"Mort was already aware that love made you feel hot and cold and cruel and weak, but he hadn't realized that it could make you stupid."

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A special form of misery had begun to oppress him of late. There was nothing poignant, nothing acute about it; but there was a feeling of permanence, of eternity about it; it brought a foretaste of hopeless years of this cold leaden misery, a foretaste of an eternity "on a square yard of space.

— Fyodor Dostoevsky