Source: Slon Pics
Vague and objectless anxiety in the present, and in the future a continual sacrifice leading to nothing – that was all that lay before him. And what comfort was it to him that at the end of eight years he would only be thirty-two and able to begin a new life! What had he to live for? What had he to look forward to? Why should he strive? To live in order to exist? Why, he had been ready a thousand times before to give up existence for the sake of an idea, for a hope, even for a fancy. Mere existence had always been too little for him; he had always wanted more. Perhaps it was just because of the strength of his desires that he had thought himself a man whom more was permissible than to others.
By Fyodor Dostoevsky