Unlimited Quote Collections
Organize your favorite quotes without limits. Create themed collections for every occasion with Premium.
I don't give a damn unless I'm fond of a person;but I'd sacrifice my life for those I am fond of; the rest I'd throttle if they stood in my way...And… - Leo Tolstoy
" "I don't give a damn unless I'm fond of a person;but I'd sacrifice my life for those I am fond of; the rest I'd throttle if they stood in my way...And you may not believe me but if I still set a value on life it is only because I still hope one day to meet such a heavenly creature who will regenarate me, purify me and elevate me. But you don't understand that.
English
Collect this quote
About Leo Tolstoy
Lev Nikolayevitch Tolstoy [Ле́в Никола́евич Толсто́й, usually rendered Leo Tolstoy, or sometimes Tolstoi] (9 September 1828 – 20 November 1910) was a Russian writer, philosopher and social activist (social critic), whose novels War and Peace and Anna Karenina are internationally praised classics of world literature. He was a major influence on the development of Christian anarchism and pacifism, contributing to such nonviolent resistance movements as those of Mahatma Gandhi, Martin Luther King, Jr., and James Bevel.
Biography information from Wikiquote
Also Known As
Pen Names:
Л. Н. Т.
•
Л. Н.
Birth Name:
Lev Nikolayevich Tolstoy
Native Name:
Лев Никола́евич Толсто́й
Alternative Names:
Count Lev Nikolayevich Tolstoy
•
Tolstoy, Leo, graf, 1828-1910
•
Tolstoĭ, Lev Nikolaevich, graf, 1828-1910
•
Lev Nikolayevich Tolstoĭ
•
Leo Tolstoi
•
Tolstoĭ, Lev Nikolaevich, graf
•
Tolstoy, Leo, graf
Related quotes. More quotes will automatically load as you scroll down, or you can use the load more buttons.
Additional quotes by Leo Tolstoy
I know that most men, including those at ease with problems of the greatest complexity, can seldom accept even the simplest and most obvious truth if it be such as would oblige them to admit the falsity of conclusions which they have delighted in explaining to colleagues, which they have proudly taught to others, and which they have woven, thread by thread, into the fabric of their lives.
Morning or night, Friday or Sunday, made no difference, everything was the same: the gnawing, excruciating, incessant pain; that awareness of life irrevocably passing but not yet gone; that dreadful, loathsome death, the only reality, relentlessly closing in on him; and that same endless lie. What did days, weeks, or hours matter?
Loading...