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Even to look back at the past is horrible, for it contains sorrow that breaks my very heart at the thought of it. Yes, a whole century in tears could I spend because of the wicked people who have wrecked my life!
Today I went hopping and skipping to the office, for my heart was under your influence, and my soul was keeping holiday, as it were.
"Who diggeth a pit for another one, the same shall fall into it himself."
Your humble, devoted servant, BARBARA DOBROSELOVA.
Why do you place me upon such a pedestal?
I found myself forgotten.
my comrades used jestingly (yes, I know only jestingly) to propound the ethical maxim that a man ought never to let himself become a burden upon anyone. Well, I am a burden upon no one. It is my own crust of bread that I eat; and though that crust is but a poor one, and sometimes actually a maggoty one, it has at least been EARNED, and therefore, is being put to a right and lawful use.
I love you ecstatically, diabolically, as a madman might!
The lamp of love was burning brightly on the altar of passion, and searing the hearts of the two unfortunate sufferers.
You have given me all, all that my tortured soul has for immemorial years been seeking!
'the world is cruel, and men are unjust. But LET them drive us from their midst—let them judge us,
Who will bury me when it has come? Who will visit my tomb? Who will sorrow for me?
I am bound to you with my whole soul, and love you dearly and strongly and wholeheartedly, a bitter fate has ordained that that love should be all that I have to give—that
All the world is built upon the system that each one of us shall have to yield precedence to some other one, as well as to enjoy a certain power of abusing his fellows. Without such a provision the world could not get on at all, and simple chaos would ensue.
You take things so much to heart that you never know what it is to be happy.
you live for me alone—you live but for MY joys and MY sorrows and MY affection!
I am a sick man… . I am a spiteful man.
I did not know how to become anything; neither spiteful nor kind, neither a rascal nor an honest man, neither a hero nor an insect.
But what can a decent man speak of with most pleasure? Answer: Of himself.
I swear, gentlemen, that to be too conscious is an illness—a real thorough-going illness.
people do pride themselves on their diseases,
I am firmly persuaded that a great deal of consciousness, every sort of consciousness, in fact, is a disease.
even if time and faith were still left you to change into something different you would most likely not wish to change; or if you did wish to, even then you would do nothing; because perhaps in reality there was nothing for you to change into.
