"Love of another is merely empty flattery and self-deception for one who cannot accept himself without pretense."

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The pleasure of despair. But then, it is in despair that we find the most acute pleasure, especially when we are aware of the hopelessness of the situation... ...everything is a mess in which it is impossible to tell what's what, but that despite this impossibility and deception it still hurts you, and the less you can understand, the more it hurts.

— Fyodor Dostoevsky