех, узнавших про нее, как всегда, чувство радости о том, что умер он, а не я.”
― Leo Tolstoy, Смерть Ивана Ильича

“Ca era dimineata ori seara, vineri ori duminica �� ii era totuna; era la fel, aceeasi durere surda, chinuitoare, care nu-l lasa o clipa; mereu constiinta vietii care se stinge fara putinta de impotrivire, dar care mai dainuie; moartea care se apropia, cumplita si hada �� numai ea singura era realitatea, iar celelalte toate...minciuna. La ce bun sa mai tii socoteala zilelor, saptamanilor, ceasurilor ?”
― Leo Tolstoy, The Death of Ivan Ilych

“When I am not, what will there be? There will be nothing. Then where shall I be when I am no more? Can this be dying?”
― Leo Tolstoy, The Death of Ivan Ilyich

“The example of syllogism that he had learned in Kiseveter's logic - Caius is a man, men are mortal, therefore Caius is mortal - had seemed to him all his life correct only as regards Caius, but not at all as regards himself. In that case it was a question of Caius, a man, an abstract man, and it was perfectly true, but he was not Caius, and was not an abstract man.”
― Leo Tolstoy, The Death of Ivan Ilych

“Their daughter came in in full evening dress, her fresh young flesh exposed (making a show of that very flesh which in his own case caused so much suffering), strong, healthy, evidently in love, and impatient with illness, suffering, and death, because they interfered with her happiness. Fyodor”
― Leo Tolstoy, The Death Of Ivan Ilyich

“What tormented Ivan Ilyich most was the deception, the lie, which for some reason they all accepted, that he was not dying but was simply ill, and the only need keep quiet and undergo a treatment and then something very good would result.”
― Leo Tolstoy, The Death Of Ivan Ilyich

“When one reads any strongly individual piece of writing, one has the impression of seeing a face somewhere behind the page. It is not necessarily the actual face of the writer. I feel this very strongly with Swift, with Defoe, with Fielding, Stendhal, Thackeray, Flaubert, though in several cases I do not know what these people looked like and do not want to know. What one sees is the face that the writer ought to have. Well, in the case of Dickens I see a face that is not quite the face of Dickens's photographs, though it resembles it. It is the face of a man of about forty, with a small beard and a high colour. He is laughing, with a touch of anger in his laughter, but no triumph, no malignity. It is the face of a man who is always fighting against something, but who fights in the open and is not frightened, the face of a man who is generously angry �� in other words, of a nineteenth-century liberal, a free intelligence, a type hated with equal hatred by all the smelly little orthodoxies which are now contending for our souls.”
― George Orwell, Charles Dickens

“When the examination was over, the doctor looked at his watch, and then Praskovya Fyodorovna informed Ivan Ilyich that it must of course be as he liked, but she had sent today for a celebrated doctor, and that he would examine him, and have a consultation with Mihail Danilovich (that was the name of his regular doctor). 'Don't oppose it now, please. This I'm doing entirely for my own sake,' she said ironically, meaning it to be understood that she was doing it all for his sake, and was only saying this to give him no right to refuse her request. He lay silent, knitting his brows. He felt that he was hemmed in by such a tangle of falsity that it was hard to disentangle anything from it. Everything she did for him was entirely for her own sake, and she told him she was doing for her own sake what she actually was doing for her own sake as something so incredible that he would take it as meaning the opposite.”
― Leo Tolstoy, The Death of Ivan Ilych

“Again minute followed minute and hour followed hour. Everything remained the same and there was no cessation. And the inevitable end of it all became more and more terrible. “Yes,”
― Leo Tolstoy, The Death Of Ivan Ilyich

“He suffered ever the same unceasing agonies and in his loneliness pondered always on the same insoluble question: "What is this? Can it be that it is Death?" And the inner voice answered: Yes, it is Death. "Why these sufferings?" And the voice answered, For no reason—they just are so.”
― Leo Tolstoy, The Death of Ivan Ilych

“Yes, life was there and now it's going, going, and I can't hold onto it.”
― Leo Tolstoy, The Death of Ivan Ilych

“Lately in that loneliness in which he found himself, laying with his face to the back of the sofa, that loneliness in the middle of a bustling town, among his many friends and his family—that loneliness more profound than could be found anywhere, any spot on the seafloor, or any stretch of land—in these late days of horrific loneliness Ivan Ilych lived only by his memories of the past. One after another he imagined scenes from his life. He would always begin with the most recent and proceed to the earliest, to his childhood, and settle there.”
― Leo Tolstoy, The Death of Ivan Ilych

“It's as if I had been going downhill when I thought I was going uphill. That's how it was. In society's opinion I was heading uphill, but in equal measure life was slipping away from me.”
― Leo Tolstoy, The Death of Ivan Ilych

“Yes, there it is. Well, then, let there be pain.
"And death? Where is it?"
He sought his old habitual fear of death and could not find it. Where was it? What death? There was no more fear because there was no more death.
Instead of death there was light.”
― Leo Tolstoy, The Death of Ivan Ilych

“It occurred to him that what had appeared perfectly impossible before, namely that he had not spent his life as he should have done, might after all be true. It occurred to him that his scarcely perceptible attempts to struggle against what was considered good by the most highly placed people, those scarcely noticeable impulses which he had immediately suppressed, might have been the real thing, and all the rest false. And his professional duties and the whole arrangement of his life and of his family, and all his social and official interests, might all have been false. He tried to defend all those things to himself and suddenly felt the weakness of what he was defending. There was nothing to defend. “But if that is so,�� he said to himself, “and I am leaving this life with the consciousness that I have lost all that was given me and it is impossible to rectify it �� what then?”
― Leo Tolstoy, The Death of Ivan Ilych

“Ayaklarını indirdi, kolunun üzerine yan yattı ve birden kendine acımaya başladı. Gerasim'in bitişik odaya geçmesini bekledi, sonra kendini bıraktı ve çocuklar gibi ağlamaya başladı. Umarsızlığına, korkunç yalnızlığına, insanların acımasızlığına, Tanrı'nın acımasızlığına, Tanrı'nın yokluğuna ağlıyordu.”
― Leo Tolstoy, The Death of Ivan Ilych

“If you look for the working classes in fiction, and especially English fiction, all you find is a hole.”
― George Orwell, Charles Dickens

“Three days and nights of awful suffering and death. Why, that may at once, any minute, come upon me too.”
― Leo Tolstoy, The Death of Ivan Ilyich

“and Ivan Ilyich was left alone with the consciousness that his life was poisoned and was poisoning the lives of others, and that this poison did not weaken but penetrated more and more deeply into his whole being. With”
― Leo Tolstoy, The Death Of Ivan Ilyich

“In reality it was just what is usually seen in the houses of people of moderate means who want to appear rich, and therefore succeed only in resembling others
like themselves: there are damasks, dark wood, plants, rugs, and dull and polished bronzes -- all the things people of a certain class have in order to resemble other people of that class. His house was so like the others that it would never have been noticed, but to him it all seemed to be quite exceptional.”
― Leo Tolstoy, The Death of Ivan Ilych

“Oare nu e limpede, pentru toti in afara de mine, ca ma sfarsesc ? Si nu e vorba decat de saptamani, de zile �� poate chiar acum mor. A fost lumina si-acum e intuneric. Am fost aici si-acum plec acolo! Unde ?" Il trecura fiori, respiratia i se opri. Nu auzea decat bataile inimii. "N-am sa mai exist �� si-atunci ce-o sa fie? N-o sa fie nimic. Unde am sa fiu cand n-am sa mai exist? Cum? Chiar moartea? Nu, nu vreau!" Se ridica din pat, vru sa aprinda lumanarea, bajbai cu mainile tremuratoare, scapa lumanarea si sfesnicul pe jos si cazu din nou in pat, pe perna. "De ce ? Totuna e, isi spuse, privind cu ochii deschisi in intuneric. Moartea. Da, moartea. Si nimeni din ei nu stie si nici nu vrea sa stie, si nu le e mila. Ei canta! (auzea ca din departare, de dupa usa, glasuri si refrene.) Lor le e totuna, dar si ei o sa moara. Natangii! Eu mai devreme, ei mai tarziu; dar si ei o sa pateasca la fel. Acum se veselesc. Dobitocii!”
― Leo Tolstoy, The Death of Ivan Ilych

“He fought as a prisoner sentenced to death fights the executioner, knowing that he cannot prevail; and with each minute he felt, despite all the efforts of his struggle, that he was getting closer and closer to what terrified him.”
― Leo Tolstoy, The Death of Ivan Ilych

“En algunos instantes, después de prolongados sufrimientos, lo que más anhelaba -aunque le habría dado vergüenza confesarlo-era que alguien le tuviese lástima como se le tiene lástima a un niño enfermo. Quería que le acariciaran, que le besaran, que lloraran por él, como se acaricia y consuela a los niños.”
― Leo Tolstoy, La muerte de Iván Ilich

“Isn't it obvious to everyone but me that I'm dying, and that it's only a question of weeks, days... it may happen this moment. There was light and now there is darkness. I was here and now I'm going there! Where?”
― Lev Tolstoy, The Death of Ivan Ilych

“At the point where he, today's Ivan Ilyich, began to emerge, all the pleasures that had seemed so real melted away now before his eyes and turned into something trivial and often disgusting.
And the further he was from childhood, the nearer he got to the present day, the more trivial and dubious his pleasures appeared.”
― Leo Tolstoy, The Death of Ivan Ilych

“There remained only rare periods of
amorousness that came over the spouses, but they did not last long.
These were islands that they would land on temporarily, but then they
would put out again to the sea of concealed enmity that expressed itself
in estrangement from each other.”
― Leo Tolstoy, The Death of Ivan Ilych