Thursday, 22 September 2011

Stamp of a Writer: Fyodor Dostoevsky

At home, to begin with, I mainly used to read. I wished to stifle with external sensations all that was ceaselessly boiling up inside me. And among external sensations the only one possible for me was reading. Reading was, of course, a great help—it stirred, delighted, and tormented me. But at times it bored me terribly. I still wanted to move about, and so I'd suddenly sink into some murky, subterranean, vile debauch—not a great, but a measly little debauch. 
From Notes from the Underground

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