Nicolai Petrovich let his head droop as he contemplated the crumbling steps of the porch, where a large speckled hen strutted gravely about, firmly tapping her way on her sturdy yellow legs. A grimy cat sprawled affectedly on the railing, observing the hen with an unfriendly eye. The sun blazed down. A smell of warm rye bread was wafted out of the dark passage of the inn. Ivan Turgenev (in Fathers And Sons)
What connection can there have been between many people in the innumerable histories of this world, who, from opposite sides of great gulfs, have, nevertheless, been very curiously brought together! Charles Dickens (in Bleak House )
Photo by Rupert Britton on Unsplash When all's said and done, the idea of the uniqueness of the individual is nothing more than pompous absurdity. We remember our lives, Schopenhauer wrote somewhere, a little better than a novel we once read. Michel Houellebecq (in Platform )
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