my favourite thing about history is how everyone tries to invade russia but are somehow caught off guard by the russian winter
How I wished I lived in a Jane Austen novel!
Tell me why is it that even when we are enjoying music, for example, or a fine evening or conversation with people we like, why does it all seem to be a hint of some limitless happiness existing somewhere else rather than a real happiness, the kind, that is, we possess ourselves. Why is this?
"Fathers and Children," (Turgenev 101)
A quiet secluded life in the country, with the possibility of being useful to people to whom it is easy to do good, and who are not accustomed to have it done to them; then work which one hopes may be of some use; then rest, nature, books, music, love for one’s neighbor — such is my idea of happiness.