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There are too many movies like this to count. From this snippet alone you probably get the feeling that you've seen this one a couple times at least. But there's something timeless about the mediocrity of the story, no matter how many times I find myself inside it.

In my underground dreams as well, I never pictured love to myself otherwise than as a struggle; for me it always started from hatred and ended with moral subjugation, and afterwards I couldn't even picture to myself what to do with the subjugated object.

Love—is God's mystery, and it should be hidden from all other eyes, whatever happens.

I hated them terribly, though I was perhaps worse than they were.

A developed and decent man cannot be vain without a boundless exactingness towards himself and without despising himself at moments to the point of hatred.

To be sure, gentlemen, my jokes are in bad tone—uneven, confused, self-mistrustful. But that is simply because I don’t respect myself. How can a man of consciousness have the slightest respect for himself?

"These words we exchange," he thought, "they're like a mass of building blocks lying scattered over a construction site in the dead of night. With the immense, starry sky spread out about them and its awful pressure of silence, what else can they do but be mute?"

The more he sinned, the more the sense of sin eluded him. And the end? How could things end otherwise than in a gross deception, he thought with a shudder.

"What I want to say is that perhaps reincarnation is nothing more than a concept that reverses the way that we, the living, ordinarily view death, a concept that expresses life as seen from the viewpoint of the dead. Do you see?"

"There's no doubt that he's heading straight for tragedy. It will be beautiful, of course, but should he throw his whole life away as a sacrificial offering to such a fleeting beauty—like a bird in flight glimpsed from a window?"