More on this book
Community
Kindle Notes & Highlights
Yet in fact it was exactly the same for him as for all those people who are not really rich but try to appear so, and end up looking just like one another, with their brocades, mahogany, flowers, rugs, and bronzes, everything dark and shiny—everything that all the people of a certain type do in order to be like all the other people of that certain type.
But on the whole the life of Ivan Ilyich went on as life ought to go on, so he believed: easily, pleasantly, and decorously.
So he said to himself. ‘It can’t be. It can’t be, but it is.
Once again minute followed minute and hour followed hour, and everything was just the same, and there was no end to it, and the inevitable end grew ever more terrible.
He wept for his helplessness, and his terrible loneliness, and people’s cruelty, and God’s cruelty, and God’s absence.
