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Every man's happiness is built on the unhappi-ness of another.

Ivan Turgenev

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Ivan Turgenev
Age: 65 †
Born: 1818
Born: January 1
Died: 1883
Died: January 1
Dramaturge
Novelist
Opinion Journalist
Playwright
Poet
Prosaist
Translator
Writer
Orel
Ivan Sergeyevich Turgenev
Men
Ness
Built
Happiness
Another
Every

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Illness isn't the only thing that spoils the appetite.
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That's what children are for—that their parents may not be bored.
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What's terrible is that there's nothing terrible, that the very essence of life is petty, uninteresting, and degradingly trite.
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Take what you can yourself, and don't let others get you into their hands to belong to oneself, that is the whole thing in life.
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I do not know what the heart of a bad man is like. But i do know what the heart of a good man is like. And it is terrible.
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Each individual is more or less dimly aware of his significance, is aware that he's something innately superior, something eternal--and lives, is obligated to live, in the moment and for the moment.
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We sit in the mud... and reach for the stars.
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You may live a long while with some people and be on friendly terms with them and never speak openly with them from your soul.
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Go forward while you can, but if your strength fails you, sit down near the road and gaze without anger or envy at those who pass by. They don't have far to go, either.
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Bazarov drew himself up haughtily. I don't adopt any one's ideas I have my own.
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All human beings hang by a thread, an abyss may open under their feet at any moment, and yet they have to go and invent all sortsof difficulties for themselves and spoil their lives.
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It was only the vulgarly mediocre that repelled her.
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No matter how often you knock at nature's door, she won't answer in words you can understand--for Nature is dumb. She'll vibrate and moan like a violin, but you mustn't expect a song.
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Great God, grant that twice two be not four.
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Life deceives everyone except the individual who doesn't contemplate it, the individual who demands nothing from it, the individual who serenely accepts its few gifts and serenely makes the most of them.
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I only know that I feel tired, antiquated I feel as though I had been living a long, long time.
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What did I hope for, what did I expect, what rich future did I foresee, when the phantom of my first love, rising up for an instant, barely called forth one sigh, one mournful sentiment?
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A withered maple leaf has left its branch and is falling to the ground its movements resemble those of a butterfly in flight. Isn't it strange? The saddest and deadest of things is yet so like the gayest and most vital of creatures?
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We’re young, we’re not monsters, no fools: we’ll conquer happiness for ourselves.
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Nature cares nothing for logic, our human logic: she has her own, which we do not recognize and do not acknowledge until we are crushed under its wheel
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