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“(...) grinding your teeth in silent impotence to sink into luxurious inertia, brooding in the fact that there is no one even got you to feel vindictive against, that you have not, and perhaps will never have, an object of your spite, that it is a sleight of hand, a bit of juggling, a card-sharper's trick, that it is simply a mess, no knowing what and no knowing who, but in spite of all these uncertainties and jugglings, still there is an ache in you, and the more you do not know, the worse the ache.” — Fyodor Dostoyevsky
(...) grinding your teeth in silent impotence to sink into luxurious inertia, brooding in the fact that there is no one even got you to feel vindictive against, that you have not, and perhaps will never have, an object of your spite, that it is a sleight of hand, a bit of juggling, a card-sharper's trick, that it is simply a mess, no knowing what and no knowing who, but in spite of all these uncertainties and jugglings, still there is an ache in you, and the more you do not know, the worse the ache.