You smile at the extravagance of your dream, and yet you feel that this tissue of absurdity contained some real idea, something that belongs to your true life,—something that exists, and has always existed, in your heart. You search your dream for some prophecy that you were expecting.

— The Idiot, Fyodor Dostoevsky, tr. Eva Martin


People. People. Endless noise. And I am so tired. And I would like to sleep under trees; red ones, blue ones, swirling passionate ones.

— Fyodor Dostoevsky, The Brothers Karamazov