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Why, and for what purpose, is there all this horror? But however much he pondered he found no answer. And whenever the thought occurred to him, as it often did, that it all resulted from his not having lived as he ought to have done, he at once recalled
the correctness of his whole life and dismissed so strange an idea.

And the further he departed from childhood and the nearer he came to the present the more worthless and doubtful were the joys.

Always the same. Now a spark of hope flashes up, then a sea of despair rages, and always pain; always pain, always despair, and always the same. When alone he had a dreadful and distressing desire to call someone, but he knew beforehand that with others present it would be still worse.

What most tormented Ivan Ilych was that no one pitied him as he wished to be pitied. At certain moments after prolonged suffering he wished most of all for someone to pity him as a sick child is pitied. He longed to be petted and comforted. he knew he was an important functionary, that he had a beard turning grey, and that therefore what he long for was impossible, but still he longed for it

The awful, terrible act of his dying was, he could see, reduced by those about him to the level of a casual, unpleasant, and almost indecorous incident (as if someone entered a drawing room defusing an unpleasant odour) and this was done by that very decorum which he had served all his life long. He saw that no one felt for him, because no one even wished to grasp his position.

he was furious with the mishap, or with the people who were causing the unpleasantness and killing him, for he felt that this fury was killing him but he could not restrain it. One would have thought that it should have been clear to him that this exasperation with circumstances and people
aggravated his illness, and that he ought therefore to ignore unpleasant occurrences.

She began to wish he would die; yet she did not want him to die because
then his salary would cease. And this irritated her against him still more. She considered herself dreadfully unhappy just because not even his death could save her, and though she concealed her exasperation, that hidden exasperation of hers increased his irritation also.

I consider it an affectation to say that my grief
prevents my attending to practical affairs. On the contrary, if anything can, I won’t say console me, but- distract me, it is seeing to everything concerning him.

عجز الجماهير عن التفكير المتعقل يحرمها من كل روح نقدية، أي من كل قدرة على التمييز بين الحقيقة والخطأ، وبالتالي من تشكيل حكم دقيق على الأمور. فالأحكام التي تقبلها ليس إلا أحكامًأ مفروضة من فوق، أي غير قابلة للنقاش.

لا ينبغي علينا أن نعتقد أن مجرد البرهنة على صحة فكرة ما يعني أنها سوف تفعل مفعولها حتى لدى الناس المثقفين فعلًا. ويمكننا أن نتحقق من ذلك عندما نرى أن البرهنة الأكثر وضوحًا ليس لها تأثير على معظم البشر. صحيح أنه يمكن للحقيقة الساطعة أن تلقى أذنًا صاغية لدى السامع المثقف، ولكنه سيعيدها فورًا بواسطة لا وعيه إلى تصوراته البدائية.

وبما أن الجمهور لا يشك لحظة واحدة فيما يعتقده الحقيقة أو الخطأ، وبما أنه واع كل الوعي بحجم قوته فإن استبداده يبدو بحجم تعصبه. وإذا كان الفرد يقبل الاعتراض والمناقشة، فإن الجمهور لا يحتملهما أبدًا.

ينبغي أن نعتبر كتب التاريخ بمثابة كتب الخيال الصرف. فهي عبارة عن حكايات وهمية عن وقائع لوحظت بشكل رديء، كما إنها مصحوبة بتأويلات شكلت فيما بعد. ولو أن الماضي لم يورثنا كتبه الأدبية والفنية والتذكارية لما عرفنا شيئًا عن الواقع.

ولكن الجماهير التي ترغب في الوصول إلى الأشياء بنوع من السعار المجنون لا تثبت عليها لفترة طويلة. فهي عاجزة عن الإرادة الدائمة مثلما هي عاجزة عن التفكير الدائم والمستقر.

يبدو الأمر سهلاً حينما تُهزَم. لم أُدرِك أبداً أَنَّه بتلك السّهولة. ثم تساءلَ في
نفسه: ما الذي هزمكَ؟
وأجاب بصوت مرتفع:
لا شيء. إني أوغلتُ بعيداً جدّاً.

We are children, and we understand as children; and when we are told that men and women do no play with toys, and that our companions will one day weary of the trivial sports and occupations that interest them and us so deeply now, we cannot help being saddened at the thoughts of such an alteration, because we cannot conceive that as we grow up, our own minds will become so enlarged and elevated.

هنا ربما ندرك تعريفًا للنص الأدبي. إنه ما لا يفتأ يُعالج، بكل معاني الكلمة. قد يقضي المرء عمره يصحح قصيدة، وقد يموت وفي نفسه شيء منها، يموت وهو يعتقد أنها ليست تامة كاملة. هل سينتهي الأمر عند وفاته؟ هل سيقتنع قراءه بما أنجز؟ نعم إذا كانوا يقدرونه. ومع ذلك سيودون "تصحيحه" بصفة أو بأخرى.