And the existence is tedious, anyway; it is a senseless, dirty business, this life. - Anton Chekhov

She recalled, how, when she was a child of ten, Colonel Yagitch, now her husband, used to make love to her aunt, and every one in the house said that he had ruined her. And her aunt had, in fact, often come down to dinner with her eyes red from crying, and was always going off somewhere; and people used to say of her that the poor thing could find no peace anywhere. He had been very handsome in those days, and had an extraordinary reputation as a lady-killer. So much so that he was known all over the town, and it was said of him that he paid a round of visits to his adorers every day like a doctor visiting his patients. And even now, in spite of his grey hair, his wrinkles, and his spectacles, his thin face looked handsome, especially in profile.

If there's any illness for which people offer many remedies, you may be sure that particular illness is incurable, I think.

Translation: How easy it is, Doctor, to be a philosopher on paper, and how hard it is in life!