"In a morbid condition, dreams are often distinguished by their remarkably graphic, vivid, and extremely lifelike quality. The resulting picture is sometimes monstrous, but the setting and the whole process of the presentation sometimes happen to be so probable, and with details so subtle, unexpected, yet artistically consistent with the whole fullness of the picture, that even the dreamer himself would be unable to invent them in reality, though he were as much an artist as Pushkin or Turgenev. Such dreams, morbid dreams, are always long remembered and produce a strong impression on the disturbed and already excited organism of the person.
Raskolnikov fancied that after his confession the clerk had become more casual and contemptuous with him, but -strangely- he suddenly felt decidedly indifferent to anyone's possible opinion, and this change occurred somehow in a moment, an instant. If he had only cared to reflect a little, he would of course have been surprised that he could have spoken with them as he had a minute before, and even thrust his feelings upon them. And where had these feelings come from? On the contrary, if the room were now suddenly filled not with policemen but with his foremost friends, even then, he thought, he would be unable to find a single human word for them, so empty had his heart suddenly become. A dark sensation of tormenting, infinite solitude and estrangement suddenly rose to consciousness in his soul. It was not the abjectness of his heart's outpourings before Ilya Petrovich, nor the abjectness of the lieutenant's triumph over him, that suddenly so overturned his heart, Oh, what did he care now about his own meanness, about all these vanities, lieutenants, German women, proceedings, offices, and so on and so forth! Even if he had been sentenced to be burned at that moment, he would not have stirred, and would probably not have listened very attentively to the sentence. What was taking place in him was totally unfamiliar, new sudden, never before experienced, Not that he understood it, but he sensed clearly, with all the power of sensation, that it was no longer possible for him to address these people in the police station, not only with heartfelt effusions, as he had just done, but in any way at all, and had they been his own brothers and sisters, and not police lieutenants, there would still have been no point in addressing them, in whatever circumstances of life. Never until that minute had he experienced such a strange and terrible sensation. And most tormenting of all was that it was more a sensation than an awareness, an idea; a spontaneous sensation, the most tormenting of any he had yet experienced in his life.
"Hm . . . yes . . . man has it all in his hands, and it all slips through his fingers from sheer cowardice . . . That is an axiom . . . I wonder, what are people most afraid of? A new step, their own new word, that's what they're most afraid of . . . I babble too much, however. That's why I don't do anything, because I babble. However, maybe it's like this: I babble because I don't do anythihng. I've learned to babble over this past month, lying in a corner day in and day out, thinking about . . . cuckooland. Why on earth am I going now? Am I really capable of that? Is that something serious? Now, not serious at all. I'm just toying with it, for the sake of fantasy. A plaything! Yes, a plaything, if you like!"
The very next paragraph a vivid description of St.Petersburg
It was terribly hot out, and moreover it was close, crowded; lime, scaffolding, bricks, dust everywhere, and that special summer stench known so well to every Petersburger who cannot afford to rent a summer house-all at once these things unpleasantly shook the young man's already overwrought nerves.The intolderable stench from the taverns, especially numberous is that part of the city, and the drunkards he kept running into even though it was a weekday, completed the loathsome and melancholy coloring of the picture
The pain from the whip subsided, and Raskolnikov forgot about the blow; one troublesome and not entirely clear thought now occupied him exclusively. He stood and looked long and intently into the distance; this place was especially familiar to him. While he was attending the university, he often used to stop, mostly on his way home, at precisely this spot (he had done it perhaps a hundred times), and gave intently at the indeed splendid panorama, and to be surprised almost every time by a certain unclear and unresolved impression. An inexplicable chill always breathed on him from this splendid panorama; For him the magnificent picture was filled with a mute and deaf spirit.
. . . He marveled each time at this gloomy and mysterious impression, and, mistrusting himself, put off the unriddling of it to some future time. Now suddenly he abruptly recalled these former questions and perplexities, and it seemed no accident to him that he should recall them now. The fact alone that he had stopped at the same spot as before already seemed wild and strange to him, as if indeed he could imagine thinking now about the same things as before, and being interested in the same themes and pictures he had been interested in . . . still so recently. He even felt almost like laughing, yet at the same time his chest was painfully constricted. It was as if he now saw all his former past, and former thoughts, and former tasks, and former themes, and former impressions, and this whole panorama, and himself, and everything, everything, somewhere far down below, barely visible under his feet . . . .
It seemed as if he were flying upwards somewhere, and everything was vanishing from his sight . . . Inadvertently moving his hand, he suddenly felt the twenty--kopeck piece clutched in his fist. He opened his hand, stared at the coin, sung, and threw it into the water; then he turned and went home. It seemed to him that at that moment he had cut himself off, as with scissors, from everyone and everything.
"But the question whether the disease generates the crime, or the crime somehow by its peculiar nature is always accompanied by something akin to disease, he did not yet feel able to resolve." p 71
Part One Chapter One Page 4 "I want to attempt such a thing, and at the same time I'm afraid of such trifles?" he thought with a strange smile. "Hm . . . yes . . . man has it all in his hands, and it all slips through his fingers from sheer cowardice . . . That is an axiom . . . I wonder, what are people most afraid of? A new step, their own new word, that's what they're most afriad of . . . I babble too much, however. That's why I don't do anything, because I babble. However, maybe it's like this: I babble because I don't do anything. I've learned to babble over this past month, lying in a corner day in and day out, thinking . . . cuckooland. Why on earth am I going now? Am I really capable of that? is that something serious? No, not serious at all. I'm just toying with it, for the sake of fantasy. A plaything! Yes, a plaything if you like!"
It was Terribly hot out, and moreover it was close, crowded: lime, scaffolding, bricks, dust everywhere, and that special summer stench known so well to every Petersburger who cannot afford to rent a summer house-all at once these things unpleasantly shook the young man's already overwrought nerves. The intolerable stench from the tavers, especially numerous in that part of the city, and the drunkards he kept running into even though it was a weekday, completed the loathsome and melancholy coloring of the picture.
Part One Chapter Two Page 11
We sometimes encounter people, even perfect strangers, who begin to interest us at first sight, somehow suddenly, all at once, before a word has been spoken.
Page 13
"My dear sir," he began almost solemnly, "poverty is no vice, that is the truth. I know that drunkenness is also no virtue, and that is even more so. But destitution, my dear sir, destitution is a vice, sir. In poverty you may still preserve the nobility of your inborn feelings, but driven out of human company with a stick; one is swept out with a brrom, to make it more insulting; and justly so, for in destitution I am the first to insult myself. Hence the drinking.
Page 14
"But why go?" Raskolnikov put in. "And what if there is no one else, if there is nowhere else to go! It is necessary that every man have at least somewhere to go.
Page 15
Excuse me, young man, but can you . . . Or, no, to expound it more forecefully and more expressively: not can you, but would you venture, looking upon me at this hour, to say to me affirmatively that i am not a swine?"
~And yet . . . oh, if only she felt pity for me! My dear sir, my dear sir, but it is necessary that every man have at least one such place where he, too, is pitied!
~But no! no! it is all in vain, and there is no use talking, no use talking! . . . for my wish has already been granted more than once, and already more than once I have been pitied, but . . . such is my trait, and I am a born brute!".
Page 22
She didn't say anything, she just looked at me silently . . . That is not done on earth, but up there . . . people are grieved for, wept over, and not reproached, no reproached! And it hurts more, it hurts more, sir, when one is not reproached!
Page 27 "Bravo, Sonya! what a well they've dug for themselves, however! and they use it ! They really do use it! And they got accustomed to it. Wept a bit and got accustomed. Man gets accustomed to everything, the scoundrel!"
he fell to thinking "But if that's a lie," he suddenly exclaimed involuntarily, "if man in fact is not a scoundrel-in general, that is, the whole human race-then the rest is all mere prejudice, instilled fear, and there are no barriers, and that's just how it should be!. . ."
Part One Chapter Four Page 45
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 heart and mind, irresistibly demanding resolution.
Page 50
"He kept my twenty kopecks," Raskolnikov said spitefully when he found himself alone, "Well, let him; he'll take something from that one, too, and let the girl go with him, and that will be the end of it . . . Why did i go meddling in all that! Who am I to help anyone? Do I have any right to help? Let them all gobble each other alive- what is it to me? And how did I dare give those twenty kopecks away? Were they mine?"
In spite of these strange words, it was very painful for him.
Page 54
In a morbid condition, dreams are often distinguished by their remarkably graphic, vivid, and extremely lifelike quality. The resulting picture is sometimes monstrous, but the setting and the whole process of the presentation sometimes happen to be so probable, and with details so subtle, unexpected, yet artistically consistent with the whole fullness of the picture, that even the dreamer himself would be unable to invent them in reality, though he were as much an artist as Pushkin or Turgenev. Such dreams, morbid dreams, are always long remembered and produce a strong impression on the disturbed and already excited organism of the person.
~The Justification "Listen now. On the other hand, you have fresh, young forces that are being wasted for lack of support, and that by the thousands, and that everywhere! A hundred, a thousand good deeds and undertakings that could be arranged and set going by the money that old woman has doomed to the monster! Hundreds, maybe thousands of lives put right; dozens of families saved from destitution, from decay, from ruin, from depravity, from the venereal hospitals-all on her money. Kill her and take her money, so that afterwards with its help you can devote yourself to the service of all mankind and the common cause; what do you think, wouldn't thousands of good lives saved from decay and corruption. One death for hundreds of consumptive, and wicked old crone mean in the general balance? No more than the life of a louse, a cockroach, and not even that much, because the old crone is harmful. She's eating up someone else's life: the other day she got so angry that she bit Lizaveta's finger; they almost had to cut it off!"
The Second Dream ~ this one of Egypt Page 67
He Kept daydreaming, and his dreams were all quite strange: most often he imagined he was somewhere in Africa, in Egypt, in some oasis. The caravan is resting, the camels are peacefully lying down; palm trees stand in a full circle around; everyone is having dinner. And he keeps drinking water right from the stream, which is there just beside him, flowing and bubbling. And the air is so fresh, and the wonderful, wonderful water is so blue, cold, running over the many-colored stones and over such clean sand sparkling with gold . . . All at once he clearly heard the clock strike.
Page 69
We may note, incidentally, one peculiarity with regard to all the final decisions he came to in his affair. They had one strange property: the more final they became, the more hideous and absurd they at once appeared in his own eyes. In spite of all his tormenting inner struggle, never for a single moment during the whole time could he believe in the feasibility of his designs.
If he had ever once managed to analyze and finally decide everything down to the last detail, and there were no longer any doubts left-at that point he would most likely have renounced it all as absurd, monstrous, and impossible.
Page 70
At first-even long before-he had been occupied with one question: why almost all crimes are so easily detected and solved, and why almost all criminals leave such an obviously marked trail. He came gradually to various and curious conclusions, the cheif reason lying, in his opinion, not so much in the material impossibility of concealing the crime as in the criminal himself; the criminal himself, almost any criminal, experiences at the moment of the crime a sort of failure of will and reason, which, on the contrary, are replaced by a phenomenal, childish thoughtlessness, just at the moment when reason and prudence are most necessary. According to his conviction, it turned out that this darkening of reason and failure of will take hold of a man like a disease, develop gradually, and reach their height shortly before the crime is committed; they continue unabated during the moment of the crime itself and for some time after it, depending on the individual; then they pass in the same way as they disease passes. But the question whether the disease generates the crime, or the crime somehow by its peculiar nature is always accompanied by something akin to disease, he did not yet feel able to resolve.
"It must be the same for men being led out to execution-their thoughts must cling to every object they meet on the way," flashed through his lightning; he hastened to extinguish the thought . . . But he was already close, here was the house, here were the gates. Somewhere a clock suddenly struck once."
Part One Chapter Seven Page 76
Raskolnikov Kills the old lady
Page 79
Fear was taking hold of him more and more, especially after this second, quite unexpected murder. He wanted to run away from there as quickly as possible. And if he had been able at that moment to see and reason more properly, if he and only been able to realize all the difficulties of his situation, all the despair, all the hideousness, all the absurdity of it, and to understand, besides, how many more difficulties and perhaps evil doings he still had to overcome or commit in order to get out of there and reach home, he might very well have dropped everything and gone at once to denounce himself, and not even out of fear for himself, but solely out of horror and loathing for what he had done. Loathing especially was rising and growing in him every moment. Not for anything in the world would he have gone back to the trunk now, or even into the rooms.
"Indeed, in that sense we're all rather often almost like mad people, only with the slight difference that the 'sick' are somewhat madder than we are, so that it's necessary to draw a line here. And the harmonious man, it's true, almost doesn't exist; out of tens, maybe hundreds of thousands, one will be found, and quite a weak specimen at that..." -- Zossimov p 226
"In a morbid condition, dreams are often distinguished by their remarkably graphic, vivid, and extremely lifelike quality. The resulting picture is sometimes monstrous, but the setting and the whole process of the presentation sometimes happen to be so probable, and with details so subtle, unexpected, yet artistically consistent with the whole fullness of the picture, that even the dreamer himself would be unable to invent them in reality, though he were as much an artist as Pushkin or Turgenev. Such dreams, morbid dreams, are always long remembered and produce a strong impression on the disturbed and already excited organism of the person.
ReplyDeleteRaskolnikov had a terrible dream....
Page 54
sweet our pages match up. cool quote too.
DeleteRaskolnikov fancied that after his confession the clerk had become more casual and contemptuous with him, but -strangely- he suddenly felt decidedly indifferent to anyone's possible opinion, and this change occurred somehow in a moment, an instant. If he had only cared to reflect a little, he would of course have been surprised that he could have spoken with them as he had a minute before, and even thrust his feelings upon them. And where had these feelings come from? On the contrary, if the room were now suddenly filled not with policemen but with his foremost friends, even then, he thought, he would be unable to find a single human word for them, so empty had his heart suddenly become. A dark sensation of tormenting, infinite solitude and estrangement suddenly rose to consciousness in his soul.
ReplyDeleteIt was not the abjectness of his heart's outpourings before Ilya Petrovich, nor the abjectness of the lieutenant's triumph over him, that suddenly so overturned his heart, Oh, what did he care now about his own meanness, about all these vanities, lieutenants, German women, proceedings, offices, and so on and so forth! Even if he had been sentenced to be burned at that moment, he would not have stirred, and would probably not have listened very attentively to the sentence. What was taking place in him was totally unfamiliar, new sudden, never before experienced, Not that he understood it, but he sensed clearly, with all the power of sensation, that it was no longer possible for him to address these people in the police station, not only with heartfelt effusions, as he had just done, but in any way at all, and had they been his own brothers and sisters, and not police lieutenants, there would still have been no point in addressing them, in whatever circumstances of life. Never until that minute had he experienced such a strange and terrible sensation. And most tormenting of all was that it was more a sensation than an awareness, an idea; a spontaneous sensation, the most tormenting of any he had yet experienced in his life.
"Hm . . . yes . . . man has it all in his hands, and it all slips through his fingers from sheer cowardice . . . That is an axiom . . . I wonder, what are people most afraid of? A new step, their own new word, that's what they're most afraid of . . . I babble too much, however. That's why I don't do anything, because I babble. However, maybe it's like this: I babble because I don't do anythihng. I've learned to babble over this past month, lying in a corner day in and day out, thinking about . . . cuckooland. Why on earth am I going now? Am I really capable of that? Is that something serious? Now, not serious at all. I'm just toying with it, for the sake of fantasy. A plaything! Yes, a plaything, if you like!"
ReplyDeleteThe very next paragraph a vivid description of St.Petersburg
It was terribly hot out, and moreover it was close, crowded; lime, scaffolding, bricks, dust everywhere, and that special summer stench known so well to every Petersburger who cannot afford to rent a summer house-all at once these things unpleasantly shook the young man's already overwrought nerves.The intolderable stench from the taverns, especially numberous is that part of the city, and the drunkards he kept running into even though it was a weekday, completed the loathsome and melancholy coloring of the picture
Page 4
DeleteThe pain from the whip subsided, and Raskolnikov forgot about the blow; one troublesome and not entirely clear thought now occupied him exclusively. He stood and looked long and intently into the distance; this place was especially familiar to him. While he was attending the university, he often used to stop, mostly on his way home, at precisely this spot (he had done it perhaps a hundred times), and gave intently at the indeed splendid panorama, and to be surprised almost every time by a certain unclear and unresolved impression. An inexplicable chill always breathed on him from this splendid panorama; For him the magnificent picture was filled with a mute and deaf spirit.
ReplyDelete. . . He marveled each time at this gloomy and mysterious impression, and, mistrusting himself, put off the unriddling of it to some future time. Now suddenly he abruptly recalled these former questions and perplexities, and it seemed no accident to him that he should recall them now. The fact alone that he had stopped at the same spot as before already seemed wild and strange to him, as if indeed he could imagine thinking now about the same things as before, and being interested in the same themes and pictures he had been interested in . . . still so recently. He even felt almost like laughing, yet at the same time his chest was painfully constricted. It was as if he now saw all his former past, and former thoughts, and former tasks, and former themes, and former impressions, and this whole panorama, and himself, and everything, everything, somewhere far down below, barely visible under his feet . . . .
It seemed as if he were flying upwards somewhere, and everything was vanishing from his sight . . . Inadvertently moving his hand, he suddenly felt the twenty--kopeck piece clutched in his fist. He opened his hand, stared at the coin, sung, and threw it into the water; then he turned and went home. It seemed to him that at that moment he had cut himself off, as with scissors, from everyone and everything.
"But the question whether the disease generates the crime, or the crime somehow by its peculiar nature is always accompanied by something akin to disease, he did not yet feel able to resolve." p 71
ReplyDeletewas just about to post this same one.
DeletePart One
ReplyDeleteChapter One
Page 4
"I want to attempt such a thing, and at the same time I'm afraid of such trifles?" he thought with a strange smile. "Hm . . . yes . . . man has it all in his hands, and it all slips through his fingers from sheer cowardice . . . That is an axiom . . . I wonder, what are people most afraid of? A new step, their own new word, that's what they're most afriad of . . . I babble too much, however. That's why I don't do anything, because I babble. However, maybe it's like this: I babble because I don't do anything. I've learned to babble over this past month, lying in a corner day in and day out, thinking . . . cuckooland. Why on earth am I going now? Am I really capable of that? is that something serious? No, not serious at all. I'm just toying with it, for the sake of fantasy. A plaything! Yes, a plaything if you like!"
It was Terribly hot out, and moreover it was close, crowded: lime, scaffolding, bricks, dust everywhere, and that special summer stench known so well to every Petersburger who cannot afford to rent a summer house-all at once these things unpleasantly shook the young man's already overwrought nerves. The intolerable stench from the tavers, especially numerous in that part of the city, and the drunkards he kept running into even though it was a weekday, completed the loathsome and melancholy coloring of the picture.
Part One
Chapter Two
Page 11
We sometimes encounter people, even perfect strangers, who begin to interest us at first sight, somehow suddenly, all at once, before a word has been spoken.
Page 13
"My dear sir," he began almost solemnly, "poverty is no vice, that is the truth. I know that drunkenness is also no virtue, and that is even more so. But destitution, my dear sir, destitution is a vice, sir. In poverty you may still preserve the nobility of your inborn feelings, but driven out of human company with a stick; one is swept out with a brrom, to make it more insulting; and justly so, for in destitution I am the first to insult myself. Hence the drinking.
Page 14
"But why go?" Raskolnikov put in.
"And what if there is no one else, if there is nowhere else to go! It is necessary that every man have at least somewhere to go.
Page 15
Excuse me, young man, but can you . . . Or, no, to expound it more forecefully and more expressively: not can you, but would you venture, looking upon me at this hour, to say to me affirmatively that i am not a swine?"
~And yet . . . oh, if only she felt pity for me! My dear sir, my dear sir, but it is necessary that every man have at least one such place where he, too, is pitied!
~But no! no! it is all in vain, and there is no use talking, no use talking! . . . for my wish has already been granted more than once, and already more than once I have been pitied, but . . . such is my trait, and I am a born brute!".
Page 22
She didn't say anything, she just looked at me silently . . . That is not done on earth, but up there . . . people are grieved for, wept over, and not reproached, no reproached! And it hurts more, it hurts more, sir, when one is not reproached!
Page 27
ReplyDelete"Bravo, Sonya! what a well they've dug for themselves, however! and they use it ! They really do use it! And they got accustomed to it. Wept a bit and got accustomed. Man gets accustomed to everything, the scoundrel!"
he fell to thinking
"But if that's a lie," he suddenly exclaimed involuntarily, "if man in fact is not a scoundrel-in general, that is, the whole human race-then the rest is all mere prejudice, instilled fear, and there are no barriers, and that's just how it should be!. . ."
Part One
Chapter Four
Page 45
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 heart and mind, irresistibly demanding resolution.
Page 50
"He kept my twenty kopecks," Raskolnikov said spitefully when he found himself alone, "Well, let him; he'll take something from that one, too, and let the girl go with him, and that will be the end of it . . . Why did i go meddling in all that! Who am I to help anyone? Do I have any right to help? Let them all gobble each other alive- what is it to me? And how did I dare give those twenty kopecks away? Were they mine?"
In spite of these strange words, it was very painful for him.
Page 54
In a morbid condition, dreams are often distinguished by their remarkably graphic, vivid, and extremely lifelike quality. The resulting picture is sometimes monstrous, but the setting and the whole process of the presentation sometimes happen to be so probable, and with details so subtle, unexpected, yet artistically consistent with the whole fullness of the picture, that even the dreamer himself would be unable to invent them in reality, though he were as much an artist as Pushkin or Turgenev. Such dreams, morbid dreams, are always long remembered and produce a strong impression on the disturbed and already excited organism of the person.
Part One
ReplyDeleteChapter Six
page 65
~The Justification
"Listen now. On the other hand, you have fresh, young forces that are being wasted for lack of support, and that by the thousands, and that everywhere! A hundred, a thousand good deeds and undertakings that could be arranged and set going by the money that old woman has doomed to the monster! Hundreds, maybe thousands of lives put right; dozens of families saved from destitution, from decay, from ruin, from depravity, from the venereal hospitals-all on her money. Kill her and take her money, so that afterwards with its help you can devote yourself to the service of all mankind and the common cause; what do you think, wouldn't thousands of good lives saved from decay and corruption. One death for hundreds of consumptive, and wicked old crone mean in the general balance? No more than the life of a louse, a cockroach, and not even that much, because the old crone is harmful. She's eating up someone else's life: the other day she got so angry that she bit Lizaveta's finger; they almost had to cut it off!"
The Second Dream ~ this one of Egypt
Page 67
He Kept daydreaming, and his dreams were all quite strange: most often he imagined he was somewhere in Africa, in Egypt, in some oasis. The caravan is resting, the camels are peacefully lying down; palm trees stand in a full circle around; everyone is having dinner. And he keeps drinking water right from the stream, which is there just beside him, flowing and bubbling. And the air is so fresh, and the wonderful, wonderful water is so blue, cold, running over the many-colored stones and over such clean sand sparkling with gold . . . All at once he clearly heard the clock strike.
Page 69
We may note, incidentally, one peculiarity with regard to all the final decisions he came to in his affair. They had one strange property: the more final they became, the more hideous and absurd they at once appeared in his own eyes. In spite of all his tormenting inner struggle, never for a single moment during the whole time could he believe in the feasibility of his designs.
If he had ever once managed to analyze and finally decide everything down to the last detail, and there were no longer any doubts left-at that point he would most likely have renounced it all as absurd, monstrous, and impossible.
Page 70
At first-even long before-he had been occupied with one question: why almost all crimes are so easily detected and solved, and why almost all criminals leave such an obviously marked trail. He came gradually to various and curious conclusions, the cheif reason lying, in his opinion, not so much in the material impossibility of concealing the crime as in the criminal himself; the criminal himself, almost any criminal, experiences at the moment of the crime a sort of failure of will and reason, which, on the contrary, are replaced by a phenomenal, childish thoughtlessness, just at the moment when reason and prudence are most necessary. According to his conviction, it turned out that this darkening of reason and failure of will take hold of a man like a disease, develop gradually, and reach their height shortly before the crime is committed; they continue unabated during the moment of the crime itself and for some time after it, depending on the individual; then they pass in the same way as they disease passes. But the question whether the disease generates the crime, or the crime somehow by its peculiar nature is always accompanied by something akin to disease, he did not yet feel able to resolve.
Page 73
ReplyDelete"It must be the same for men being led out to execution-their thoughts must cling to every object they meet on the way," flashed through his lightning; he hastened to extinguish the thought . . . But he was already close, here was the house, here were the gates. Somewhere a clock suddenly struck once."
Part One
Chapter Seven
Page 76
Raskolnikov Kills the old lady
Page 79
Fear was taking hold of him more and more, especially after this second, quite unexpected murder. He wanted to run away from there as quickly as possible. And if he had been able at that moment to see and reason more properly, if he and only been able to realize all the difficulties of his situation, all the despair, all the hideousness, all the absurdity of it, and to understand, besides, how many more difficulties and perhaps evil doings he still had to overcome or commit in order to get out of there and reach home, he might very well have dropped everything and gone at once to denounce himself, and not even out of fear for himself, but solely out of horror and loathing for what he had done. Loathing especially was rising and growing in him every moment. Not for anything in the world would he have gone back to the trunk now, or even into the rooms.
alot of these are personal likes, nothing significant to the story, just slings of words that were cool.
ReplyDelete"Indeed, in that sense we're all rather often almost like mad people, only with the slight difference that the 'sick' are somewhat madder than we are, so that it's necessary to draw a line here. And the harmonious man, it's true, almost doesn't exist; out of tens, maybe hundreds of thousands, one will be found, and quite a weak specimen at that..." -- Zossimov p 226
ReplyDeleteThat quote from Zossimov is great! So true!!
ReplyDelete