The Idiot

by Fyodor Dostoevsky

Oh, dear! when that pretty little bird looks at you, happy and confiding, it’s a shame for you to deceive it. I call them birds because there’s nothing better than a bird in the world.

But can I be an idiot now, when I am able to see for myself that people look upon me as an idiot?

That’s the sort of beauty you appreciate, then?” she suddenly said to Myshkin. “Yes, it is . . .” answered Myshkin with some effort. “You mean, just that sort of beauty?” “Just that sort.” “Why?” “In that face . . . there is so much suffering,” answered Myshkin, as it were involuntarily speaking to himself, not in answer to her question.

a fool with a heart and no sense is just as unhappy as a fool with sense and no heart. It’s an old truth. I am a fool with a heart and no sense, and you are a fool with sense and no heart, and so we are both unhappy and miserable.”