Jacob Frost

“Your hand is cold, mine burns like fire. How blind you are, Nastenka!”
― Fyodor Dostoevsky, White Nights

“I am a dreamer. I know so little of real life that I just can’t help re-living such moments as these in my dreams, for such moments are something I have very rarely experienced. I am going to dream about you the whole night, the whole week, the whole year.”
― Fyodor Dostoyevsky, White Nights

“Somehow I cannot help
being reminded of a frail, consumptive girl, at whom one sometimes looks
with compassion, sometimes with sympathetic love, whom sometimes one
simply does not notice; though suddenly in one instant she becomes, as
though by chance, inexplicably lovely and exquisite, and, impressed and
intoxicated, one cannot help asking oneself what power made those sad,
pensive eyes flash with such fire? What summoned the blood to those
pale, wan cheeks? What bathed with passion those soft features? What set
that bosom heaving? What so suddenly called strength, life and beauty
into the poor girl's face, making it gleam with such a smile, kindle
with such bright, sparkling laughter? You look round, you seek for some
one, you conjecture.... But the moment passes, and next day you meet,
maybe, the same pensive and preoccupied look as before, the same pale
face, the same meek and timid movements, and even signs of remorse,
traces of a mortal anguish and regret for the fleeting distraction....
And you grieve that the momentary beauty has faded so soon never to
return, that it flashed upon you so treacherously, so vainly, grieve
because you had not even time to love her....”
― fyodor dostoyevsky , White Nights

“It makes no difference what men think of war, said the judge. War endures. As well ask men what they think of stone. War was always here. Before man was, war waited for him. The ultimate trade awaiting its ultimate practitioner. That is the way it was and will be. That way and not some other way.”
― Cormac McCarthy, Blood Meridian, or, the Evening Redness in the West