What she did not know, and would never have believed, was that though her soul seemed to have been grown over with an impenetrable layer of mould, so… - Leo Tolstoy

The conscience of a man of our circle, if he retains but a scrap of it, cannot rest, and poisons all the comforts and enjoyments of life supplied to us by the labour of our brothers, who suffer and perish at that labour. And not only does every conscientious man feel this himself (he would be glad to forget it, but cannot do so in our age) but all the best part of science and art - that part which has not forgotten the purpose of its vocation - continually reminds us of our cruelty and of our unjustifiable position. The old firm justifications are all destroyed; the new ephemeral justifications of the progress of science for science's sake and art for art's sake do not stand the light of simple common sense. Men's consciences cannot be set at rest by new excuses, but only by a change of life which will make any justification of oneself unnecessary as there will be nothing needing justification.

I don't think badly of people. I like everybody, and I'm sorry for everybody.

He went down trying not to look long at her, as though she were the sun, but he saw her, as one sees the sun, without looking.