"For, after all, you do grow up, you do outgrow your ideals, which turn
to dust and ashes, which are shattered into fragments; and if you have
no other life, you just have to build one up out of these fragments. And
all the time your soul is craving and longing for something else. And
in vain does the dreamer rummage about in his old dreams, raking them
over as though they were a heap of cinders, looking in these cinders for
some spark, however tiny, to fan it into a flame so as to warm his
chilled blood by it and revive in it all that he held so dear before,
all that touched his heart, that made his blood course through his
veins, that drew tears from his eyes, and that so splendidly deceived
him!"
- Fyodor Dostoevsky, White Nights
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