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I am a sick man. I am an angry man. I am an unattractive man. … I couldn’t make myself anything: neither good nor bad, neither a scoundrel nor an honest man, neither a hero nor an insect. Now I go on living in my corner and irritating myself with a spiteful and worthless consolation that a wise man can’t seriously make himself anything, only a fool makes himself anything.
— Dostoyevsky. Notes From Underground.




