Dostoevsky On Suffering Novels & Stories

one of them said, and they nodded their heads in unison, probably supporting her motion. I gulped down into nothing, staring at them with a sad look on my face. Suffer? This is what my instincts meant when I was told that I'm going to suffer. But why do I've to suffer for someone else's sin? I asked myself but I couldn't get an answer to it. "Please… don't make me suffer,"I pleaded in a low and crackers voice, my eyes filled with sadness. "What a pity! But that isn't a request for you to make. You should have pleaded to your so-called father back then before killing our people,"

To Pfauen's tolerance, she felt a little guilty, replying: "Mine." "Reason?" "You think you're just playing, but how many tears does it cost to others, is that fair?" Pfauen tenderly stroked her hair, lent her a firm shoulder, like pampering a sad child, gently saying: “Justice! Only suffering proves there is joy. There is no eternal joy, nor ultimate suffering, that is fate…”

Darn it (holding his head in distress) analyst: It's all alright, take your time( putting her notebook down) David: I'm just exhausted, born tired. analyst: Do you know what I think? David: I assume you are going to tell me anyways analyst: you know the drill, as you said, we all endure pain. Sometimes that pain eats through us like groceries but through pain lies peace. Not to adapt but to adjust. What I am saying is that you don't have to go through that pain alone.

Because sometimes preventing greater suffering requires lesser suffering now. "That's dumb," Sophie said bluntly. "Suffering is suffering. You don't make it better by causing more. You make it better by stopping." The simple logic of a child, cutting through centuries of rationalization. Dietrich looked at the dead-man's switch, at Sophie, at the people who'd chosen to stay. "I can't," he said. "I've come too far. Committed too completely. If I stop now, it means two hundred years of pain were for nothing. That I could have moved on but chose not to."

"But I will make you suffer, just like you made me suffer." Giovanni raised his head slowly, a flash of anger lighting his eyes. "Suffer?" he whispered, his voice sharp. "You think you're in a position to talk about suffering? You're nothing more than someone who would trample on the dignity of others for your own selfish desires."

I scoffed. "I don't care what he says to you but all I know is that you deserve all of these. I wanted to execute you. Finally, you know, end your life and get it over with but it's a waste. I can't just let you die and maybe find peace. You need to suffer! You need to suffer for the pain you caused me, Sophia, my children and other people! Do you know how much it takes for one to traffic another? Do you know what it takes to kill people and sell their organs? If course, you fucking do! It's what you do, right? You kill people. You maim them and you do it without thinking. Without conscience and now, you plead for me to forgive you? You whine about being in torments. It is why I put you here

'When I despair, I remember that all through history the way of truth and love have always won. There have been tyrants and murderers, and for a time they can seem invincible, but in the end, they always fall. Think of it--always. There is neither happiness nor misery in the world; there is only the comparison of one state with another, nothing more. He who has felt the deepest grief is best able to experience supreme happiness. We must have felt what it is to die, Morrel, that we may appreciate the enjoyments of life.

Outside, snow hammered the windows while unresolved conversations from earlier still seemed to linger invisibly in the room. Malcolm finally asked the question that had been forming beneath his thoughts for days. “What if coherence prevents suffering more effectively than this?” The fisherman considered the question carefully instead of answering immediately. “That depends what you think suffering is.” Malcolm waited. The man leaned back slowly in his chair. “There’s pain that breaks living things apart,” he said quietly. “And there’s pain that changes them.” A long pause followed. “You built a world trying to eliminate both.” For the first time in years, Malcolm felt something dangerously c

The study was quiet around them — books, the low hum of the city outside, morning light coming in sideways across the desk. "Because she is the reason you signed the contract," he said. "And I am the reason you had to." He picked up his pen. Put it back down. "Because watching someone carry the weight of another person's suffering and have no way to reduce it is—" He stopped. He tried again. "It is something I understand. And I had the means to do something. So I did it." She looked at him for a long time. She thought about what it cost him to say that — not the money, which was nothing to him, but the admission. I understand the weight of someone else's suffering. From a man who had spent s

He asked ruefully. - First, do what I said, then wash the dishes, then I will explain to you what will happen next, otherwise you yourself don’t understand a damn thing. It was really difficult for Sergei to understand anything. The head didn't work at all. From the realization that life had turned inside out in one day and turned into some kind of absurdity, he was overcome by deaf despair. This despair robbed of strength, which was almost gone anyway. It became much easier if you think about the fact that everything that is happening to him now is the present in which he has always lived. It's just that for some reason he forgot about who he really is, invented God knows what, and now he i