Don't Blame The Mirror If

Countless As The Sands Of Sea Are Human Passions, And Not All Of Them Are Alike, And All Of Them, Base And Noble Alike, Are At First Obedient To Man And Only Later On Become His Terrible Masters.

We Ought To Thank God For That. Yes, The Man Who Tills The Land Is More Worthy Of Respect Than Any.

This Was Not The Old Chichikov. This Was Some Wreckage Of The Old Chichikov. The Inner State Of His Soul Might Be Compared To A Demolished Building, Which Has Been Demolished So That From It A New One Could Be Built; But The New One Has Not Been Started Yet, Because The Infinitive Plan Has Not Yet Come From The Architect And The Workers Are Left In Perplexity.

Everywhere Across Whatever Sorrows Of Which Our Life Is Woven, Some Radiant Joy Will Gaily Flash Past.

The Longer And More Carefully We Look At A Funny Story, The Sadder It Becomes.