Now I'm living out my life in a corner, trying to console myself with the stupid, useless excuse that an intelligent man cannot turn himself into anything, that only a fool can make anything he wants out of himself.

“On an exceptionally hot evening early in July a young man came out of the garre…”

“No es mi inteligencia la que me ayuda, sino el diablo.”

“Although Pulcheria Alexandrovna was forty-three, her face still retained traces…”

“In wine is truth, and the truth had all come out, "that is, all the uncleanness…”