He kept tormenting and taunting himself with these questions, even taking a certain delight in it. None of the questions was new or sudden, however; they were all old, sore, long-standing. They had begun torturing him long ago and had worn out his heart. Long, long ago this present anguish had been born in him, had grown, accumulated, and ripened recently and become concentrated, taking the form of a horrible, wild, and fantastic question that tormented his head and mind, irresistibly demanding resolution. And now his mother’s letter suddenly struck him like a thunderbolt. Clearly, he now had to not be anguish, not to suffer passively, by mere reasoning about unresolvable questions, but to do something without fail, at once, quickly. Decide at all costs to do at least something, or…

Fyodor Dostoevsky, Crime and Punishment (via crookednostalgia)

One of my faaavorite books. I should read it again. It’s likely a totally different experience now versus when I was 18.

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